But I had to command obedience from a kitchen full of insolent boys who had to respect me as the inviolable Madonna of the kitchens, a woman far too iron-willed ever to be wheedled by a handsome face or a honeyed word. Marco had no such difficulties, of course, but men didn’t. If I’d been born a man, I could forge a career as a cook and marry, without needing to choose one or the other. If I’d been born a man, I’d have simply followed in my father’s footsteps as maestro di cucina in my own right, without anybody trying to stick me in a convent because what else is to be done with an extra daughter when you don’t have the money for her to marry.

But it was the way of the world, and I saw no point howling over the unfairness of it all. Even if my bed felt lonely most nights, since Marco really had more fire for the cards than he did for me or any other woman . . . well, a little loneliness in this life I’d made was worth it. Far better than making watery communal stews in a habit that choked under the chin. Because I’d been lonely then too, but I’d also been weeping actual tears at the quality of the olive oil I’d been forced to work with, and saying endless Acts of Contrition because I could never keep my sleeves out of the kettles.

“Ah.” Madonna Adriana da Mila greeted us as we were ushered into her private sala. A square, handsome woman of middle years, graying hair pressed into perfect ringlets, jeweled and capable hands hovering as usual over the slates and calculations of her household accounts. “Maestro Santini. And Carmelina. You are aware, of course, that the Duke of Gandia has returned from Spain. This has required a rearrangement of our resources here, now that he is establishing a household staff for his own palazzo . . .”

When we were released from the sala back downstairs, my cousin was no longer smiling. Nor did I think he’d be knocking on my door that night after everyone else had gone to bed.

“You’re not being dismissed, you know,” I ventured. “Just reassigned within the family. Cook to the Duke of Gandia, that’s far more prestigious than cook for the Pope’s mistress and cousin!”

“The Duke of Gandia won’t have any need of me for months, not when he’s leaving soon on this campaign of his against the French and the Orsini! And even when he’s at home, he doesn’t entertain. He goes out, and he takes his whole household with him!” Marco’s long legs ate up the stairs. “Whether he’s off campaigning or not, I’ll be left sitting about on my thumbs doing nothing!”