had lit up, but now it fell again. “But they’re in code—they always were, he never taught anyone the code—”
“I know it. I can teach you. Then you’ll have all his recipes.” Except for the one ingredient or two that my father always left out of the written recipe and left to memory, just in case someone stole his code. May God forgive me for saying my father was a suspicious bastard, but most cooks are. Of course, I knew all the omitted ingredients, too.
Marco’s dark eyes lifted, regarding me keenly across the table. “How did you get your hands on this? He’s always kept them closer than a church keeps its relics.”
I couldn’t help but wince at the word
relic
. Yes, good thing I hadn’t brought up the mummified hand. No need for my skittish cousin to find out he was sheltering a thief of far worse things than recipes. “He sometimes takes his recipes to show prospective customers,” I said instead. “It impresses them—the codes, the secrecy. He’d angle visitors anywhere he could find them; get them talking about the wedding feast they were planning for their niece or the farewell
cena
they were hosting when their son left for university. Then he’d whip out his recipes and show how he could do it better than whoever they’d hired. He got quite a number of new patrons that way.” My father would be angling for clients at my funeral Mass, of that I had no doubt. “The last time he visited me, I—well, I waited till his back was turned, just before he left, and snatched them out of his pack.” I’d already had the half-formed plan of fleeing. Once I had that packet of recipes in my hand, the plan had crystallized from yearning into action. That was when the fear had started, too—what my father would do to me if I was caught, what the laws of Venice would do to me—but it hadn’t been enough to stop me.
“Your father will kill you,” Marco groaned. “He’ll kill
me
, if he catches us—”
Probably.
“Marco, do you really have nothing but ricotta between the ears?” I put just a hint of tartness into my voice, like the last squeeze of lemon juice going into a sweet sauce to give it bite. “Forget my father and look at what I’m giving you. Your post with Madonna Adriana, safe and sound—and with my father’s recipes you can be the best cook in Rome just as he’s the best cook in Venice. In return, all I ask is shelter. A place in the world for your newly orphaned cousin Carmelina, come to live with her cousin and of course devote her labors to his kitchens.”
He chewed his lip.
“Madonna Adriana won’t fuss,” I wheedled. “Not when I work free. And her new daughter-in-law can’t stop raving about my marzipan
tourtes
.”
Marco looked at me, then down at his wine. I drained mine, not taking my eyes off him though I heard movement in the next room. The Cardinal’s household, stirring at last. Servants would be bustling into the kitchens at any moment.
“So—” I raised my eyebrows. “Do we have a bargain?”
Giulia
A good dose of sugar does wonders for one’s state of mind. After devouring all the marzipan and half the baked apples at the crack of dawn (I always eat when I’m upset), I had a cautious flash of insight: Maybe my husband hadn’t come to my bed last night because he was drunk and felt he might prove incapable? Even virgin girls like me knew what could happen to a man after too much wine. Perhaps he’d had one cup too many last night, so his mother scolded him and told him to wait until he was sober. Could that be why he’d said he wasn’t
allowed
?
Surely Orsino would come to me today. Perhaps even this morning: a passionate young man kicking down my door, impatient to possess his beloved. It was just like the fantasies I’d dreamed up as I read Petrarch’s sonnets, imagining what would happen if Petrarch had ever summoned the courage to simply sweep golden-haired Laura into his arms rather than moon about kissing her discarded gloves
“I know it. I can teach you. Then you’ll have all his recipes.” Except for the one ingredient or two that my father always left out of the written recipe and left to memory, just in case someone stole his code. May God forgive me for saying my father was a suspicious bastard, but most cooks are. Of course, I knew all the omitted ingredients, too.
Marco’s dark eyes lifted, regarding me keenly across the table. “How did you get your hands on this? He’s always kept them closer than a church keeps its relics.”
I couldn’t help but wince at the word
relic
. Yes, good thing I hadn’t brought up the mummified hand. No need for my skittish cousin to find out he was sheltering a thief of far worse things than recipes. “He sometimes takes his recipes to show prospective customers,” I said instead. “It impresses them—the codes, the secrecy. He’d angle visitors anywhere he could find them; get them talking about the wedding feast they were planning for their niece or the farewell
cena
they were hosting when their son left for university. Then he’d whip out his recipes and show how he could do it better than whoever they’d hired. He got quite a number of new patrons that way.” My father would be angling for clients at my funeral Mass, of that I had no doubt. “The last time he visited me, I—well, I waited till his back was turned, just before he left, and snatched them out of his pack.” I’d already had the half-formed plan of fleeing. Once I had that packet of recipes in my hand, the plan had crystallized from yearning into action. That was when the fear had started, too—what my father would do to me if I was caught, what the laws of Venice would do to me—but it hadn’t been enough to stop me.
“Your father will kill you,” Marco groaned. “He’ll kill
me
, if he catches us—”
Probably.
“Marco, do you really have nothing but ricotta between the ears?” I put just a hint of tartness into my voice, like the last squeeze of lemon juice going into a sweet sauce to give it bite. “Forget my father and look at what I’m giving you. Your post with Madonna Adriana, safe and sound—and with my father’s recipes you can be the best cook in Rome just as he’s the best cook in Venice. In return, all I ask is shelter. A place in the world for your newly orphaned cousin Carmelina, come to live with her cousin and of course devote her labors to his kitchens.”
He chewed his lip.
“Madonna Adriana won’t fuss,” I wheedled. “Not when I work free. And her new daughter-in-law can’t stop raving about my marzipan
tourtes
.”
Marco looked at me, then down at his wine. I drained mine, not taking my eyes off him though I heard movement in the next room. The Cardinal’s household, stirring at last. Servants would be bustling into the kitchens at any moment.
“So—” I raised my eyebrows. “Do we have a bargain?”
Giulia
A good dose of sugar does wonders for one’s state of mind. After devouring all the marzipan and half the baked apples at the crack of dawn (I always eat when I’m upset), I had a cautious flash of insight: Maybe my husband hadn’t come to my bed last night because he was drunk and felt he might prove incapable? Even virgin girls like me knew what could happen to a man after too much wine. Perhaps he’d had one cup too many last night, so his mother scolded him and told him to wait until he was sober. Could that be why he’d said he wasn’t
allowed
?
Surely Orsino would come to me today. Perhaps even this morning: a passionate young man kicking down my door, impatient to possess his beloved. It was just like the fantasies I’d dreamed up as I read Petrarch’s sonnets, imagining what would happen if Petrarch had ever summoned the courage to simply sweep golden-haired Laura into his arms rather than moon about kissing her discarded gloves
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