Carmelina Mangano’s Venetian accents came from the door as it creaked open again. Quick footsteps sounded, and then I felt her wiry arm sliding under my head, raising me up so I could breathe easier. I hurt too badly to refuse the help, and resentment stung my mouth. How dare she offer it when I couldn’t fling it in her face?

“Here, take some wine.” She propped me up halfway so I was almost sitting, then went racing about the vestry poking up the brazier and uncorking the flask again. How she had so much energy at the end of the day we’d just endured, I didn’t know. It was all I could do to take a few shallow breaths around my bubbling lungs and get my face under control again. My flattened little finger had begun to throb on an entirely different level from the rest of my mangled hand, pain sinking in like a ring of teeth.

“I think I’ll have some wine too,” Carmelina said over her bony shoulder, rummaging for another cup. “Madonna Giulia told us all to try to sleep while she was gone wining and dining the French officers. But I don’t think any of us maidservants can even close our eyes, not after the things we’ve heard the French sentries call in at us.” A shudder.

I looked up at her as she passed me a wine cup. “Thank you.”

Her eyes flicked away. That bruise along the side of her face was nearly as spectacular as mine. On top of the bruising she had shadows of exhaustion under her eyes, and her wiry black curls had escaped their plait and bobbed at the middle of her back. Grown out to a respectable length now, that hair.

“Do you want something to eat?” She tugged at a straying thread on her sleeve. “The French gave us some provisions, and I’ve still got the remains of a nice zabaglione from Bartolomeo’s hamper—”

“I’m not hungry.” I managed to wrap my broken fingers around the cup, feeling the joints grind as though filled with molten-hot sand. “Besides, I don’t think I’ll live long enough to digest your zabaglione.”

She winced, looking at the bulky lumps of my bandages under the blankets. “Is it so bad?”

“No, it’s marvelous.” I made a flamboyant gesture at my bruises, my bandages, the air around me that smelled so rank. I had definitely pissed myself. “Better than a massage, a hot bath, and a soft bed with Giulia Farnese in it, all rolled into one.” I drained half the cup of wine. I drank sparingly most nights, but a dying man has his privileges. “Good vintage. That pale wine from Chiarello?”

“Yes, I uncorked the best wine we had before the French found it and stole it.” She tossed down a great gulp. “I’d say we’ve earned it.”