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.
“Now you can get me a cloth to wipe that up,” I ordered, and he looked at me resentfully. Half the apprentices already loathed me, and the maidservants only grudgingly followed my orders. I had saved Madonna Giulia’s wedding banquet, and perhaps their positions along with it, but what did that matter? Kitchens have a hierarchy as rigid as any royal court, after all, and I was an interloper: not quite cook, not quite scullion, not quite servant. Someone Marco had brought in personally but clearly disapproved of; someone who gave orders but took them too; someone trusted with the delicate pastries for the daughter of the house, but who also pitched in with the scouring and cleaning fit only for the lowest pot-boys. I was an unknown quantity, and no kitchen likes an unknown quantity of anything, be it spices or servants. Marco really would have to make my place clear if he wanted peace in his kitchens, but for the time being he preferred not to look at me, and I’d have to carve out whatever authority for myself that I could.
“Piero?” I said, making my voice a whip. “A cloth.”
“Yes,
signorina
,” he said, insolently polite, and took his time with that too.
“Thank you,” I told him, aware the others were listening, and turned back to my work. Only to see the cat wandering across the table, tracking his paws through my neat spread of flour.
“Out!” I brandished the cloth at him, but the lazy bastard just hissed at me. As far as I was concerned, a cat who didn’t earn his keep by mousing might as well be drowned under the cistern. “One of these days I will turn you into sausage,” I warned. “With a little garlic and fennel and splodges of pork fat, and then I’ll eat you with a smile, just you wait.”
The cat
miaowed
at me insolently and managed to knock over a jug of cream I was saving for whipping as he jumped to the floor. The cream went all over my skirt, and I could hear the maids giggling as I rushed back into my little chamber for a fresh apron.
I stopped there, closing the door behind me and folding my floured arms across my breasts. “I thought I’d left
you
well hidden,” I said finally.
A withered and mummified hand lay half exposed in the nest of my clothes inside my small chest. I suppose I’d uncovered it in the dawn darkness this morning when I’d been hurriedly rummaging for a clean shift.
Why did it look different, sitting on a heap of clothes, than
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.
“Now you can get me a cloth to wipe that up,” I ordered, and he looked at me resentfully. Half the apprentices already loathed me, and the maidservants only grudgingly followed my orders. I had saved Madonna Giulia’s wedding banquet, and perhaps their positions along with it, but what did that matter? Kitchens have a hierarchy as rigid as any royal court, after all, and I was an interloper: not quite cook, not quite scullion, not quite servant. Someone Marco had brought in personally but clearly disapproved of; someone who gave orders but took them too; someone trusted with the delicate pastries for the daughter of the house, but who also pitched in with the scouring and cleaning fit only for the lowest pot-boys. I was an unknown quantity, and no kitchen likes an unknown quantity of anything, be it spices or servants. Marco really would have to make my place clear if he wanted peace in his kitchens, but for the time being he preferred not to look at me, and I’d have to carve out whatever authority for myself that I could.
“Piero?” I said, making my voice a whip. “A cloth.”
“Yes,
signorina
,” he said, insolently polite, and took his time with that too.
“Thank you,” I told him, aware the others were listening, and turned back to my work. Only to see the cat wandering across the table, tracking his paws through my neat spread of flour.
“Out!” I brandished the cloth at him, but the lazy bastard just hissed at me. As far as I was concerned, a cat who didn’t earn his keep by mousing might as well be drowned under the cistern. “One of these days I will turn you into sausage,” I warned. “With a little garlic and fennel and splodges of pork fat, and then I’ll eat you with a smile, just you wait.”
The cat
miaowed
at me insolently and managed to knock over a jug of cream I was saving for whipping as he jumped to the floor. The cream went all over my skirt, and I could hear the maids giggling as I rushed back into my little chamber for a fresh apron.
I stopped there, closing the door behind me and folding my floured arms across my breasts. “I thought I’d left
you
well hidden,” I said finally.
A withered and mummified hand lay half exposed in the nest of my clothes inside my small chest. I suppose I’d uncovered it in the dawn darkness this morning when I’d been hurriedly rummaging for a clean shift.
Why did it look different, sitting on a heap of clothes, than
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