“Well, let’s see, pot-boy.” I dried my hands on my apron, stalking over to the last hen hanging dead and nettle-stuffed on its hook, and gave a good sniff. “Smells fresh to me. Perhaps you’d care to explain why you think your nose is better than mine?”

He took the bird off the hook and turned it mutely, cavity up. I gave another sniff. Nettle, fennel, pepper, salt; all as it should be—

Or not?

I gave another lingering sniff. Under the spicy mix, like a thread of smoke from a fire just barely kindled: the faintest, faintest hint of rot.

“Hmph.” I took the bird and tossed it to one of the other pot-boys. “Dispose of that. Bartolomeo, come with me.”

“Sorry, signorina.” He trotted to keep up with me as I stalked out of the cold room into the main kitchen. “It didn’t smell right.”

“Not too far gone, though. You could have kept quiet.”

He shuffled, running a hand through his unruly hair. “But it didn’t smell right.”

“Mmm.” I paused to cast an eagle eye around the heat-shimmering kitchens, but the undercooks were all working as they should be. I found a bowl of mixed spices someone had assembled for a sauce on the roast and thrust it under Bartolomeo’s nose. “What do you smell?”

He gave an obliging whiff, screwing up his nose. “Sweet, mostly.”

“Pick out the individual spices for me.”

“Cinnamon,” he said at once, and sniffed again. “Nutmeg . . . something that smells like nutmeg but a bit woodsier . . .”

“That’s cloves. What else?”

“Ginger, sugar. That yellowy stuff that comes in flowers—saffron. Something else . . .” He gave another sniff, doubtful. “Something sort of peppery? But it’s not pepper.”

“You’re sure?” I said ominously.

He looked scared, but shook his head. “Not pepper.”

“Well, you’re right. It’s called grains of paradise, and it’s a very expensive imported spice.” I set the bowl aside, putting fists on hips. “Where did you come from, Bartolomeo?”

“Dumenza,” the boy mumbled, shuffling. “A little place, up north in Lombardy. My father died last year; I went to live with my uncle in Rome. He’s a tanner.”

“So why aren’t you working in his tanner’s yard? Strong boy like you.”

“Wasn’t any good at it. He had to find me other work.”

“Why?”

“The smells,” Bartolomeo burst out. “I kept throwing up all over the tannery. Have you ever smelled a tanner’s yard, signorina? Piss and dung and ox hides with bits of rotting flesh still sticking to them—the stench near killed me.”

“Hmph.” I drummed my fingers against my side for a moment, then made a decision. “Put this on,” I ordered, and threw him a bundle.

He caught it with a start of surprise. A clean apron, exactly like those worn by the other apprentices. “Signorina?”