“Santa Marta!” I yelled. “Sneak up on me again, and I’ll braise your liver in white wine and serve that to the Pope and his guests!”

The steward ducked my ladle, surprisingly agile for such a bulky little man. The red-haired pot-boy squeezing past us with a load of pans wasn’t so wasn’t so lucky; the ladle fetched him a good whack across the ear, and he yelped.

“What?” I snarled, scraping my ruined tourte into the waste. It had been a long series of days, and the horrid news I’d just heard from the market about that poor fruit seller who got herself so gruesomely murdered had hardly helped my peace of mind—and now I was so close to getting the recipe right!

“It’s Maestro Santini again.” The steward sounded ominous. “And he’s in a bad way.”

I muttered a prayer and sent it skyward as I dropped my ladle and flew into the courtyard. But my prayer died in vain: Marco was in no condition to cook. He leaned against the wall that shielded the carcasses and barrels of the kitchens from the street outside, and he stank of wine. A very bad Lagrima vintage, from the smell.

“Little cousin,” he wheedled, one eye peering at me through a fall of black hair. “My sweet Carmelina—”

“Never mind your fancy words.” I flew under one of his arms, hoisting him up before his knees could buckle. “How much did you lose?”

He squinted at me. “Who says I lost anything?”

“Because you only drink when you lose. And you only drink this much when you lose badly.” I grabbed a handful of his hair, hauling his head up before it could loll against my neck. “How much?”

“Hardly anything.” He swayed again, and the wine fumes could have suffocated an ox. “Just ten ducats . . .”

“Marco!” Near half a year’s salary.

“It was just one time, one little game . . .” He looked around at the ring of apprentices and stewards and manservants, noting the significant glances and rolled eyes for the first time. They all knew Marco’s tricks as well as I did, but somehow he seemed to think they all believed him when he said it was just one time. “What?”

“The sweetmeats,” I shouted. “The three hundred pounds of sweets we’re to deliver for Madonna Lucrezia’s wedding!”

He shuffled his boots, abashed. “Oh . . .” I wondered what it was about my cousin and weddings. One hint of nuptials in the air, and his sense of responsibility went straight to the Devil. On the other hand, maybe all men were like that. Marco looked shamefaced, swaying against me.

“Never mind.” I knew well enough how to carry on without my cousin. “Just sleep it off, and then— Oh, sweet Santa Marta, catch him!” Marco’s hard-muscled arm began to slide heavily off my shoulder.