And the beginning of all the rest.
“Thank you for coming here so late,” Rosie said in the quiet, almost shocking serenity of a comfortable sitting room in a rear wing of the palace. She’d walked straight past the businesslike efficiency of the Captain’s Suite and brought them to this little haven of warm light and surrounding bookcases. Much of the floor space was taken up by a grand piano, there were framed music awards on the walls, and she hadn’t needed to tell them that the room had once belonged to Patrick. She settled herself more comfortably in her chair, spreading her papers and tablets out on the table between them. “We looked at both of your proposals and tasted your samples of the Midnight Elixir cake.”
“For ‘tasted,’” Johnny put in, “read: ‘ate every crumb.’ We loved them both. It was hard to choose between them.”
Rosie picked up an iPad. “Impossible to choose between them in the case of the utmost-tier flavor. We don’t have the developed dessert palates that the two of you do, but quite frankly, your Midnight Elixir cakes tasted identical to me.”
She tapped the tablet screen, bringing up two images, positioning them side by side. “And your designs . . .”
Sylvie leaned in, her attention immediately going to the unfamiliar sketch, the De Vere panel. At her side, Dominic was intently studying her own submission.
“It’s evident which drawing came from which mind,” Johnny said with a small grin, and certainly, the sparkling pâte de verre flowers and spiraling tiers of Sylvie’s cake said “Sugar Fair” as distinctly as the clean lines and elegant piping pointed to De Vere’s. “But . . .”
But at the essential level, the cakes were remarkably similar. They had both chosen a stained-glass effect, constructed entirely from blown sugar, each tier designed to catch the light and cast a shimmering cascade of color. Peony poppies, primroses, and petunias glittered within the sugar glass.
And on the highest tier, the Midnight Elixir cake, they had both incorporated a trinity knot.
Rosie had a photo of Jessica’s sculpture on the table. She rested her fingers on the stained-glass knot, where it was kept safe, held forever in the joined bronze hands.
“I always loved this sculpture,” she said softly. “But I never knew the identity of the artist. Patrick was forever in that part of the grounds, but I didn’t ever want to disturb his privacy while he was there.” Very lightly, she stroked the photograph, where the foreheads of the bronze figures touched, and echoed Dominic’s own sentiment about the work. “I can see why it gave him comfort. I just wish . . .”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
Sylvie also looked down at those cupped metal hands and silently made her own last wish for the man and woman sitting together on the steps of Primrose Cottage, with love and laughter and life shining from their eyes. Two entwined souls, forever.
Rosie coughed to clear the crackle in her throat. “Obviously, there are quite a few similarities between the cakes—surprisingly many.” She shot Dominic a quick smile. “I know this isn’t your own taste at all, and I really appreciate how much you set aside your own preferences for this design.”
Dominic was not appreciative of being singled out there. “It’s a commissioned work, not my own birthday cake. Of course I design to suit the client.” High-level irritation.
Rosie bit back a widening grin as she returned to her tablet. “We like elements of both cakes.” Whatever app she had scanned their designs into, she now started fiddling. In a center, separate panel, she pulled Sylvie’s lower tier. Dominic’s middle tiers. Sylvie’s top tier. She kept moving and shifting elements from each drawing.
A little like being at school, watching a teacher attack a personal-best essay with a red pen.
Finally, with a significant look, she put one finger on Sylvie’s trinity knot and another finger on Dominic’s trinity knot. She drew them into the central panel.
The knots touched and locked together.
And became a Serch Bythol.
The symbol for everlasting love.
“We’d like you to combine these designs,” Rosie said simply. “And we’re offering you a joint contract.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Sylvie strongly suspected they were having the exact same silent reaction—mostly a sense of Yes, this is right, the perfect way to close one door and open another, with a single, meaningful collaboration.
And a little bit of mutually competitive anticlimax.
She was opening her mouth to agree, nevertheless, when Dominic took the tablet into his hand, looking closely at the drawing.
“No,” he said.
The eyebrows of both Rosie and Johnny shot up in unison.
Sylvie watched him calmly. She had no idea what was coming next, and not the slightest qualm.
“Over seventy percent of the details you’ve highlighted are Sylvie’s.” Dominic turned the screen back to face the couple. “The Midnight Elixir cake itself is based on a flavoring emulsion from Sugar Fair. And any remaining feature from the De Vere’s proposal that needs to be included, Sugar Fair is equally capable of executing. By merit, this is not our contract.”
It possibly wasn’t royal protocol to stand up first, but it was getting on for midnight, after an incredibly tumultuous forty-eight hours that had culminated in the violent assault of someone she was coming to care about very much. Sylvie wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up in bed with Dominic.
And tomorrow, together, they would start finalizing the details for this cake of all cakes.
She got up from the table. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m about to fall asleep where I sit. We’ll be available to discuss next steps at your earliest convenience. Or just to join in on a gaming tournament if asked. And we happily accept the offer of a joint contract.”
Dominic had his freezing look on. He was clearly unaware that all it did was heighten her urgency to get to bed.
She continued breezily. “Enjoy the experience, De Vere. After this collab, the moment we step foot on Magnolia Lane every day, the battle of the bakers continues.”
Rosie was suppressing laughter, but she put out her hand. “Before you go . . .” Her smile fading, she chewed on her lower lip as she opened a folder on the table and very carefully removed a thin sheaf of papers. With a quick glance at Johnny, who put his hand on her back, she turned to Dominic. “Patrick wrote this a short time before he died. I’ve never shown it to anyone. And I’ve never heard it played. It was so personal to Patrick, I was the only one who’d know what it truly meant—and I think I was afraid,” she murmured. “I’d already seen his sadness over Jessica, and his music was always so—transportive. I was grieving and I couldn’t bear to be immersed in the depths of his pain.”
At the top of the musical score, in Patrick’s distinctive handwriting, was the one swirling word. Jessie.
“I know you’re a talented pianist. It was in your background check.” Rosie’s hesitation lasted only a moment. She squared her shoulders and inclined her head toward the piano. “Would you please play this for me?” Again, she looked at Johnny. “For us.”
Dominic still looked slightly tense and irritated, and was clearly more interested in continuing their argument—which he obviously thought he’d win.