Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

Sticking a piece of plain white chocolate in her mouth to melt on her tongue, Sylvie opened her bag and took out her phone. She handed it to Jay, and he flicked through the photos she’d taken of the envelope, the photograph of Patrick and Jessica at Primrose Cottage, and the little glass globe. She’d resisted a latent Bonnie-and-Clyde impulse and not put the latter in her pocket.

  Jay zoomed in to read the little handwritten words on the envelope, before he turned to the snapshot of the couple, studying it closely. “Is this relevant to the cake design?”

  She propped her hip against the bench. “I don’t know. My instinct says yes.”

  Also, she had literally no other ideas right now.

  He leaned forward to rest his arms on the wooden surface, running the fingers of one hand through the fall of hair over his forehead. “He was a bachelor prince of the British realm. He must have had lovers by the barrel-load.”

  “That’s not a given. But there did appear to be a number of short-term flings, analyzed by the tabloids in tedious, painstaking detail.” She nodded at her phone. “Until he was about thirty-eight. Approximately the age he must have been in that photograph. I can’t find a single press mention of Jessica Maple-Moore. From a research point of view, she’s invisible. A handsome prince, constantly in the public eye, hounded by the press—and not a peep of that affair leaked to the public.”

  Reaching out, she flipped back to the drawings. “Teasing. Intimate. Clearly the best of friends.” She returned to the photograph, that moment frozen in time on the steps of Primrose Cottage. “His eyes,” she said. “Look at his eyes. He loved her.” And obviously, Jessie had loved him. A flick of the screen, and she traced the tip of her finger over the inscription on the base of the globe. “All the world and still only you.”

  Jay’s own eyes lifted slowly to her face.

  “A whole world outside and it could only ever be them.” Her mind was preoccupied, the words coming from some hidden part of her brain in almost a whisper, but in the periphery of her vision and attention, just for a moment, she thought that Jay had stilled.

  De Vere’s

  Pet was hovering.

  Dominic’s eyes were on the bubbling pot of berry syrup under his spoon, but the waves of tension emanating from his sister were stronger than the lingering scent of anise. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Her feet shuffled. Side to side. A few steps forward. Stop. Side to side.

  The syrup turned, thickening to the correct consistency in the space of a single stir, and he pulled it from the stove. Nearby, Aaron was dipping truffles into melted dark chocolate and decorating them with sugar flowers.

  “Aaron?” Lizzie stuck her head apologetically through the door. “Phone. It’s your grandmother.”

  Aaron’s glance immediately went guiltily to Dominic.

  “Take it,” Dominic said, taking the chocolate from him. “I’ll finish these.”

  When Aaron hesitated, he inclined his head pointedly toward the door. “Go. You’re more than earning your keep.”

  Guilt faded into a flush of pleasure, and Aaron stripped off his gloves and went to answer the phone.

  “How are you with flowers?” Dominic asked without looking at Pet.

  His sister’s feet stopped shifting about.

  “As a person landed with the name Petunia, I ought to have an affinity.” She grabbed a pair of gloves and took the bowl of sugar flowers he proffered. “Just plop one on top?”

  “I’d prefer ‘neatly place.’” He rapidly dipped one truffle after another. “But essentially, yes.”

  As Pet placed a Cosmos on each truffle, she did so with painstaking care. There was nothing pointed or sarcastic about her measured movements.

  He finished the last tray of truffles and went to transfer a completed batch of croissants from the pastry ovens to the racks. The hot, buttery smell was a reminder he’d had to skip lunch to reshoot a scene for Operation Cake, and he apparently had plans to burn out his stomach lining in Sylvie’s booze basement this evening.

  “Croissant?” he asked over his shoulder, nudging a couple onto a plate.

  “Free food? Yes, please.” Pet had a little blooming garden of Cosmos around her.

  Dominic set the croissants on the bench in the side alcove. Sitting down for the first time all day, he hooked one boot into the leg of the stool and silently watched his sister finish her work.

  Everything she did, she did with the delicacy and attention to detail of her silhouette portraits. As a baby, she’d been endearingly wobbly, tripping over her own knees, knocking over toys. As an adult, she was . . .

  In many respects, a stranger.

  The fault for that, now, rested largely on his shoulders.

  “Have you spoken to Lorraine lately?” He wasn’t particularly interested in the answer to that question, and her sideways glance spoke volumes.

  “I speak to Lorraine as infrequently as I can manage.” She pressed the last Cosmos into place. “I can’t stand her.”

  Stated placidly.

  “You probably ought to keep up at least a minimal connection with her.”

  Pet set down the bowl in her hands and turned to face him. “Why?”

  Actually, he couldn’t think of a single reason why, other than a token nod to the adage that “family is family.”

  But as he’d never believed in maintaining a toxic relationship simply because of a few common threads of DNA . . .

  “Because otherwise I’m currently lacking in the family stakes?” Pet inquired. “Mum’s gone. Gerald’s gone, and not who I once thought he was. In more ways than one. I might have a bio dad out there somewhere, but that seems irrelevant as I have no idea who he is, and if he knows who I am, he’s never bothered to drop a text to say hi. My sister’s about as pleasant to have around as a dodgy mole.” She took a deep breath. It shook. “And my brother wishes I’d just go away.”

  There was a sharp, sour taste in Dominic’s mouth. He pushed away the plate of untouched croissants. “Pet . . .”

  She stood still, staring at him, and he wanted to get up.

  He wanted to make this right.

  He was unable to move.

  Pet bit her lip so hard she left an imprint in her lipstick. When she turned, the words caught in his throat tore free.

  “I don’t want you to go away, Pet,” he said roughly, and her head turned a little toward him.

  “No?” Her voice was very low.

  “No.”

  Her eyes searched his. Finally, she came toward him. Momentarily, he thought she was going to hug him, and his hand unfurled from a tight fist. She reached out and took a croissant from the plate.

  “I’ll be in Vivienne’s office. I have a line to follow on Prince Patrick.” Her fingers plucked at the pastry. With a tiny spark of animation, she shot him a little smile. “I like Sylvie a lot, and when this contract is over, I have grand plans for drinks at hers, but she’s still going down.”

  With a faint curl of his own mouth, he said, “Team De Vere?”

  This time, her smile reached her eyes. Tentative and shadowed, but legit. “Team De Vere.”

  A cold, heavy weight twisted in his chest. He watched as Pet started to walk away, hesitated, came back.

  Her hand closed over the other croissant, and she clutched both to her chest like a squirrel jealously hoarding nuts.

  His brows rose.

  Her chin, likewise. “This half of Team De Vere is an emotional eater, okay?”

  The Dark Forest

  9:30 p.m.

  Sylvie was sitting at the head table in her—to quote Mariana—booze dungeon when Dominic’s tall form appeared through the trees.

  Through curls and swirls of rising purple smoke, she surreptitiously studied his face. He looked deeply tired, beyond the simple exhaustion of a long day and several reshoots on set that had culminated in the elimination of Charlene.

  Their Black Widow had taken the decision very well. She hadn’t forgotten to than
k the rest of the contestants and the crew for making the experience so memorable.

  The whole crew. By name. While smiling gently and looking directly at each face for a full three seconds.

  Not unsettling at all.

  Dominic reached out to gently touch a tree trunk, his long fingers playing over the embedded lights like piano keys. In the flickering shadows, he turned, boot soles a soft rasp on the stone floor. “Impressive.”

  Carefully, Sylvie set a gold-toned cauldron over a burner. “That sounded sincere.”

  “I feel like I’m in Disneyland Paris.” His footsteps echoed amidst the quiet bubbling and hissing. His hands came down to rest on the table. “Not a bakery.”

  Not coming across as a compliment.

  Without pausing in her movements, she opened a beaker of elderflower syrup and poured the contents into the cauldron.

  “But I agree,” he murmured in that dark, satiny voice. “Any comparison between Sugar Fair and the Starlight Circus is an insult.” He was examining every smallest detail. “It’s not my taste any more than De Vere’s is yours.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  His head turned back toward hers. “It’s brilliant, Sylvie.”

  She looked straight into his eyes, searching their expression. The side of her lips slowly curved, and she saw him flick a glance in the direction of her dimple. “I know,” she said complacently. “But thanks.”

  A reciprocal flash of amusement in those hard, sculpted features.

  She worked amidst the steam and fog down here all the time, but it was making her a bit light-headed tonight. Returning her attention to her work, she made a face. “Apparently, my raspberry toffees have now appeared on Darren Clyde’s menu. As ‘Darren’s Dewberry Dreams.’ Gag. We’ve only been stocking those for three weeks ourselves. He’s on the ball.” Opening a small metal box, she added a pinch of blue salts to the syrup mixture and blew on the cauldron. A burst of smoke puffed up, sending a dusting of glitter particles spinning in the lights. He turned his head to follow the twinkling trail, and she slanted a sideways smile. “Magic.”

  “Predictable chemical reaction,” he returned, examining the box of salts. “And once again in your company, I have glitter in my hair.”

  “And your stubble. Bit of technicolor glam to liven up the grays. You’re welcome.”

  He rolled his eyes, but she thought she saw a slight relaxing of his shoulders. “So Clyde’s still nosing about nicking your work.”

  “Mmm.” In a second cauldron, she started mixing cranberry juice and vodka. “Having spent hours today deconstructing his top seller, I should probably feel on shaky ground in my moral indignation. But as I remain convinced that he ripped off that recipe from someone as well—I do not.”

  “And how’s your version of the Midnight Elixir cake?” Dominic hooked a stool closer and sat down, watching the motions of her hands.

  “Great, thanks,” Sylvie said, plucking a mint leaf and dropping it in the first brew. “As delicious in crumb form as it is in a flagon.”

  She handed him a vanilla bean, and with expert precision, he sliced it open and scraped out the seeds.

  “So, as inedible as mine, then?” he asked, handing her a knife coated with pure vanilla.

  “Tongue-curlingly vile.” Mixing the vanilla into the sugar syrup, she kicked a lever under the table. “But I’ll get there.”

  Flashes of lightning lit up the forest, revealing the silhouette of an old country estate house through the branches, a hologram against the far wall. Flapping wings crossed over their heads, dipping close to Dominic’s stool.

  He didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Throw me a bone and at least squeak,” she muttered, stirring the cranberry vodka.

  A second kick of the lever, and six large cauldrons along the central bench lit up one after another: blue, purple, red, green, pink, yellow. Smoke spiraled upward to the ceiling, where little flames licked.

  Sylvie lowered her eyes from the burning roof and looked at Dominic.

  He looked back.

  “Eek,” he said solemnly.

  She grinned. Shaking her head, she moved down the bench to where more cauldrons bubbled, keeping sugar solutions on a low boil. Taking a spoon, she took a decent blob of the thickest solution, transferred it to a heated pad, and started rolling it, kneading and pulling.

  “Teflon hands.” Dominic turned on the stool. With the bulk of his chest and shoulders, he took up a fair amount of space, was still within touching distance even after she’d shifted position; but his movements were always so light and fluid.

  She held up one palm, kept kneading with the other. “Calluses for life.”

  He turned his own big hand. “Likewise.”

  On sheer instinct, she almost high-fived him. Her special effects might have zero impact on his nerves whatsoever, but she imagined that would have him doing a spooked-cat scarper out the door.

  Although . . .

  Dolores’s words yesterday. A touch-starved five-year-old. It made her feel like crying every time she thought about it. It made her furious.

  And it made her wonder.

  Attaching a tiny piece of sugar mass to the end of her blow pipe, she started blowing air into it, keeping an eye on the density as it stretched and expanded. With a thin, delicate syringe, she injected a flavor emulsion into the bubble that instantly flooded the interior with sparkling rainbow. She sealed it off, released it carefully, and started on another.

  Dominic glanced over at the silhouette of the old house on the wall. “I understand the location shoot has been moved up.”

  Every season of Operation Cake had a special episode shot out of the studio, usually on location in a stately home. This year, they were going to Middlethorpe Grange, an hour outside of London. On the initial schedule, it had been booked for a later date but the owners were planning to fumigate. As nobody wanted insecticide in their cakes—some of the bakes emerging from the contestants’ ovens were bad enough this season without the extra help—they were shooting on Monday.

  Sylvie laid a third bubble next to the others, progressively smaller in size, all twinkling under the lights. “It’ll be nice to get out of the city for the day. And I like stately homes. Lets me indulge my Pemberley fantasies.” She realized she was singing softly under her breath and stopped before he pointed it out. “Hopefully it’ll be really romantic.”

  His head lifted, and a traitorous heat spread down her neck.

  “For Emma and Adam.” Too much emphasis.

  There was a heart skip of silence before he reached out and gave her sugar syrup a stir. Just when it needed one. “Thanks for getting Pet hooked on that fantasy,” Dominic said sardonically—and with a note of something else when he spoke his sister’s name. “Evidently, my new daily routine will involve a summary of her reading material, followed by my own contribution, a detailed update on the imaginary romance between two total strangers.”

  “It’s not imaginary.” Sylvie had accumulated a little pile of bubbles in various sizes. She took her mint-scented syrup off the boil and poured it into the cranberry and vodka. Turning around, she scanned the towering shelves of little bottles and jars, took down a pink one. “Emma laughed at Adam’s joke today.”

  He waited.

  She added a few drops of a shimmering lilac solution to the cauldron.

  “And?”

  “And he’s not funny. Trust me, if she mustered more than a polite titter, she wants to ride him like Space Mountain.”

  At one point, Dominic had rarely addressed her with more than two words together.

  She appeared to have sent him back into the realms of total silence.

  Carefully, Sylvie decanted the whole mixture into a long beaker. Collecting a handful of the sugar bubbles, she floated them in the drink. She popped in a sugar straw and set it in front of him. “The bubbles contain our signature Sorceress emulsion, which releases as they dissolve.”

  He picked up the glass, examined it under
the light. Ignoring the straw, he tasted it from the side, curling his lip when he realized she’d rimmed it in popping candy.

  “Well?” she said, realizing—to her faint horror—that the sensation twisting in her stomach was actually nerves.

  It shouldn’t matter whether he liked or approved anything that she did.

  It definitely hadn’t four years ago on set.

  But it was starting to now.

  He took another mouthful. Set the glass down. “It’s delicious.”

  Simple, restrained, and obviously truthful.

  As she bit down on the inside of her lip, a small crease appeared between his brows.

  “In fact . . .” He reached across the table for a spoon and fished out one of the dissolving sugar bubbles, slipping the remnants onto his tongue. “Hmm.”

  “What?” She peered into his glass. “Is there something wrong with the bubbles?”

  “No.” Dominic retrieved another and held out the spoon to her. Sylvie shot him a curious look, but obligingly opened her mouth, and he fed her the bubble. “Think about what we’ve both been doing for hours today. And re-taste your mystery bubbles.”

  Running her tongue over her lower lip to catch a drop of the liquid, she shook her head with a prickle of tiredness and frustration. After a subpar day on the Operation Cake set and a kitchen full of virtually inedible cake, her brain was inching along like a grumpy tortoise right now, and—

  And her Sorceress bubbles tasted exactly like one of the main flavor notes in Midnight Elixir.

  She snatched up the syringe containing the Sorceress emulsion and shot a stream straight into her mouth.

  Judging by the way ever-stoic Dominic was startled into a slow blink, the result was slightly pornographic.

  But definite confirmation on the flavor. The anise in Midnight Elixir sat strongly on top of any other notes, and the sweetness was so intense it even drowned out the tang of alcohol, but strip that out and underneath was something very close to her Sorceress bubbles.

  Suspiciously close.

  “Fucking Darren Clyde.” Sylvie was pissed. She self-soothed with another long stream of emulsion. “How did I not recognize this before?”

  “To begin with, the other night we were both boozed to the eyeballs within half an hour. And there’s a fair whack of . . .” Dominic cut himself off, letting the unknown ingredient hide behind silence. No matter. It was only a matter of time before she had that recipe down to the last pinch of sugar. “There’s another ingredient in the Elixir that hits as a top note and initially distracts. Your ‘Sorceress’ concoction is the middle note, before it ends with a lingering renewal of anise.”