My apprentices scattered, a flock of headless chickens but at least well-organized ones. From the kitchens inside I could hear the undercooks calling out orders as they whipped together a midday pranzo—it was Marco’s free afternoon, which meant he had taken himself off for a cool drink and a game of dice at the wine shop at the next piazza. A pity, because in this summer heat all the manservants were sweating and shirtless by the kitchen’s fires, and no man looked better with his shirt off than a tall strapping cook.

Of course I knew better than to moon over men the way the maidservants did in this weather—forever ogling and finding excuses to drop into the kitchens. That was all very well for a girl with nothing in her head but marriage, but a woman with a kitchen full of surly apprentices and insolent scullions to manage would have no authority at all if they thought they could get around her with a smile and a bit of a flirt.

I turned to survey the newest arrival of fresh-killed ducks and wild cranes, lying in a heap of beaks and limp webbed feet on a scrubbed trestle table. Empty feathered sacks just waiting to be transformed by the magic of spices and skill into plates of tastiness—there was no sight I liked better than a pile of dead birds! Perhaps a cena menu this evening of tiny game birds, roasted and gutless just like my apprentices . . .

Bartolomeo’s voice piped up again as he staggered past Ottaviano with a load of clean pans. “Ottaviano—why fennel flowers inside the wild ducks instead of plain fennel like the hens?”

“Don’t know,” Ottaviano grunted, uninterested.

“No chatter!” I called, pulling a menu together for the evening. “All mouths are shut, and all hands are moving!”

“Sorry, signorina.” A brief silence, and then I heard a loud whisper. “Ugo, why fennel flowers instead of—”

“No whispering either!” My hands were already flying, pulling ingredients. Spit-roasted pigeons with a salad of cold asparagus (page 22, Chapter: Salads); a dish of anchovies with oil and vinegar and oregano . . .

“Signorina?” Bartolomeo’s voice came at my shoulder again. “Sorry to disturb you—”

“Not sorry enough, apparently.” I recorked the olive oil with a slam of my palm.

“It’s that last hen on the hook, signorina,” he persisted. “It’s not fresh.”

“What is a pot-boy doing sniffing my birds?” I glared. “Besides, I checked every one myself when they arrived. Of course that last one on the hook is fresh.”

He shifted from foot to foot, scrubbing his soapy hands on his grubby shirt. His head ducked, and his face flamed up the same color as his hair. “But it’s not,” he said softly.

I looked at him through narrowed eyes, aware that the apprentices and the other pot-boys had all stopped to gape pleasurably. Mutiny—as dangerous in a kitchen as on any ship.