A third of my apprentices said their father would beat them if they failed this apprenticeship. Another third said it was better pay and better work than being a butcher or a candle maker. The final third said they wanted to cook for the Duke of Milan someday and be rich. Bartolomeo looked pinioned, shifting from one foot to another. “I want to live all my days with good smells,” he said finally.

“Huh. And what do you think makes the best cooks? What skill, what quality?”

Most of my apprentices just mumbled something about knowing all the recipes by heart. Bartolomeo hesitated, then raked a hand through his hair and laughed. “I have no idea,” he said. “I don’t know enough yet to know.”

I glowered, pleased. “Well, Bartolomeo, there’s one thing that separates a great cook from a good one.” Actually, there was far more than one, but apprentices could only handle information in small doses. “Above all else, you must know the natures of those you cook for: their histories, their tastes, their moods. It is not enough to serve just the same recipes from the book, the ones you’ve learned by rote one after the other. You serve them the food they don’t even know they’re craving.”

He nodded. “Like the night when Lord Sforza came to dine, and you served sea bass in truffles and roe and everybody started making love.” He grinned. “I kissed my first girl that night. Maria the laundry maid, in the stable yard.”

I had a memory of steel-strong hands holding me utterly immobile as a cool mouth moved over me, and brushed it aside. “Immaterial. Just tell me—” I turned back to the bucket, stirring the smelt with my fingertips. “How would you prepare lake smelt like these?”

“Fried,” he said promptly. “They’re best when fried in butter.”

“But how would you make lake smelt for Madonna Giulia?” I asked. “You’ve lived in her household for a year now; you know something of her tastes. What will appeal to her most?”

He hesitated, absently fingering the little wooden cruifix that always hung about his neck. He reached into the bucket, feeling the quality of the fish, leaning down for a sniff. “Still fried,” he said slowly. “Because fried food makes people feel better—and Madonna Giulia is feeling sad lately, her maid says. Because the Holy Father’s eye is wandering—”

“We don’t need to know why she feels sad,” I rapped out. “That would be prying, and a good cook never pries. So, fried smelt?”

“With a different sauce, though. You like sauces with a drizzle of orange, signorina, but that’s too tangy for this.” He frowned. “A green sauce. Parsley, burnet, sorrel, spinach tips, rocket—a little mint, maybe. Ground fine with almonds—”

“What kind of almonds?” I interrupted.

“Milanese almonds, they’re the best.”

“Why?” I challenged.