be out of a job. I assure you that whatever notions he might have about eating like a simple peasant, the Duke of Gandia does not want porridge and goat.”
“I know that!” The Duke of Gandia’s ways were more than familiar to any female servants in the
palazzo
; he’d come sniffing around all our skirts at one time or another, including mine. He’d been half drunk, and I’d run him off with a cleaver. There are advantages to working in a kitchen.
“I’m sure you know best,
Signorina Cuoca
.” Leonello sketched a bow, making sure to flourish his four-fingered hand at me. His eyes were hard and cool, meeting mine with that stare that still twisted in my gut like a fishhook.
I know what you are, Suora Serafina.
But at least he had not told anyone else—more than a year and a half had passed, and no one had ever come with a rope for my wrists and a writ for my sins. Maybe that demon dwarf really
was
afraid I’d poison him. Or maybe he’d forgiven me, now that his wounds had healed.
Somehow I doubted that.
“One more thing,” Leonello added over his shoulder. “Madonna Adriana wants to see you in her
sala
. You and Maestro Marco Santini.”
Adriana da Mila, cousin to the Pope and
duenna
of the papal seraglio here. She was also Madonna Giulia’s mother-in-law, and I still didn’t understand exactly how that worked because most women would object to seeing their son’s wife flit off to become the mistress of another man, much less His Holiness the Pope, but Adriana da Mila seemed entirely placid about the whole arrangement. Then again, the only thing that seemed to make Madonna Adriana lose any sleep was the prospect of losing money, and there was no doubt her son had been well compensated for his sacrifice.
Losing money . . . was she going to ask sharp questions about Marco’s absences again? The mistress of the household would not be pleased to know just how much of Marco’s twenty-five ducats a year went to the dicing tables in riverside taverns while I supervised the kitchens.
“Madonna Adriana will have to wait.” I tied on an apron, already marshaling possible excuses as to why the
maestro di cucina
wasn’t to be found when it was time to prepare the noonday meal. “My cousin has gone out.”
“Cards this time?” Leonello examined one of his sharp little throwing knives, balancing the damascened hilt on the very tip of one stubby finger. He wore his usual livery, which Madonna Giulia had designed especially for him—black doublet and hose and boots—and she had a clever eye because all that stark unadorned black emphasized the green in his hazel eyes, and a miracle of tailoring masked the oddities of his body, making his shoulders look broader and his head less oversized. He didn’t look like a figure of ridicule; he looked cool and remote and more than a little frightening, and I wished sometimes that my mistress had left him in the disreputable patched castoffs in which he’d first arrived in this household. “So, is our cook off playing cards again, or
zara
?” Leonello went on. “
Zara
’s a game for idiots, and that cousin of yours is a curly-haired fool.”
“Certainly not,” I lied. “He’s at the fish market, checking a new vendor who promised him a choice load of sturgeon. He is very conscientious.” I could almost hear Bartolomeo roll his eyes behind me at the other apprentices. “None of that,” I said without turning, and gave Leonello a curt nod. “Please inform Madonna Adriana we will both be along when Marco returns.”
He sheathed his throwing knife in his boot top again and sauntered out without a farewell. We never spoke one solitary word to each other beyond the necessary.
“And in the meantime,” Bartolomeo snorted, “we’ve got
peasant food
to make. Santa Marta bung me with a spoon.”
“None of that either,” I warned, and flapped my apron at the lazy notch-eared kitchen cat who was batting a paw up toward a kettle of chicken bones I’d set
“I know that!” The Duke of Gandia’s ways were more than familiar to any female servants in the
palazzo
; he’d come sniffing around all our skirts at one time or another, including mine. He’d been half drunk, and I’d run him off with a cleaver. There are advantages to working in a kitchen.
“I’m sure you know best,
Signorina Cuoca
.” Leonello sketched a bow, making sure to flourish his four-fingered hand at me. His eyes were hard and cool, meeting mine with that stare that still twisted in my gut like a fishhook.
I know what you are, Suora Serafina.
But at least he had not told anyone else—more than a year and a half had passed, and no one had ever come with a rope for my wrists and a writ for my sins. Maybe that demon dwarf really
was
afraid I’d poison him. Or maybe he’d forgiven me, now that his wounds had healed.
Somehow I doubted that.
“One more thing,” Leonello added over his shoulder. “Madonna Adriana wants to see you in her
sala
. You and Maestro Marco Santini.”
Adriana da Mila, cousin to the Pope and
duenna
of the papal seraglio here. She was also Madonna Giulia’s mother-in-law, and I still didn’t understand exactly how that worked because most women would object to seeing their son’s wife flit off to become the mistress of another man, much less His Holiness the Pope, but Adriana da Mila seemed entirely placid about the whole arrangement. Then again, the only thing that seemed to make Madonna Adriana lose any sleep was the prospect of losing money, and there was no doubt her son had been well compensated for his sacrifice.
Losing money . . . was she going to ask sharp questions about Marco’s absences again? The mistress of the household would not be pleased to know just how much of Marco’s twenty-five ducats a year went to the dicing tables in riverside taverns while I supervised the kitchens.
“Madonna Adriana will have to wait.” I tied on an apron, already marshaling possible excuses as to why the
maestro di cucina
wasn’t to be found when it was time to prepare the noonday meal. “My cousin has gone out.”
“Cards this time?” Leonello examined one of his sharp little throwing knives, balancing the damascened hilt on the very tip of one stubby finger. He wore his usual livery, which Madonna Giulia had designed especially for him—black doublet and hose and boots—and she had a clever eye because all that stark unadorned black emphasized the green in his hazel eyes, and a miracle of tailoring masked the oddities of his body, making his shoulders look broader and his head less oversized. He didn’t look like a figure of ridicule; he looked cool and remote and more than a little frightening, and I wished sometimes that my mistress had left him in the disreputable patched castoffs in which he’d first arrived in this household. “So, is our cook off playing cards again, or
zara
?” Leonello went on. “
Zara
’s a game for idiots, and that cousin of yours is a curly-haired fool.”
“Certainly not,” I lied. “He’s at the fish market, checking a new vendor who promised him a choice load of sturgeon. He is very conscientious.” I could almost hear Bartolomeo roll his eyes behind me at the other apprentices. “None of that,” I said without turning, and gave Leonello a curt nod. “Please inform Madonna Adriana we will both be along when Marco returns.”
He sheathed his throwing knife in his boot top again and sauntered out without a farewell. We never spoke one solitary word to each other beyond the necessary.
“And in the meantime,” Bartolomeo snorted, “we’ve got
peasant food
to make. Santa Marta bung me with a spoon.”
“None of that either,” I warned, and flapped my apron at the lazy notch-eared kitchen cat who was batting a paw up toward a kettle of chicken bones I’d set
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