I poured all my nervous energy into the fruit tarts.
After the emotional exhaustion of the call with Eliza, the kitchen was the only place I felt grounded. I focused on the rhythm of the work. Crème pâtissière. Raspberries. Glaze.
I was arranging the final blackberry on a tart when the sound of heels clicking against the tile floor broke my concentration.
Click. Click. Click.
It wasn't the scuffling of Mrs. Higgins or the heavy boots of the guards. It was a sharp, authoritative sound.
I turned around.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with cascading auburn hair and eyes the color of polished emeralds. She wasn't wearing a uniform. She was wearing a tailored cream suit that probably cost more than my father’s bakery, paired with red-bottomed stilettos.
S
