“Just one cardinal. Everyone else in the College will rely on his own cook too, to guard against poison.” Except for those cardinals who announced their faith in God, prayer, and the integrity of his fellow churchmen, and trustingly ate the food that came from the papal kitchens. In other words, those cardinals who had no chance of being elected Pope and were thus in no danger of being poisoned by anybody.

“—dining with Cardinal Borgia after the votes are cast every evening, everyone admiring my roast peacock—”

“All of them far too busy scheming and dealing to pay any attention to your roast peacock.”

“—noticing how delicious my hot sops are—”

“I wouldn’t count on your sops being very hot, considering they’ll have to be passed through who knows how many sets of gates and servants and tasters. Cold meats, Marco, chilled salads, and sauces that won’t form a skin when they cool!”

“And afterward if just one remembers my name and the food I served . . .” Marco’s eyes glowed as he punched a big fist into his other palm. He could see it now, I knew: cook not only to a cardinal’s cousin but to a cardinal himself. Maybe even the future Pope, whoever that would be. The Conclave, locked together for a day or a week or a month or however long it took to form a majority, would decide. I put my chin on my hand, looking at my cousin ruefully.

“Stuffed croquettes with sturgeon.” Marco snapped his fingers. “Carmelina, the recipe, let me see it. Is it mint, sweet marjoram, and burnet in the filling?”

“I like to add a little wild thyme too.” I flipped to the folded page in my father’s collection, deciphering the coded lines (page 227, Chapter: Pastry). “And be sure to roll them up like wafer cornets, see here . . . Sturgeon croquettes, though, far too rich. I’d just serve a good roast fowl.”

Marco was dreaming far too large to hear me, though, and I couldn’t help but catch his enthusiasm as we spent the night poring over my father’s recipes and packing the requisite dishes, supplies, spices, and utensils he’d be able to take along in Cardinal Borgia’s entourage. The Conclave would not convene for another ten days at least, not until after the mourning period for Pope Innocent was traditionally concluded, but Marco was to join Cardinal Borgia’s household now. “You’ll look after the kitchens for me here, won’t you?” Marco asked me as an afterthought. “Keep the apprentices in order? It will just be Madonna Adriana, Madonna Giulia, and the children to cook for . . .”

“I think I can feed four in your absence.”

“That you can.” Marco laughed. “Good thing you’re not a man, little cousin, or I’d be worried you’d steal my place here.”