“Santa Marta,” I began again. “Help me to stay hidden here, and I dedicate all the dishes these hands of mine will ever make to you. The roasts, the fowl, the sauces, the sweets—all to your name. My hands and all their works, from this day, if you will forgive me my sins against you.”

I looked down at my hands. Scarred with old knife nicks, the faded burn on my wrist where a too-hot sauce had once splashed, the calluses from wrestling with spits and jerking feathers from dead pheasants. What saint besides the patron of cooks would want hands like that?

For the first time, I really looked at the curled-up hand now lying on my bed. A small hand like mine; useful for stuffing the cavities of small birds. Narrow fingers, one still wearing a filigreed gold band, the sort of ring a cook would choose because it wasn’t too elaborate to wear while kneading bread dough. The withered palm was broad—and was that the remnant of a callus at the base of the forefinger, in the same place where I had one after years of pressure from the handle of a knife?

I smiled for what felt like the first time in months. Maybe this wasn’t the true hand of my patron saint, but it had been the hand of a cook.

Maybe we still understood each other, Santa Marta and I. Maybe she wasn’t so angry with me after all. She had been at my side for Madonna Giulia’s wedding feast, after all—even if Marco did get the credit for it, the good saint and I both knew who had really pulled it off.

“It was a good feast, wasn’t it?” I asked the hand, and was rather disappointed when it didn’t move. If it had made the sign of the cross at me, I’d have known my vow had been heard.

Or maybe I’d have just fainted dead away.

“Carmelina!” Marco’s bellow from the kitchens. “Why are you dawdling, little cousin? Those figs won’t stuff themselves!”

“Coming, maestro,” I called, and hastily found my spare apron to replace the soiled one. The hand I carefully wrapped in my finest linen kerchief and stored at the bottom of my chest. “Not as good as a silver and rock crystal reliquary,” I said aloud, rising. “But you’ll never be more needed than you are with me.”

I made the sign of the cross and whisked out of my little room that smelled like olive oil. I was a thief and a desecrator, and I was probably bound for hell one day, but Marco was right. Madonna Giulia’s figs were not going to stuff themselves.

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

The sword of the Lord will descend swiftly, and soon.

—FRA SAVONAROLA

Leonello