“Maestra,” I couldn’t help saying. I’d never heard of such a title before—I’d never heard of any woman taking such a position before—and I felt a queer little flutter in my stomach. Sweet Santa Marta, had I really heard correctly up there in Madonna Adriana’s sala, all laid out in her unctuous voice? Carmelina Mangano in command over the kitchens of the Palazzo Santa Maria, not as unofficial unpaid second cook, but as maestra di cucina at a salary of fifteen ducats per year?

My father would have said it was impossible.

Some involuntary hint of a smile must have broken over my face despite myself, because Marco’s cheeks darkened. “Ungrateful,” he muttered, “that’s what you are. Ungrateful traitor—” and he went slamming down the rest of the stairs.

“Marco—” But by the time I’d gathered my skirts and raced to the kitchens, he was already banging through the cold room toward the courtyard with his cloak over his arm.

“Maestro Santini?” one of the undercooks ventured, but my cousin was gone without a word, pushing past Bartolomeo, who was simultaneously checking a fresh arrival of dead hens and giving the scullions a brisk tongue-lashing for leaving water spots on the silver. Bartolomeo glanced after him, then looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

“Signorina?”

I took a deep breath but let it out again in silence. Marco should decide when and how to tell the kitchens of his departure—he should be able to make his exit with some grace. Even if that wasn’t his right, I’d still have done it that way. I didn’t want my cousin angry with me. Not out of any fear that he’d inform on me, the way Leonello could—if Marco told the world I was a runaway nun, he’d be in just as much trouble for harboring me. No, I didn’t want my cousin leaving angry because—well, he was the only family I had that was still speaking to me, after my flight from the convent.

If he was still speaking to me after today.

“Signorina, your tourtes are out of the ovens, and the frittelle—”

“The venison—”

“The pork shoulder, more salt?”

I shook myself into motion. “Yes, more salt . . . that sauce for the venison, it needs a dash more cream . . . Giuliano, my blackberry walnut tourtes, just a Credo’s worth more time in the oven to crisp the crust . . . Bartolomeo, is that the first of your frittelle?”

“You want a bite, signorina?” He flipped one in the air, reaching behind his back with the griddle to catch it again.

“No showing off,” I warned, and broke off a flaky corner. At once I could feel my brows rush together over my nose. I tasted sweet flaky goodness, I tasted the usual hints of candied citron and honey—and I tasted mutiny. Delicious mutiny, but still mutiny. “What’s this?” I said ominously.