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“Well?” she asked, light over nerves.

“More cardamom—it whispers and disappears. Keep the lemon. Add orange… And a bit more vanilla.”

“You know my ingredients awfully well,” she teased.

“I’d like to know everything about you well.”

The laugh that slipped from her felt as hot as her cheeks. “High and low notes. Yes. Vanilla, orange, cardamom.” Her hand landed against his chest warm, solid—steadying herself though she told herself it was to steady him.

“You don’t try to please me,” she said, turning back to the bowl.

“I’d rather pleasure… ahem, please you than flatter you,” he answered with a naughty wink, and the truth of it went warm through her.

They had kissed last night in his hidden chess room—one careful, certain kiss that felt like a future knocking. They had promised to ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon together. Rosine held to that promise like a banister on a stair that turned too sharply. But when would they ask? Sander had gone back to the door; she was alone with her trays and the hum of the house.

But after a few minutes, there was a murmur running through the hall. She lifted a tray—orange brightening the crumb, cardamom now singing at the end—and took the quiet passage up. Her sign would hang one day. First, they must keep their places.

A scream cut thin through the stairwell. Then a low rumble—an English curse—and a door slammed.

Rosine slid the tray onto the nearest sideboard and ran. She rounded the corner into the corridor beyond the gaming room and found a maid pressed to the wainscot, apron twisted in both fists, breath too fast—Marta. By the time Rosine reached her, Sander was there, shrugging out of his coat in one motion and settling it around Marta’s shoulders. His voice dropped to another tongue—softened consonants she knew from his prayers—then a ribbon of Russian, low and grave. The patient care of him struck quick and sharp.

Jealousy flashed, ugly and quick. Fool. You are not special.

Then Marta’s eyes filled; her chin trembled; she clutched the coat as if warmth had weight. The ugliness died as fast as it had sparked. Rosine caught herself when Bridget came with a pallor that spoke of shock and stepped in. Something terrible had happened.

“Kitchen,” Rosine said, already moving. “Bridget—water, a shawl, a stool.”

The heat met them like a wall. Sander guided Marta to the stool; Rosine wrapped the shawl close and tucked it under the girl’s throat. “You’re safe,” she said, because he had said it to her and the words tasted right in her mouth now.

Sander went to one knee and spoke softly until Marta’s shoulders loosened a fraction. Then, for Rosine, his voice steadied. “A man pulled her into the hall. Pressed too close. She pushed him. He didn’t stop.” His jaw worked once. “I found them.”

Marta looked up, eyes wet. “If not for him…” She shook her head.

Rosine took Marta’s cold hands between her warm ones. “We’re lucky to have Sander to keep us all safe.” The girl nodded through a sob, shaky but willing.

“To the scullery—honey in warm water,” Rosine told Bridget, who flew.

Sander’s coat slipped; he settled it better with careful fingers. He glanced to Rosine—your lead?—and didn’t rise until Marta nodded. Something inside Rosine loosened and ran warm.

“Thank you,” Rosine said to him, letting the words land where they belonged. “For being there.” I’m no fool to love you, you’re our hero.

“Always,” he said, simply.

The space settled around them—spoons, steam, the small kitchen soldier’s rhythm of work. Rosine smoothed Marta’s hair and looked up to find Sander’s gaze fixed not on her mouth, not on her hands, but on the space she took in the room—as if that space mattered.

They had promised to ask leave tonight. They would. But the promise had to cross a world that thinned by the day.

Bridget slipped back with the mug, whispering what news kitchens always heard first. “Footman says the earl’s in a temper,” she said. “Talk of lists and aliens again. Men are saying Jews are getting bold.” Pembroke?

The word lists turned Rosine’s stomach. Paper with teeth. She shouldn’t have been surprised; London loved a club more than it loved truth. Still, she tasted iron.

“Then we won’t wait,” Rosine said, lifting her chin. “Marta, drink this. Bridget will sit with you.”

Marta nodded, color coming back with honey and heat.

Rosine set the tray aside and wiped her palms, not because they were damp but because she needed the small ceremony of it. She turned to Sander. “We promised.”

His mouth eased, the closest he came to a smile when he meant to be a wall. “We did.”