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Saffron takes her customary place at the little round table on the dais of theTraitor King. DukeMichal, Regent to the Throne is his official title, but thehand-drawn postered sheets, thewordswhispered in back alleys all nicknamehimthesame.Shesmileswarmlyattheassembledguests,standingpoisedandwaitingby theirchairs, readyfor theconfectionsandamuse-bouches thathavebeenamainstayofthehightableforthelastyear.

SaffronhasbeenConfectionTasterall that time,herhusbandDannyHeadPastryChef.TheirwarmsmileshavebeenperfectedastheTraitorKing’spowergrows,inchbyinch,asthosewhoobjecttohisgraspfailandfall,astheprintersarevanished,asthedaughtersdisappearfromtheirhomes.Thelittleprincestillsleeps in his nursery—but for how long? That is the question on everyone’smindinthelastyear.Notaquestionuttered,butaquestionthatstayspoisedonthetongue,anddoesnotfall.

TheTraitorKingtakeshisplace.Helookssternlyaroundthetable,watchingto see if anyonedares sitor talkorbreathebeforehim.Thenhebreaks intoajovialsmile,andeveryoneexhales,andthereiscarefullaughter:theDukeisinagoodmood tonight.Therewill be candies andconversations, alliances formedand favors exchanged, perhaps a juggler hung for dropping the pins, butwhomindsthejugglers?

Saffronminds.Shemindsverymuch.The first course! bids the Duke, and around the table the white-coated

servants set down the gilded plates, each bearing the first bite-sized course,showcasingDanny’sskill.An identicalplate issetnext toSaffron, theDuke’sownplate, this one bearing a pastry twice as large as the others, so theDukeshallnotloseanyofthedelightofhisfoodtocaution.

TheDukebarelyflickshiseyesSaffron’sdirection.Sheknowswhattodo,andsmiling,shecracksthethintoastintwowithherfinesilverfork,andtakesherbite.

RosemaryCrostiniofDelightfullyMisspentYouth

Saffronknowsthismomentinstantly.Theangledsunfallsincleanlinesonthebakeryfloor.DailyBreadisthenameonthehand-carvedsignoftheshop,foritisanordinarybakerystill.AyoungerDannystandsatthecounter, justturningwith flour-dusted chin to notice her. She has come here so often with therosemary crostini that she haswhat the lords and ladies do not: an instant ofdouble-memory, of twinned lives, as she breathes, and lets herself go, andtumblesfiveyearsintothepast.

Her sisterRosie pushes her forward, hisses, “Your turn,” in teasing tones,andDannyandSaffron’seyeslock.

Saffronswallows.Twogirlsonararefreeafternoon,onamissiontoseewhocancharmthemosttreatsoutofwillingyoungshopkeepersandclerks.Rosieisthe younger by a year but the older in daring. Her funny, loyal sister hastransformedthismorningintoadifferentgirl,allcurlsandhoneyedtones,agirlon amission.So far shehas acquired: Item (1) lengthof greenvelvet ribbon,longenoughtotiebackhergold-brownhair.Item(1)scrapoflace,tofinishthewristsof theglovesshe ismaking forSaffron.SurelySaffroncouldmanageachocolate,atartlet,abun?

Andyetheresheis,withthesinkingfeelingthatshedoesnotknowhowtoflirt.

Thekind-eyedyoungman—fornowshenolongerknowshisname,shehasthefaintfeelingthatshehasforgotten,thereissomethingteasingatthebackofhermind—well,heleansonthescarredwoodcounterandasksagainifhecanhelp.

“A…aryebun,please,”shesaysatrandom.“Justonethen?”hesayswithamusement,andhereachesforit.Theyoung

man,soquietonotheroccasionsSaffronhascomein,seemsrathermoreself-possessedtoday,butwhowouldnotbeatagirlstammering“bun”?

“Yes.No.”Shecan’trememberanythingRosiedidtocharmthatribbonoffof the shopkeeper; all her wits have fled. “I mean, I may have forgotten mycoins?”

“It’s a fine daywhen a beautiful girl comes intomy grandfather’s bakerywithnomoney,butonlywantsonepoorlittleryebun,”hesays.“Hardlyseemsworthwhiletochargeher.”Sheflushes;heunderstandsthegameandisteasingher.

Rosie elbows her; she should make her move. Say something pert inresponse;acquire theprize.Hercoin isher flirtation,hersmiles, sheseesnow

thatsheandRosiearepayingafterall,inadifferentkind.But instead,behindthebakersheseesasmallwaif,silhouettedin theback

door to theshop.Saffronnodsat thebaker,pointsoverhisshoulder.“Doyouhavecompany?”

He turns, drops his teasing manner. “Jacky,” he says affectionately, andscoops several buns and a long thin loaf off of a different shelf. The smallcreature holds open his bag hopefully, and the day-old bread is placed inside.Jackypullsouta singlecoppercentandgravelyhands it to thebaker,whoasgravely accepts it. “My best to your mother,” the baker says, as the waifscampersoff.

The youngman turns back to the counter, and the kindness in his eyes isreplaced by a different kind of warmth for Saffron, one that is gentle andinterested,andpossiblycouldbethesamekindofwarmthasforthatlittleboysomedayifsheletsit,ifshebeginsasshemeanstogoon.

Saffronputsthecoinsonthecounterfortheryebun.“Willyouhavecoffeewithme?”shesays,clearlyandcalmlyandforthrightly.

Theflour-dustedyoungmantakeshermoneyandhandsherthebun.Rosiesnickers in the background, but the baker’s smiles are all for her. “Aye, andmore.”

***

Saffron returns toherself, thedelightof thememorystill sharponher tongue.Hereyesclear,shesmileswarmlyat thecrowd.“ThishasalwaysbeenoneofmyfavoriterecipesofDanny’s,”shetellsthem,andhergildedplateispassedtotheDuke. He does not look at her as he picks up the second bite of golden-crusted toast, redolent with rosemary and crystals of sea salt. Danny was anexcellentbaker longbeforehestartedexperimentingwith therose-thymeplantthatcausesthememories,andthiscrostiniisnoexception.

Around the table the noble sycophants follow the Duke’s example, andSaffron watches in amusement at seeing the whole table go slack, their eyesstaringoffintonothingastheyremember.

Attheedgesoftheroomthewhite-coatedservants,thered-coatedguardsgoon alert. Saffronknows, for he has told her, that the commander of the guarddislikestheselittleinterludes.ButtheDukewillhavehisperks,andfurther—sheis told—it amuses theDuke towatch the lords and ladies squirm.Not all the

confectionsDannymakesevokepleasantmemories,andduringtheirtimeintheDuke’s palace, he has been encouraged to experiment. An invitation to aTemporalConfectionsdinnerisequallycovetedandfeared,butneverdeclined.

Around the table the diners slowly shake off the residue of the memory,comeback to themselveswith foolish smileson their faces.Good, she thinks.Danny is outdoing himself tonight. Is that a hint of things to come?They arekept apart, in the castle, and shewishes they had someway to communicate,otherthanthroughmemory.Amemorycanbedirected,alittle,iftheeaterhaspractice.SaffronknowswhatshewantstoseewiththeRosemaryCrostini,andsheknowsDannyknowsshewillseeit.Itwasagifttoherthisnight,thatfirstflushofmeeting,thatmomenttrappedintimelikeaflyinamber.

A salad course ofwatercress and arugula is served, andwineglasses filledwithadrywhite.TheDuke’sregulartasterisgivenhissalad,afreshfork.Sheisa perpetually frightened-looking girl with honey-colored hair, but she is nomilkmaid from the countryside. She is eighth in line to the throne, thegranddaughter of kindLordSearle, that sameLordSearlewhowouldmake aremarkablygoodregent—ifhehadnotbeenaccusedof treacheryby theDukeanddisappearedintothemazeofdungeonsunderthecastle.

Thegirlretainsmanyofherdaytimeprivileges,butatdinnershesitsattheTraitor King’s side, yet another hostage for others’ behavior. She tastes therequisitebiteof thepepperygreens, and then theplate is relayed to theDuke,and he picks up his own silver fork. Around the table the others join in, andSaffronandthegirlfoldtheirhandsintheirlaps,andwait.

FennelFlatbreadofSunlitDaysGoneBy

ThesunissparklingonthesnowonthedayDannygetshisfirsttemporalpastrytowork.

ItisaSeventhday,andtheshopisclosed.Theyhavebeenmarriedforayearnow;Danny’sgrandfatherhaspassedon,andthelittlebakeryisallDanny’s.Asmall inheritance has allowed him to experiment; a small inheritance and asmallerglassbottleofdriedrose-thymethatDanny’sgrandfathergatheredasayouthin thedistantHighReaches.Despite itsname,rose-thymedoesnot tastepreciselylikeeither;or,morecorrectly,ittasteslikemanymorethingsthanjustthose twoflavors. It isachangeableplant; themethodofpreparation iskey tobringing out a particular aromatic strain. More importantly, the method of

preparation is key to evoking certain visions.As a child,Danny’s grandfatherandhischumswouldchewontheflowers,which,wheneatenplain,givebriefflashesofdéjàvu.HealsotoldDannythatthosewhohadoncelivedintheHighReacheshadactualrecipesthattheysworecouldevokeglimpsesoflonger-agomemories,andindeed,atwintersolsticeeveryyear,therewasacertaincurrantcake made with the rose-thyme that would make everyone remember theprevioussolstice’scurrantcake,andbackandback,cementingthecontinuityofalonglineofyears.

All that was long ago, and Danny’s grandfather’s people were mostlyscatteredandgone,drivenforthbythelastking’sbrother,whosedukedomwasintheHighReaches,attheborderofthecountry.Heandhisson,Michal,werereputed to be cold and cruel. Certainly they had destroyed Danny’s ancestralhome.ButthecurrentKingwaskind,ifperhapsabitsoft,andhehadnottakensteps to control his distant cousin anymore than his father had controlled hisyoungerbrother.

AllthisrunsthroughSaffron’sheadwhileshestandsatthebackoftheshop,slowlykneadingamassofdoughthatwillriseovernightfortomorrow’sbuns.Watching theskyslowlydarken, thesnowcloudsmassingoncemore.Why isshethinkingoftheoldking?Butperhapsitisbecauseoftheclocktowerbells.Theyhavebeenringingallmorning,andshehasnotheard themring like thatsince shewasachild.Their slowpealing is aneerie counterpoint to the silentsnow,thewarm,emptyshop.Acheerfulwhistlefloatsoutoccasionallyfromtheotherroomofthebakery,punctuatedwiththesharpsmellofdriedfennelbeingcrushedwithmortarandpestle.Dannyisexperimentingyetagain.

Someone bangs on the back door, and she opens it to a snowdrift. LittleJacky,oldernow.Hecomesin,stampshisfeet.

“TheKingisdead,”hesays,“Didyouknow?”Of course, she thinks, the bells, and behind him the flurries have started

again,thespanglesofsunreplacedbyfatdotsofwhite.“Ma says they’llmake old Searle the regent. He’s a soft touch, that’s for

sure.Givesoutcoppers tokidsanytimeyouseehimin thestreet.Hey,maybehe’llgiveoutsilversifhe’sgotawholetreasury.”

Saffronshakesherhead.ShesawtheKingspeak,not twomonthsago.Hewasgrievingforhiswife’sdeath inchildbirth,and thecitygrievedalongwithhim.But…“Hewassohealthy.”

“Bloody flux,” Jacky sayswith certainty. “Gotmy cousin lastmonth.”He

holdsouthispalm.“Igot fivecoppersforyouthis time.Beenworkingformyuncle.WhatcanIgetwiththat?”

She ruffles his snow-dusted hair and hands over a hearty round loaf thatdidn’tsell,andseveralcurrantbuns,onlyalittleburnt.

Heshoutshis thanksandhurriesoff, runningthroughthefallingsnow.Hisbitofredscarfflapsbehindhim;heshrinkssmallerandsmallerinthevanishingwhite.Theking isdead, thepoor littleprincean infant.Therewillbechange.Changeishardtoweather.Changemakeseveryoneskint,andkeeptheircoinsintheirpockets.

Butthepeoplewillstillneedbread,shethinks,asshewatchesthediagonaldrifts.Andtherehasbeenpeaceforsolong.Howcantherenotstillbepeace?Powerwill transfer, the reinswill changehands,but sheandDannywillhavetheirbakery,theirdough,theirbread.Theywillfocusontherisingoftheyeastand thepoundingof thedoughand if theyhave tocutoutcurrants fora time,well,plainbunssellnearlyaswell.

Theclocktowerbellsringalldayandallnightfor theendof theking, theendingoftheoldera.Shestandsforsometime,lookingatthefallingsnow,untilbehindherDannyshouts,Ihaveit,Ihaveit,Saffron,Ihaveit.

Sheturnstoseetheexultonhisface,andhescoopsherupandswingsheraround.Hehasbeenparcelingoutthelastfewsprigsofrose-thymeformonths,tryingrecipeafterrecipe,runningrightthroughthelastofthedriedleaves.

Nowhehandsheraroundcircleofflatbreadonaplate.ItlookslikeanyofDanny’s homey flatbreads, but smaller. A few bites only, and one bite ismissing.

Sheknowsalready that there is something special about thismoment. It isthe sort of memory you recall for years after. A moment when the worldchangedaroundyou.Amomentetchedwithbothbeautyandloss,amomentthatyou leave behind as youmove away from it, amoment you can never reachagain.

Except,withwhatDannyhasnowmade,perhapsyoucan.Saffrontakesthefirstbiteeverofa temporalconfectionscreationandfalls

backfurtherstill.Theworldshiftsaroundher.Sheisseven,andhermotherisstillliving.The

sundriftsgoldenontoadew-spatteredmorning,andsheshakesamagnoliatreeontoRosie,watchinghersisterlaughasthedropletsspray—

***

“Anothermasterpiece,”saysSaffron,andthesamewhite-glovedservantpassesherplatetotheDuke.Sheshivers,deepinside,forsheisnotlying.Dannyhasbeenworking on that linkedmemory trick for years. She has seen the FennelFlatbread creation memory before, but she has never seen that magnolia treememory within it. Usually the scene ends the moment Danny hands her theflatbreadandshetakesabite.

Aroundthetableeagerhandsreachfortheplates,barelyabletowaitfortheDuke.AFennelFlatbreadofSunlitDaysGoneBy soundsdelightful; not likeanyof theDuke’snastier tricks.Theyall coulduseamomentofnostalgia,ofrespite from their grown-up cares. They eat, and Saffron watches them, stillwondering how Danny triggered the second memory. Perhaps it was in themashedfavabeandipservedalongside,perhapsitissomethingintheflatbreaditself.Hehasbeenworkingonreductions,onmethodsofincreasingtheintensityoftheherbs.Butofcourse,hehasnotbeenabletoshareanythingwithhersincecomingtothepalace.Andtruly,itisbetterifshedoesnotknow.Shehasneverbeenverygoodatdissembling,thoughshehasbeenpracticinginthislastyear.Readyingtheskillforthemomentsheneedsit.

Thewordsriseasthememoriesdissolve;thevoicesfilledwithemotion,withwonder.

—Iwasclimbingatree;itwascutdownlongago—Isawmymum,Ihaven’tseenherinyears—Myboywasyoungagain;herantomeThe Duke scoffs. Whatever he has seen, it has made little impression.

“Puerilefantasies,”hesays,andswivelstoeyeSaffron.“Ihopethenextcoursewillbemoresuitabletoan…advancedpalate.”

“Danny’sskillatarrangingabalanceofflavorandmemoryisunsurpassed,”Saffron says evenly. If shewished togentlypush theDuke shewould remindhimofpreviousbanquets; theone thatendedwith thenobles in tears; theonethat endedwith them overcomewith patriotism, swearing oaths to theTraitorKing.Butshedoesnotwanttodisturbthefragilebalance.Dannyisbuildingtosomething,sheismoreandmorecertain.Whichmeansthatsheistotaste,andbeready.Timingiscriticalinbaking,andheresotonight.

Another course is served; a delicate shellfish bisque, but the nobles barelynoticewhattheyeat,lostinrecounting,reliving,thoselong-agomoments,made

realagainforaninstant.IftheDukeweremoreobservant,hewouldnoticehoweventhesweetestmemoryhasanedge,for it issomethingthat is lostandwillnot comeagain.ButperhapsDanny is lullinghim,downplayinghis skillwiththemorecomplicatedmemories;theonesthatlingerlikethemoldoncheese,theyeastinthesourdough,thebitterinthewine.

Thebisque isfinished—Saffronsometimesfeelsguilty that themaincooksnolongerreceivetheattentiontheyought—andtheserversreturnwiththenextpastrycourse.

Ah, thinks Saffron, who recognizes it immediately. Here we go into thedarkerturn.

She could almost be angry at Danny, but she knows whatever he planstonighthasapurpose.TheDukewillfeastonhertears,butsobeit.

Thesilverforkcutsthroughthepastryandshetakesabite.

Rose-PepperShortbreadofSweetnessLost

SheandDannyhavebeenmarriedfor threeyearsnow.Thebakeryhaspickedup, now that they are offering a few unusual items right alongside the dailybread.Thereisstillnobaby,buttheyarehappywiththeirbakeryandtheirwork,andtheydonotmind—toomuch.Dannybakesandsheassists,Dannyinventsand she assists.But she does notmind that either, for she has found her owncallingatthefrontoftheshop,anditismatchingpeoplewiththerightpastry.

There is an art to knowingwhat people need.Oh, theywould all take theflatbreadiftheycould,butdotheyneedit?

Atfirsttheydonotadvertisethatthereisanythingspecialaboutsomeofthepastriesintheirshop.Dannyisstillworkingout thestrengthsandflavors.Thefirst fewpastries and confections comewith barely a hint, a flash.Amemoryeasily dismissed as natural. The sort of thing that keeps people returning to abakery where they feel so content, so rejuvenated. So understood. With theincreasedincome,Saffronarrangestheshopandsewsnewcurtainsandfreshensthepaint.ShehiresRosie toworkalongside them,and thatgivesDannymoretimetodeveloptherecipes,strengthentheflavors.Rosieisanaturalthirdpointtotheirtriangle;heropen,gregariouswarmthisafiretheykindlethemselvesby.Shehelpsthemturnthebakeryfromashoptoacafé;sheencouragescustomersnot to just buy their regular bread and go, but to sit and linger, try that extramorselofunusualpastryandfeelatpeace.

This morning, Rosie is laughing with a regular about something thathappenedlastnight.Rosiehaschangedthelasttwoyears;hercurlsarethesame,but she has swapped her ribbons and laces for steel-toed boots and the cry ofResistance.

Saffronunderstandsthat thenewRegentMichal,atfirstsosympathetic,sodistraughtaboutthesuddentreacheryofLordSearle,hasslowlybeenclosinghisvelvet glove around the city. She understands that there have been rumors ofpeopletaken.RumorsofBadThings.Butsheonlyhasonesister,andrumorsarenothereandnow,theyarenottheshopandbreadandcheeseandchairs.

ShepullsRosiebehindthecounter,bythetraysofday-oldregularbread,andsaysasmuch.

Rosie’schinsets.Itisnotthefirsttimethey’vehadthisconversation.“Ihavetodosomething,” she tellsSaffron.Shedropsher voice. “Youknow the littleprintshop,downthestreet?”

Theprinter.Anoutspoken,angryman.Yes.“You know they took him, Saffy. Tortured him. Just for printing the truth

aboutwhat’sbeenhappeningtothegirls.Thedisappearances—”“Whosays,though?”saysSaffron,whocan’tbelieveinthingshappeningto

peoplesheknows.Rosiegivesheralook.“Hisbodywasallcoveredupatthehanging.Soyou

wouldn’tseewhathadbeendonetohim.Isaw—”“Youwentthere?”“Ican’tstayhere,safeinabakery,”saysRosie,voicerising.“Ihavetotry.”“Wearedoinggoodworkhere,”Saffronsays,helplessly.Rosieshakesherhead.“Thisisnottheonlygoodworkthereistobedone.

Can’tyouseethat?”Theyareclosetounderstandingeachother,butthenSaffronletsslip:“Can’t

someoneelsedo thatwork?”and thatmakesRosieshakeherhead,andstompaway,offtoheftsomeflourbagsaround,takeoutherfrustration.

Yes,Rosiehaschanged.Orno,notchanged,perhaps,butgrownup.Maturedintosomethingthatwasthereallalong.

Shecan’tjuststayinherbakery,Rosiesays.Butwhynot?Whycan’tthereberoomforsomeonewhotakescareofpeople,onepersonatatime?Whofeedsthembreadfortheirbodiesandconfectionsfortheirsoulsanddoesgoodworkon a single, individual level? Saffron is heavywith resentment, she is pricklywiththewishtoproveRosiewrong.

Thatiswhentheenforcercomesin.Hewears theemblemof thepalace; theRof theRegency, theeagleof the

Duke. He saunters up and says politely, “We have reports of miscreantsdisturbingthepeacelastnight.”

“Everythingisjustfinehere,”Saffronsays.“Andyouremployees?”hesays.“Wherewerethey?”“Wehavebutone,”shesays,“andsheisalaw-abidingcitizen.”Herheartis

thumpinginsideandhecansurelyseeherpallor.WhatdidRosiedo?Forthatisher first thought, thatRosie and her group of troublemaker friendsmust havedonesomething.Thismanwouldnotbeherefornothing.Aroundthestoresheseesthecustomerswhohavefinishedtheirpastriesquietlyslippingaway,theirpeaceatanend.

Theenforcer’seyesfollowhergaze;helookslanguidlyaroundtheroomlikeaboredcat. “This isa sortofopiumden, is it?”hesays,gesturingataman’sslackface.

“Merelyabakery,”Saffronsays.“Please produce your license,” he says, more politely yet, and she

understandshowtodothispart,thispartisrote.Shegetsitfromthebackroom,a few steps away through that curtain.Her eyes sweep the room forDanny—surelyDannywillknowwhattodo—butheisoutonabuyingerrand,andsheseesonlyhersister,crouchedandsilent,hidingbehindabarrelofflour.

Numblyshereturns,showsthemanthecardthatshouldmakehimleave.Hebarelylooksatit,letsitfalltothecounter.“Pleaseproduceyoursister,”

hesays,andthisisthepointshecannotforgiveherselffor,evenasithappens.Imustnottellhimwheresheis,shethinks.Butsheistoousedtobeinglaw-

abiding,andshehasnevertriedtobecomegoodatdeception.Hermouthhangsopenfortoolong,hereyesflicktothewrongside.“Ihavenotseenhertoday,”shestammersatlast,andtheenforcerjustlaughsather.

Hepushespasttotheback,andhepullshersisterout.Rosiereamshimwitha pan, and then he casually punches her in the stomach, so hard she doublesover,andhedragsherout,evenasSaffronrunsafterthem,armedwithnothing.Hethrowsherintoacarriage—pushesSaffrondownintothemuckofthestreet—andthentheyaregone,andSaffronisweeping.

Thescenejumpsforward—anotherlinkedmemory.Dannyfindingherinthestreets, near the castle. Saffron ran after the carriage until she couldn’t runanymore,thensheploddedafterittillshereacheditsentrancetothegates,and

when theywould not let her in, she sunk down and stayed there. She doesn’tdeservetoleavethemuck,becauseshefailedtosaveRosie.

Anotherjumpforward,becausethehangingdoesnothappenuntilanentireweeklater.Thebodyisfullyclothed,downtolongsleevesandlongglovesthatRosiewasnotwearingwhenshe left.Saffron is left to imagineeverything theclothishiding.Drawnironwirefencesthehangingsquare;itcutsredlinesintoSaffron’s palms. Around her the scent of lilacs blooms thick and sweet. It isspring.

***

Saffroncomesbacktoherselfinthebanquetroom,andhereyesarewet.Shesitsup straighter, calmly blots her eyes with her napkin. “The Rose-PepperShortbreadofSweetnessLostwillshowyousomeoneyoumiss,”shesaystothetable.“Allsuchsweetmemoriesaretingedwithsorrow.”

ShenodstotheservitortotakeherplatetotheDuke,smileswarmlyatthetable to put them at ease. “You will find notes of citrus and almond in thetasting,” she says. “We find it is one of themost popular pastries among theelderly.”

“Icertainlyhopeyouarenotinsinuatinganything,”saystheDuke,andthenhelaughs,andthentheyalldo.

TheytaketheirbitesandSaffronbreathesout,concentratingonwhatDannyhas done. Three jumps this time.Usually she sees just the bakery, or just thecarriage, or just the hanging. Yet somehow he has strungmemories together,findingawaytoletthewholeterriblestoryunfold.

Ifshehadseenafourthmemory,itmightwellhavebeentheaftermath.ForitisadaynotlongafterthatwhenDannystartsexperimentingonwhathewillcall the bitter pastries. Not bitter in flavor, necessarily. Certainly deeper inflavor,more profound notes in the tasting.Memories that are both sweet andsour.Memorieswithapurpose.

Thefirstonehasaroseflavor,inhonorofhersister.Rosie is not the only personSaffron has lost in her life—her parents have

bothpassedaway—butsheonlyeverseesRosiewhensheeats theshortbread.Shesuspectsthatitscreationistooinextricablyboundupwithhersisterforhertoeverseeanother.Forawhile,thereweremanySeventhdaysthatshededicatedtonothingbuttherose-peppershortbreadandhergrief.

Manymonthslater,whensheiscapableoffeelinganythingmorethannumb,Saffrontakesherplaceagainatthefrontoftheshop.Sheunderstandsthenthatthisrecipeiswhatshewaslackingtogivethecustomers.Notallcustomerscanbehelpedwithafennel-brightflatbread,ahappymoment.Therearemanywhoneedamoreprofoundsearchingintotheirpast.

Aroundhernowthenoblesreturnfromtheirjourney,theirfacesadizzyingarrayofsadness,happiness,regret.Itisacomplexpastry.

The next food course is served—some sort of little trussed-up birds, butSaffronbarelynotices.Sheiselsewhere,consideringwhatDannyhasshownher,consideringwhatnextistocome.

She isnot surprisedwhen the silverbell ringsandoutcomes the fourthofDanny’screationstonight,anotherbitterpastry.ItisnotonethatDannyhasyetshowcased at the castle.Only nowdoes itmake its appearance, and her heartquickens,herlipspucker,hermouthsalivatesforthetaste.

LemonTartofProfoundRegret

Itisanordinarydayinthebakery,andSaffronlooksaroundatherregularswithsatisfaction.Everythingtheyhaveworkedfor,comingtofruition.Sheisclosertocontentment,closertopeacethanshehasbeeninoverayear.Thelossofhersisterwillnever leaveher,but it isadullache thesedays thatonlysometimesturnssharp,breaksherdowninthemiddleofthebakery,handonabagofflour.Thebakeryhasfoundanewnormal,andtherearecustomerstohelp.

Theregulars,andsheknowsthembytheirorders.Apple Turnover of Happier Times, aka, the bent oldwoman in themoth-

eatenfurs.Saffronsavesthecurtainedalcoveforher,andforthefifteenminutesittakestoeatthatpastry,she’slostinahazeofremembering.Children, thinksDanny, but Saffron thinks grandchildren. Eitherway she lost them during thebrief,bloodyuprisinglastspring,theyagreeonthat.

LavenderMacaron ofLong-AgoFlirtations, aka the angularmanwho stillowns two silk scarves, despite the ever-increasing privations, despite theshabbinessofhisoldsuit.Herotatesthescarvesdaybyday;green-stripe,violetdots. He takes tea with his macaron, and his lips curl in pleasure while heremembers.Obviously it’s a lover, butDanny is sure the lover disappeared insome dramatic way; attacking the palace, or daring to print anti-propagandasheets. To have something worth remembering, you have to live first, says

Danny,and thenhe lookssadlyathis flour-dustedarms,knowingthatheonlyrunsabakery.

LemonTartofProfoundRegret,that’sthesadone.She’syoung,tooyoungtohave somuchProfoundRegret inher life.But shecomeseverydayat ten,testingher sorrow.ProfoundRegret showsyou thebiggestmistakeyoumade,theoneyoubroodover,andtherearetwokindsofpeoplewhobuyit.Theonesthatmake Saffron’s heart gladden are the oneswho buy it infrequently. Theydescend into the despair of knowingwhat they did, just as fresh as the day ithappened.

Thentheygooffandchange,becauseofwhattheysaw.Saffronknows,becausetheycomebacktotellher.Notrightatfirst.Butthey

comeback,severalmonthslater,andbuythetartagain.Andthistimetheyseesomethingelse.Something less terrible.That’show theyknow they’vemovedon.

ThosearetheonesDannysaysthewholeshopisworthitfor.He’ddoitallagain.Somedaysitseemslikeyou’redoingsolittle,butwhenhehelpsoneofthose people, his whole life is justified. On days that are really tough—thestoriestoldabouttheDukeareworsethanusual,thetaxesaredue,theProfoundRegrets are too deep—Danny eats one of his Honey Chocolates of Well-DeservedPride.Hesaysitalwaysshowshimthosemoments,theoneswhenhehelpedpeople.

TheircurrentLemonTartcomesdayafterday.She’snotmovingon.Dannythinks Saffron should intentionally mix up her order, give her a HoneyChocolate or an Apple Turnover and see if that helps her mindset change.Saffronisconsideringthemeritsofthiswhenhecomesin.

He’ssupposedtobe incognitobutSaffronknowshiminstantly.She’sseenenough Resistance flyers to know how the Duke disguises himself when hewants to move around the city. His red hair is slicked back under a hoodedcloak.

Shetriesnottostart,butherbodybetraysher.Sheflushes,angryandscaredallatonce,andsheknowsheseesit.

“IhaveamindtotryoneofyourHoneyChocolates,”hesayssmoothly.Herfingersareshakingasshereachesfor it.Thismanofallmendoesnot

deserve to relivehisbestmoments.Shehas thought forso longofResistance.ShecouldreachfortheMintChocolateofDeepDespair,atleast.Afterhetastesit, he will know that mint is not honey, and he will punish her somehow—

execute her? Torture her, like her sister? But first he will suffer. Oh, he willsuffer.

ButitwouldnotjustbeSaffronwhosuffers.ItwouldbeDanny.Itwouldbethepart-timeemployees.Itwouldbethecustomers,forsheisnotnaiveenoughto think that hewould not seek hiswrath on allwho sawhis humiliation.Hemustsquashanyhintofrebellion.

Oryouareafraid,saysasmallervoicestill.Saffronreachesforthechocolatesandhiseyesareheavyonhers;itseemshe

knowsherthoughts.Sheknowswhyhecomesunannounced.Soshecannotsliphimpoison,notunlessshehasplannedforthismomentandmadeanentiretrayofpoisonedchocolates,andshehasnot.

“IammostdelightedtosamplewhatIhaveaskedfor,”hesays,andthereisaworldofmeaninginthattongue.

Hereyesclose—herfingerscloseonthewrapperaroundthechocolate,bringitup.Sheputsitontheplatewithnervelessfingers.

ItistheHoneyChocolate.Her voice shakes as she tells him the price. Her moment has come, her

momenthasgone.TheDuke takes the chocolate, sits downat a table in the corner.Ayoung

manleanscasuallyagainstthewall,fiddlingwithhisbeltknife.Hedoesn’tfoolSaffron. The Duke goes off into a haze of remembering and for eightheartstoppingminutesshecleans thecounterand tends to thecustomersas theDukelooksoffinthedistanceandtheyoungmanwatchesthetwoofthem,hiseyesflickingbackandforth,watchingtoseeifthebakeryworkerhasliedtotheDuke.

Sheregretsherchoicealready.ShedoesnotneedaLemonTarttoknowthat.She regrets it even more when, two nights later, the Duke’s guards take

Dannyoutoftheirbedinthemiddleofthenight.Sheislefttomakeherownwaytothecastleandofferherselfupassacrifice.

A willing check on any rebellious tendencies my Danny might have. To sellherselftotheTraitorKing.

Acommonfood-taster.

***

Saffronblinksbacktears.ShehasnotseenDannyinsolong.TheDukedoesnot

trust themtogether.HehastakenSaffron’smeasure—correctlyassessedherasineffectual,notathreat.Sheisplain,ordinary,andtheDukeisnotsofoolishastospendthecoinofherinthewrongplace.SheismuchmorevaluablealiveandwholeandasacheckonDanny.So theDuke lefther free reinof theupstairsservants’quarters—aslongasshedoesnotenterthesecondkitchen.ThesecondkitchenwasturnedovertoDanny;histoolsandherbsbroughtfromthebakery,and he is confined to it. The only way they can communicate is through theconfections themselves.There is always at least one confection during amealthatheknowswillcallupasweetmemoryofthetwoofthem—somethingshecanfeastuponforaweek,andremember.

Butthisbanquethasbeenleadingherstepbystepforward,asifinastory.BothsheandDannyknowthepurposeoftheLemonTarttoowell.Shehasbeenremindedofhowshefailedtoact,whichmustmeanthatheispromptingherthatshewillneedtoact.Butinwhatway?

Perhapsitispoison,shethinks.Perhapsheistellingherthatthisistheonlyway to strike against the Duke. A slow-acting poison; something she willrecognize,butmustpretendtobefine.

Butshecan’timagineDannychoosingthatmethod,evenifsheorderedhimto.Andatthispoint,shewouldorderhimto.Shestiffensherspine,watchesthenobleseatingtheirownlemontarts.Shehasspentayearpracticingdissembling.Her courage and her warm smiles will not fail her now. She is ready forwhatevercomes.

Orperhapsthereissomethingelseheisremindingherof.Thosesmalljumpsthatthepastrieshavebeentaking.TheLemonTartmemoryskippingahead,toDanny’sdisappearance,toherownapplicationatthecastle.Thosearenotpartof the original memory. They are linked somehow, just as she saw with thecrostini,withtheshortbread.Notenoughthatanyonewouldnotice,becausenooneunderstandsthesubtletiesofhowthepastrieswork,notlikesheandDanny.Werethoseextramemoriestheretowarnherofsomethingspecific?

But maybe that is not it, either. Sometimes she thinks she is going mad.Danny is long gone, and these pastries are normal pastries done by a normalpastrychef,theirmemoriessomecollectivedreamthatsheconvincesthenoblestobelievein,onceaweek.

Thecheeseplatecomesandgoeswhileshefeelsmoreandmoreadrift,lostinherownmemories,wishfulthinking,andnonsense.Thesebanquetswillgoonfor eternity, and she will eat lemon tarts of regret forever, and nothing will

change.Fornowtheafter-dinnerliqueursarebeingpassedaround,themealisover,

and therehasbeennodramaticchange tonight.She isdisappointed;shewantstheDukegonesobadlythatshealmostfeelsshewillrunathimherself,withthesilverfork.Seewhatdamageshecandobeforetheykillher.Dannywasalwaysthepatientone,theoneperformingtheendlesstweakingofrecipesinsearchofthecorrectformula,theoneabletowaituntiltheexactmoment.Cookingisallabouttiming.

Ah,butwait.Thereisonemoreplate.Herheartquickens—Butshecantellataglanceitisachocolate,adarkchocolate-shelledtruffle

withanamber-coloreddropatthetop.TheHoneyChocolateofWell-DeservedPride.Itmakes her sick to think of theDuke eating this confection.Who knows

whatsortofdisgustingthingtheDukewillfindprideintonight?She knows, for Danny has served this chocolate to the Duke before, that

there is no outside morality imposed upon the choice of memory. Saffronalways,invariably,seesoneofthetimesshehelpedsomebody.Dannyseesthoseaswell,orheseesmomentsofcreation,breakthroughsofhardworkandstudy.

TheDuke sawamomenthe cleverlydestroyeda family.He told the tableabout it, in salivating detail, and the quiet bliss the nobles had found in thechocolatesevaporated.WhywouldDannygranthimsuch?

Theextra-largechocolate issetdownbeforeSaffronandshecuts it in twowith her silver fork. It is in the last second before she takes her bite that shenoticesthecolorofthehoneydropontopisalittledeeperthanusual.Molasses,perhaps,anditishersinglecluethatthisissomethingdifferentthanwhatsheisexpecting.

BitterChocolateofAgonyObserved

Shefalls,tumbling,fasterandfaster.Itisamomentshehasneverseenbefore.Sheisfive,andRosieisfour,andRosiehasbeenstungbyahornet.Inreallifeshebarelyremembersthis,butsheisherenow,andRosieiswailing.SheholdsupherarmtoshowSaffron,andSaffronseesthewelt.Andthen—shefeels thewelt.Inseeingthepainofhersister, it triggersherownsenseofpain,andherarmstings and swellswith it.Rosie runsoff to find theirmother, andSaffronfalls—

Sheiseleven,andherbestfriendhastakenaheaderoffofthechickencoop.Bustedhernosebutgood.Saffronseesit,andherownfaceswellsinresponse,painful,aching,broken.Shehelpsherfriendhome,andateverystepshefeelsthepainof thebrokennose.Until the friend is turnedover tohermother, andSaffronrunshome,thepaindissolving,thememoryreleased—

She is in thebakery, and theenforcerpunchesRosie, andSaffron staggersbackwiththepainofitastheydragRosieaway—

Sheisatthehanging,andthebodyfalls—Itislastyear,andDannyhasslicedrightthroughthepadofhisthumbwitha

breadknife.Skinwoundsbleedlikebilly-o,andSaffroncarefullystitchesitupforhim,feelingthepoundingofthebloodinherownthumb,feelingthepiercingtugging of the thread pulling through. Through the roar of the pain she hearsDannymusing:IwonderifIcoulddosomethingwithpain.

Whywouldyouwantto?sayspastSaffron.Youwouldn’tthinkaLemonTartofRegretwouldbeuseful,andyet.…says

Danny.Theremightbesomethingthere.Saffronlaughs.Onlyyouwouldsliceopenyourthumbandwonderhowto

turnitintoanewpastry.Goforit.Butleavemeoutofthisone.DoyouknowhowmuchIloveyou?saysDanny.Andsheisfallingawayfromthatmemory,fallingbacktothetable,evenas

herlastwordsecho:Iloveyoutoo.Morethananything.…

***

Theentiretableislookingather.Shehasbeengoneafewminuteslongerthanusual.Hopefullynotsolongastogivethegameaway.Herface,shefeelsnow,is stillwincing from thepainof the sliced thumb.Sheconsciously relaxesherjaw,loosensherface,breathes.

SheissupposedtoenticetheDuketoeatthischocolate.Andhowexactlyisshegoingtodothat,witheverythingshejustsawplainlyvisibleonherfacetothewholetable?

ShewavesattheservitortotaketheotherhalfofherchocolatetotheDuke.Shedoesnotyettrustherselftospeak.

TheDukelooksatthehalf-eatenchocolate,thenbackather.“ForamomentIthoughtyourhusbandhaddecidedhewaswillingtopoisonyou,”hesays.“ButnowIseeheismerelywillingtotortureyou.”

ThatgivesSaffronthethreadtowalkdown.“Hisskillwithconfectionsisthemost important thing to him,” she says, and she keeps her head high, notmindingthatherliptrembles.TheDukeunderstandsthis.HewillseehimselfinDanny.

“So explain to me why I, and my table, should go ahead and try thisparticularconfection,”hesays.“Afterseeingitsmost…interestingresults.”

Shelooksevenlyintohisface.ThereisonlyoneanswerthatwillworkwiththeDuke,andthisistruth.

Atleast,partofthetruth.“Youwillseepain,”shesaid.“Notyourownpain,butanother’s.Amoment

ofexquisitepainthatsomeoneelseissuffering.”TheDuke’sfacerelaxes,justbarely,andhelaughs.“Nowonderyouwereso

conflicted.Mylittleweaklings.”Hegesturesaroundtothetable.“Goon,then.Eat.”

Her heart sinks,watching as one by one the reluctant guests pick up theirchocolates,theirfacesfrightenedorstoicbyturns.IftheDukedoesnoteathisbitequickly,thenthisisfornothing.Thenobleswillspilltohimeverythingtheyfelt,andtherewillbenomorechancetodothisagain,andsheandDannywillbestrungupfordaringtoopposetheTraitorKing.

Thememoriesforsomeofthemwillbelongthistime.Shecannothelpthat.One luckywoman, younger than the rest, is shakingoff the trance already. “Isaw my brother break his arm,” she says, shuddering, and her handunconsciouslygoestoherownarm.

Saffron breathes, willing the woman not to say any more. This isconfirmationtotheDukethatwhatshesaidistrue.Youseesomeoneelse’spain.Thechocolate isnotpoison.Hisfacerelaxesa tinybitmore,he isweakening.Hewantstotryit.

“Youcanaimfortherightmemoryifyougiveitanudge,”Saffronsays,andthis is true in general of theirwork, if irrelevant in the case of this particularchocolatewhereyouwillseeeverything.“Wouldn’tyouliketosee…whatyoudidtomysister?”Hereyesmeethisandsheisbreathingfast,shecan’thelpit,andheisfeastingoneverymomentofherpain.Ifthisworks.…

TheDuke’seyesneverleavehersasheraisesthechocolateandplacesitonhistongue.

***

ThelinkedmemorieskeeptheDukeunderforthreeentireweeks,writhinginarememberingcoma,firstonhischair,thenmovedtohisbed,thenmovedtothedungeon.For threeweeks isenoughtimeforsomeonetofind thefood-taster’sgrandfather, and let him out, and for the whole chain of command to berearranged.TheDukeisdeclaredincapacitatedandrelievedofhisregency,andkindLordSearletakesoverinhisplace.

When theDuke finallydoeswake, thepainandmalnutritionhave lefthimwasted away to nothing.His eyes fall on a glass cake standplaced beside hisfilthy, flea-infested mattress, on the stones of the dungeon floor. Inside is asinglechocolate,identicaltotheonehewasservedathisfinaldinner.

If he were stronger, one might call his laugh the laugh of someone whofinallyseesaworthyadversaryatlast.

Thechocolate,ofcourse,wasmadebyabaker,asimplebakerwhorefusedthehonorof beingRegentSearle’s headpastry chef, and askedonly to returnhometohistwoloves:hisworkandhiswife.

Thechocolatewasplaced therebySaffron,who stayed towatch theDukewrithe for twentyminutes before she slipped silently away, knowing fullwellthatthatpainwillaccountonhersoul;thatshewillrevisitthisspotifsheevereatsthatparticularchocolateherselfagain.

TheDukeisneverleavingthisdungeon.Andtheonlyrealquestionis,howdoeshewishtogo?

Tremblinghandsknocktheglassdometothedungeonfloor.Itshatters,anechothatremainsintheDuke’searslongaftertheshardshavecometorest.

TheDuketakeshislastbiteoffoodeveronthisearth,andremembers,ashefalls.

AbouttheAuthor

TINACONNOLLY liveswithher family inPortland,Oregon, inahouse thatcamewithadragoninthebasementandblackberryvinesintheattic.SheistheauthoroftheIronskinseries(Ironskin,Copperhead,Silverblind)andherstorieshaveappearedallover,includinginStrangeHorizons,Lightspeed,andBeneathCeaselessSkies.Youcansignupforemailupdateshere.

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