Page 45 of The Dead Queen

The chef steps away again to give us some space. The heels of his shoes click against the polished floor as he leaves.

All around us, the servants bring even more confectionary treats to the table. Jellied white rabbits, their sugar-coated bodies glistening in the light. Cookies shaped like delicate snowflakes, so intricate it seems a shame to eat them. Pale blue mini-cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar like snow, their cool hue a stark contrast to the warm golds and reds of the room. Perfect for a winter wedding.

My eyes dart toward the window. Autumn has arrived in full, finally. The sky is gray and heavy with the promise of rain, and the wind rustles the changing leaves in the trees. They dance in a mosaic of green, russet, gold, and crimson.

I clear my throat and pick up my fork. “And have you checked on our friend?” I ask Hunter, trying to keep my voice steady. When he stares at me blankly, I add, “Our new puppy.”

His eyebrows draw together with confusion.

I lean closer to his ear and whisper. “In the kennels.”

His eyes widen with understanding. “Oh. No.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I haven’t had the opportunity.”

A servant steps forward to bring a copper-colored sun tart to the display on the table. Its flaky crust glistens with a sugar glaze, and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg adds to the already heady mix of aromas in the room. I barely take a bite of cake before a server whisks away the chocolate almond slice and replaces it with another that’s yellow with fluffy, pale frosting.

“Lemon,” the chef says, his round cheeks pink with excitement. My father might be right about one thing: people love a royal wedding to fuss over.

The chef watches, waiting as we both take our first bites. The tart sweetness instantly transports me to the golden sunrays of summer. I close my eyes to savor it.

“Thoughts?” the chef asks.

“Gorgeous, delicious …” I say, at a loss for words.

He smiles encouragingly, waiting for more.

My brain scrambles to think of a better response. “… But maybe not right for a winter wedding?”

He nods his approval. “Very wise, Your Highness. A perfect cake in all respects, but one. It is out of season.” He chuckles, then whispers. “But still worth the taste, no?”

Hunter hums, his mouth full of cake. “Definitely.”

The chef claps his hands together. “I will let you two get acquainted with Madame Sunshine while I fetch more champagne!” He disappears into the kitchen.

“I like him,” Hunter says with a grin.

Seconds later, the chef returns carrying two twinkling champagne flutes. “For the lovebirds.”

We thank him and clink our glasses together gently. They chime in the way only the finest crystal does. I take a sip. It’s like crisp fireworks in my mouth.

“Beautiful,” Hunter says. “Many thanks.”

I take another sip, trying to ease my anxiety. Then another.

“Ah, ah, ah!” the chef says. “Not too fast. You have ten more champagne bottles to sample as well.”

I swallow, my eyes wide.

The chef leans in conspiratorially. “One can not serve the first champagne one tries.”

“No, definitely not.” Hunter drains his glass and sets it down on the fine white tablecloth. “This is the best day ever.”

After at least six more cakes, a messenger dressed in familiar copper livery enters the room. The lighthearted atmosphere dissolves instantly.

The messenger approaches me and bows, but I already know what’s coming.

“Your Highness, your father awaits you in his audience chamber.”

I sigh and stand. “Thank you,” I tell the messenger. Then I turn to the chef, who’s wringing his hands anxiously. “My apologies, sir, but I must attend to King Corsac.” I gesture toward Hunter. “I leave you in excellent hands. My beloved will choose the cake. He knows my tastes well.”