“Sweet chestnut flour frittelle,” he answered with no shame at all. “With a dash of saffron. Improves the flavor, signorina.”

“It does not. Saffron is for sauces, why would you—”

“Because it works,” Bartolomeo said. “You just tasted it. You know it works.”

“That is immaterial.” I folded my arms across my breasts. “You disobeyed me.”

His brows rushed over his nose, too. “The recipe needed it.”

“That is my recipe. It is perfect the way it is.”

“And I just made it better.”

Not just mutiny, then, but blasphemy. I let the silence stretch, waiting until I had the attention of every apprentice, pot-boy, spit-boy, and undercook in sight. If you’re going to step on a bigheaded apprentice, then it’s best to have an audience. “Bartolomeo,” I said at last in the silky whisper reserved for only the greatest of culinary sins. “You are an apprentice. That means you do not give orders, you obey them. You do not change recipes, you follow them. You have no thoughts that I don’t approve of, no innovations that don’t come from me, and you certainly are not qualified to make changes to my recipes.”

“Someone should.” He folded his arms across his chest, too. “You rely on cinnamon too much. Cinnamon in everything; it’s boring.”

My voice scaled up. “Boring?”

“And orange—why does every blasted recipe in your quiver need a squeeze of orange juice? And as for saffron, it’s not just good for sauces. I could tell you a hundred other ideas—”

“Indeed you can,” I said icily. “When you are a master cook yourself, and not an apprentice. Then you may muck up your frittelle with all the saffron you like, and may Santa Marta help whoever hires you. But until then—” So much for letting Marco announce things his way; the first real test of my authority was already here. “My kitchens, Bartolomeo,” I said, and tossed the frittella I’d tasted to that useless, notch-eared tomcat. “My kitchens, my way. Because I am maestra di cucina here now.”

“Maestra?” Bartolomeo blinked. “There’s no such thing.”

“As of today there is.”