Not that there was much time for sleep. Adriana da Mila had a constant stream of guests: innumerable Orsini cousins who expected equally innumerable trays of nibbles and wine; matrons who called to inspect the new golden-haired daughter-in-law; and of course Cardinal Borgia, who everyone said was laying siege to that same golden-haired daughter-in-law. Except for that one surprise visit to the kitchens the morning after her wedding, I still hadn’t seen much of Madonna Giulia except for the occasional glint of bright hair as she drifted past in some distant upstairs loggia, but she did keep a steady stream of servants running upstairs with plates of my baked crostate of quinces and apples, and my white peaches in grappa, and my offelle thick with sweetened French cream. The girl did love her sweets, or rather, she loved my sweets, and if Marco was freshly annoyed every time he saw me and was reminded of how neatly I’d angled my way into his life, well, he did like having an extra pair of hands in his kitchen. Particularly if those hands were mine, and particularly on days like today, when a page boy brought the order down from Madonna Giulia for a plate of stuffed figs with cinnamon, sugar, and chopped almonds, right in the middle of the midday rush.

“Carmelina!” Marco didn’t even glance at me, his hands flying as he stuffed a roast suckling pig.

“Yes, maestro.” My own hands were already reaching for the figs, the sugar, the almonds, and a knife to chop them fine. “Piero, the cinnamon.”

“It’s over there.” He tilted a brusque shoulder in some vague direction.

“And I want it over here, apprentice.” The steel in my voice got him moving, but he slouched his way across the kitchens with deliberate slowness, took his time selecting among the spices, and tossed it down before me so it spattered my workspace.