Free The Lion and the Rose by Kate Quinn Page B

position before—and I felt a queer little flutter in my stomach. Sweet Santa Marta, had I really heard correctly up there in Madonna Adriana’s
sala
, all laid out in her unctuous voice? Carmelina Mangano in command over the kitchens of the Palazzo Santa Maria, not as unofficial unpaid second cook, but as
maestra di cucina
at a salary of fifteen ducats per year?
    My father would have said it was impossible.
    Some involuntary hint of a smile must have broken over my face despite myself, because Marco’s cheeks darkened. “Ungrateful,” he muttered, “that’s what you are. Ungrateful
traitor
—” and he went slamming down the rest of the stairs.
    “Marco—” But by the time I’d gathered my skirts and raced to the kitchens, he was already banging through the cold room toward the courtyard with his cloak over his arm.
    “
Maestro
Santini?” one of the undercooks ventured, but my cousin was gone without a word, pushing past Bartolomeo, who was simultaneously checking a fresh arrival of dead hens and giving the scullions a brisk tongue-lashing for leaving water spots on the silver. Bartolomeo glanced after him, then looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
    “Signorina?”
    I took a deep breath but let it out again in silence. Marco should decide when and how to tell the kitchens of his departure—he should be able to make his exit with some grace. Even if that wasn’t his right, I’d still have done it that way. I didn’t want my cousin angry with me. Not out of any fear that he’d inform on me, the way Leonello could—if Marco told the world I was a runaway nun, he’d be in just as much trouble for harboring me. No, I didn’t want my cousin leaving angry because—well, he was the only family I had that was still speaking to me, after my flight from the convent.
    If he was still speaking to me after today.
    “
Signorina
, your
tourtes
are out of the ovens, and the
frittelle
—”
    “The venison—”
    “The pork shoulder, more salt?”
    I shook myself into motion. “Yes, more salt . . . that sauce for the venison, it needs a dash more cream . . . Giuliano, my blackberry walnut
tourtes
, just a Credo’s worth more time in the oven to crisp the crust . . . Bartolomeo, is that the first of your
frittelle
?”
    “You want a bite,
signorina
?” He flipped one in the air, reaching behind his back with the griddle to catch it again.
    “No showing off,” I warned, and broke off a flaky corner. At once I could feel my brows rush together over my nose. I tasted sweet flaky goodness, I tasted the usual hints of candied citron and honey—and I tasted mutiny. Delicious mutiny, but still mutiny. “What’s this?” I said ominously.
    “Sweet chestnut flour
frittelle
,” he answered with no shame at all. “With a dash of saffron. Improves the flavor,
signorina
.”
    “It does not. Saffron is for
sauces
, why would you—”
    “Because it works,” Bartolomeo said. “You just tasted it. You know it works.”
    “That is immaterial.” I folded my arms across my breasts. “You disobeyed me.”
    His brows rushed over his nose, too. “The recipe needed it.”
    “That is my recipe. It is perfect the way it is.”
    “And I just made it better.”
    Not just mutiny, then, but blasphemy. I let the silence stretch, waiting until I had the attention of every apprentice, pot-boy, spit-boy, and undercook in sight. If you’re going to step on a bigheaded apprentice, then it’s best to have an audience. “Bartolomeo,” I said at last in the silky whisper reserved for only the greatest of culinary sins. “You are an apprentice. That means you do not give orders, you obey them. You do not change recipes, you follow them. You have no thoughts that I don’t approve of, no innovations that don’t come from me, and you certainly are not qualified to make changes to
my
recipes.”
    “Someone should.” He folded his arms across his chest, too. “You rely on cinnamon too much. Cinnamon in everything;