“They have to be fresh, of course.” I whipped a white peach from the bowl on the trestle table, so ripe my fingers sank into the soft flesh. “Ideally, just snipped off the bull and still dripping blood. Then you skewer them on a spit—” I rammed a skewer through the peach with more force than strictly necessary. “Or you can serve them in slices.” Sliding the fruit off the skewer, I took the biggest knife Marco had, a monster of a thing like a battle-ax mated with a cleaver, and halved the peach with one vicious whack. Juan Borgia winced, and I thought I heard a suppressed giggle from the storerooms where the maids were still hiding. “Fry in a pan with spring onions”—another whack; the peach fell into quarters—“and prosciutto.” Whack. Eighths. I stabbed a chunk of peach flesh on the tip of the massive knife and held it out toward the Cardinal’s son, reddish peach juice dripping off the blade like blood. “Hungry, your lordship?”

Definitely a splutter of muffled laughter from the storerooms, but the Duke of Gandia didn’t hear it. He looked at me, enthusiasm definitely waned. I gave a quick glance at the front of his hose and saw that his spit wasn’t up for skewering anything at the moment. “Never mind, you’re an ugly wench anyway,” he scowled. “The cook can have you.”

He stalked off, and I swept a deep curtsy, careful not to smile until he was safely gone.

The storeroom doors creaked open, and I looked over as half a dozen giggling maidservants tiptoed back into the kitchen. “You lot weren’t very helpful!”

“Sorry, signorina,” they chorused, curtsying. “Looked like you had him well under control.” They collapsed into shrieks of laughter again.

“‘Spin on my spit’? ” one of the girls choked. “Oh, honestly!”

I looked between them. “You’ve heard that before, have you?”

“Who hasn’t!”

I joined the laughter, giving my big knife an expert flip in honor of the Duke’s deflated face and even more deflated codpiece.

“Can you teach me to handle a knife like that, signorina?” a pockmarked maid asked. She’d never given me anything but scowls before—most of the maidservants had resented the kitchens’ invasion by an assistant cook, a woman no less, who was suddenly giving them their orders. But now they all stood grinning at me, fists on hips. “I could stand to learn a few things,” the maid went on, giving my knife a nod. “Useful, having a blade on hand next time il Duche comes prancing round with his codpiece flapping open!”

“If it was his big brother Cesare, now,” another maid whistled, “I wouldn’t be needing any knife!”

“Or Maestro Santini,” the first maid giggled, lowering her head confidentially. “You’re his cousin, Carmelina—does he have a woman? Do tell, do tell!”