Chapter 18

He ducked through waltzing pairs slurring along with the unknown melody. He needed a higher vantage point. Though he’d gone through his big growth last summer, he stood only as tall as the tallest apprentice. Henri became a man the height of the tallest chef’s chin. At least he expected a full beard by winter. Still, a Frenchman seemed to be no match for the dancing Italians. The Italians moved with a robust grace. The satins like cloudbanks climbing their dark, furry muscles. Even the Italian women seemed of brawnier stock, as they swished in their floral gowns. The swirling patterns throwing Henri into a deliriously dizzy state. Cosimo. The recipe. Was this Medici wine? It was delicious and…somewhat peppery? He was tempted to seek out another helping, but he reached the lip of the stage.