“Just a pinch. It will complement the flavor of the raspberries.”

“It will fight the flavor of the raspberries,” I said firmly. “Put it away at once.”

Bartolomeo muttered something under his breath, and I wished I were a man. If I were a man, no apprentice would dream of arguing with me, and if they did I could simply beat them until they realized their opinions were not required, as my father used to beat his apprentices, and me as well. Not that I blamed him. Now that I had apprentices of my own to manage, I understood just how much they needed to be smacked for anything to sink through their thick skulls.

“I know I’m late!” a man’s voice called from the courtyard, and boots sounded through the scullery and then the cold room. “Carmelina—”

“All in hand, Marco,” I called back without looking. My cousin would pause in the doorway, looking sheepish and running a hand through his black curls, and then there would be the excuses.

“Sorry,” he cajoled me. “I found that, ah, new butcher I was telling you about—beautiful prosciutto on offer, it’ll do for the credenza tomorrow—”

“That’s lovely, Marco.” I cut him off before the lie could get any more elaborate; the apprentices were already nudging each other and stifling snickers. “Madonna Adriana wants to see both of us.”

“Better give me an apron, then.” Marco’s dark eyes twinkled. “An artistic splatter of flour, do you think?”

“Never mind the apron,” I said, but my cousin in a good mood was infectious. When he’d been the star apprentice of my father’s kitchens and I’d been twelve, I’d fallen madly in love with him—and who wouldn’t? Tall, muscled, dimpled, and handsome; that was Marco Santini. Of course, shortly after that I’d discovered that he had no sense and no ambition either, and nothing between the ears but dice games and bullfighting bets, and I’d fallen right back out of love again. Still, my reproving smack to his shoulder was a good deal gentler than the ones I gave the scullions. “Bartolomeo, see my blackberry tourtes get into the oven—” And my cousin and I trooped upstairs to see the mistress of the house.

“I won four ducats on a single round of primiera,” Marco said in a jubilant whisper. “Four! I had a fluxus hand, see, and no one else had anything higher than a numerus—”

“You said you wouldn’t go gaming during the week anymore!” I scolded. “On free afternoons only—”

“I felt Lady Fortune sitting on my shoulder, little cousin. Who says no to that?” He kissed his fingertips, and then he looked around to make sure we were alone on the stairwell, and leaned down and smacked my mouth with a kiss too. “Maybe I can pay you a visit tonight?”