And it’s only when the crumbs are left and you’re scraping the dish that you begin to feel the shame of having acted like such a glutton.

I lay gasping and covered with sweat on the lumpy pallet, the hard shoulder and hip of my apprentice—my apprentice!—still pressed against my side. I heard Bartolomeo’s breath slowing and I closed my eyes and prayed as I had never prayed in my life. Sweet Santa Marta, just let him fall asleep. Marco had always promptly fallen asleep when he rolled away from me. If Bartolomeo did too, surely I could creep off to my own chamber and pretend this had all been some fevered nightmare. Surely. Sweet Santa Marta, please let him sleep.

“More Parmesan,” Bartolomeo said up to the ceiling.

“What?” I replied before I could switch to my other plan, which was to pretend that I was asleep. Or perhaps dead.

“More Parmesan.” He turned his head, looking at me over the thin pillow. “On those fried tubers. And a dash of rosemary. You’re right about that.”

“Oh.” I felt my face flaming.

“I’m going to write that recipe up,” he said cheerfully. “I write up all my recipes. The ones that work, anyway. I had an idea for shaved ice and frozen fruits and cream that was a disaster. I wanted it all creamy and cold and smooth, and it just melted into a great sticky puddle. But the fried tubers, those were good. I’m going to make a book someday—all the best recipes, and the best advice for cooks.” He reached out, smoothing back a curl of hair that was sticking to my neck. “You could help me write that part.”

I moved away from his hand, sitting up.

“Where are you going?” He sat up too, sliding his arms around my waist from behind and kissing the back of my neck. “You think I’m letting you up yet, as long as I’ve wanted to get you here? Just give me, oh, the length of time it takes to say a rosary, and then . . .” He buried his nose in my loose hair. “Sweet Santa Marta, maybe I won’t even need that long. You smell like cinnamon.”

“It’s very late.” I pulled away from his arms, keeping my words stern. “I’ll need to be back to my chamber before anyone’s awake to see me come out of here.”

“Why shouldn’t they see?” He fell back on his elbows, admiring me as I rose. “They’ll know soon enough anyway.”

“Oh, will they?” I snarled, fumbling for my shift. Men, always boasting about the women they’d wheedled out of their skirts. What an achievement for a mere apprentice: getting his own maestra di cucina to flop on her back. What a joke for the scullery.

Bartolomeo shrugged, unfazed. “They’ll know when we make the announcement.”

“Announcement?” I found my shift, yanking it gratefully down over my head. My whole body felt flushed and awkward with embarrassment. “Announcement of what?”