“I won’t do it again,” Marco said confidently. He’d said that to my father, too. And still at least twice a week he’d make some excuse and slip out for a few hours between noon and the preparation of the evening meal, excitement burning in two bright spots along his handsome cheeks and his eyes gleaming fever-bright. “I won’t forget you covering for me. You’re a savior, little cousin.”

He reached out, giving my chin a tweak of thanks. He had a fondness in his eye that surprised me—normally he regarded me with irritation, as if he still didn’t quite believe how I’d finagled my way into his kitchens.

“I am thankful, Carmelina,” he said now, and there was no resentment in his voice. “I may shout at you sometimes—and you know I don’t approve of what you’ve done, not at all. But I’m glad to have you here.”

“Thank you, Marco.” I couldn’t help being touched. He was my distant cousin, after all—the last family I had, really. I liked it much better when he didn’t resent me. “Though you shouldn’t apologize for shouting, you know,” I added. “All cooks shout.”

“Dear God in heaven, your father did.” Marco shook his head, reminiscent. “Then he’d lay across the side of my head with a ladle if I still wasn’t moving fast enough to suit him. And now I do the same to Piero and the other apprentices.”

“Fire Piero,” I advised, tossing a peach aside as I felt a rotten spot under my thumb. “The boy’s insolent, and he’s no good with pastry.”

“I hate getting rid of people. You fire him when he comes back from Mass.”

“Gladly.” That would raise my status among the apprentices, and no mistake. Respect had to be earned in a kitchen—if I fired Piero, and the maestro di cucina backed my decision, they’d all look at me differently. Hopefully with fear. Apprentices work better when motivated by a little terror.

Marco lounged against the doorjamb, cloak slung over his arm. “Pity you weren’t born a boy, little cousin. You’d have made a better cook than me.”

“I am a better cook than you,” I told him. “Remember when you were sixteen, and you ruined that beef loin stew because you were busy getting odds on the Palio? Who do you think saved that stew? Who threw in raisins and rose vinegar and Greek wine until it was edible, and got it off the fire all by herself when her father’s back was turned? Me, that’s who, and me no more than twelve.”

“That was you?” Marco whistled. “I owe you, then. Or at least the skin on my back does. Aren’t you coming to Mass?”