“Bigger,” I agreed, “but fish markets all look the same the world over. Smell the same, too.” The same reek of salt and rotting flounder, the same fish scales turning the ground iridescent in the gray dawn light, the same sights of live carp lashing away in buckets and dead ones hung up for display. A spicy mix of accents rose up from the fishermen who bickered and bargained in surly tones and the vendors who cried their wares like they were hawking pearls. “Oysters, fresh from the sea bed!” “Red mullet, first of the season!” “Sea bream, sea bream!” The sky was just starting to show pink along the edges, but the vendors were already in full cry.

“Pesaro has both a sea coast and a river mouth,” I explained, looping my skirts up to keep my hem out of the fish scales. “Makes for a good fish market. Sea fish are better than freshwater fish, but sea fish that come into fresh water to feed make the most delicate eating.”

“Why?”

“Because they do.” Didn’t everybody know that? “Bring that basket.”

“Yes, signorina.”

“And pay attention!” I added over my shoulder as we pushed our way into the throng of fishermen and vendors. “Every cook should inspect the markets himself, so he knows just what he’s dealing with.”

“Maestro Santini doesn’t. I’ve never once seen him go to a butcher’s yard or a fish market.”

“He is maestro di cucina, so he can afford to send me in his stead.” In truth, Marco never went to the fish market or the butcher’s yard because he was lazy. My father had refused to give any fishmonger, cheese maker, or vintner his business until he vetted each premise himself, testing every single order to be sure it was the best, the freshest, the highest possible quality. Even after that, he’d make surprise inspections to be sure he wasn’t being palmed off with second-best—and as my father did, so did I. But Marco would rather stay in a nice warm kitchen at dawn than go trudging down to a chilly, smelly dock to look at fish. Marco would have taken the steward’s word that the sturgeon was the best on offer in Pesaro. The only times Marco stirred himself to make his own examination of a butcher’s offal or a new pressing of olive oil, you could be sure there was a card game or a horse race somewhere nearby.

Just because I shared the man’s bed from time to time didn’t mean I couldn’t see his faults.