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Mrs. Dove-Lyon inclined her head, satisfied. “Then we are agreed on the principle. Practically, it means this: you will keep my standing order, but you will also supply a select list of houses. Marta and Bridget will train two girls in your method, so the work still goes forward under your guidance when you will be at your own bakery.”

Rosine’s pulse found a more even measure. Pastry shells cooled on the racks; sugared violets glowed like tiny amethysts on the sheet; crystallized orange peel waited in tidy curls. She could see it now—custards set under muslin, cream whipped to soft peaks, cinnamon sifted in a fine veil—sent out from different doors, impossible to stamp out in a single blow. “I’ll change how to bake new batches every day to keep the array of pastries,” she said, more to herself than to them. She was already working out the logistics in her mind. “If we stagger the heating—if the sugar cones arrive by first bell—we can do it.”

“We can,” Sander said, low.

“But where will I be stationed?” The idea of leaving the safety of the Lyon’s Den ran through her mind, chasing the chill down her back. She kept her attention on the work table because looking at him would undo her practical voice. “I… I am not eager to leave my bed among the maids,” she admitted. “It is safe there.” And I sleep because you stand in the hall.

“But the plan makes sense.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s mouth softened a fraction. “For now, you go nowhere farther than two streets to a shop I’ve rented for you. You will still finish your mornings here. I am not abandoning you to chance, Rosine. I am shoring you up against it.”

Rosine let the words work through their first sting and settle into something like relief. Not exile. Reach. She glanced at Sander again. He hadn’t moved, but the air around him appeared warmer, steadier, as if he’d set himself between her and every unseen thing. It anchored her like a hand at her back—unseen, unmistakably there. Say yes.

She smoothed a finger along a caramel drop, perfect and clear as a pearl, then lifted her chin. “Very well,” she said. “We spread out. We do it properly.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon watched her for a long, unreadable beat. Then she reached for the folded paper and pushed it forward. “Then you’ll need this even more than I anticipated when I summoned you today.”

Rosine’s brow furrowed.

“It’s the lease,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, almost lightly. “For a small property just off Bell Yard. Oven already installed. Clean, modest. Yours, if you want it.”

Rosine blinked. Was she being handed her dream under conditions that could endanger the Lyon’s Den? This is not how I had imagined trading one safe place for another.

“But… the funds…”

“Covered,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “By a modest loan from my coffers and a portion of Sanders’ wages of the past year and the next. You’ll sign it, of course. The only thing missing is your name.”

“Well, I’ve been setting money aside. Quietly. For my own shop. A place like my parents had in Strasbourg. A storefront with a bell on the door and the smell of sugared plums in winter.” She turned toward Mrs. Dove-Lyon then, voice steel. “That’s not how I’d hope to achieve it… I mean, I’ve been working, not waiting on anyone else’s charity or protection. Not even yours. And not his.” This is not how I wanted to get my bakery.

Sander didn’t react.

“Which is why we need to expediate your dream.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s approval showed in the small lift at the corner of her eyes.

“Yes, madam,” Rosine managed but she dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Good girl. Then let us divide wisely—and conquer nothing we cannot keep.”

Rosine inhaled, drew her shoulders straight. “I won’t let anyone destroy what you’ve built. But I must tell you—” She stepped forward, eyes clear now. “I’m not anyone’s ward or mouth to feed, and I’ve always earned my keep here.”

“More than that, dear girl,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with a warmth that surprised Rosine. “You may just be the one who saves the Lyon’s Den from self-appointed tyrants like Nagy.”

Emotion swept in hot and fast—pride, disbelief, something sharp-edged that resembled hope.

“But—why me?”

“Your buns and pastries are sweet messengers of resistance and Nagy won’t manage to stop you from baking. You show strength from the invisible corners of the Lyon’s Den kitchens—an attack on Nagy’s tyranny he won’t see coming,” Sander said.

“And because hiding isn’t survival anymore,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon, softer now. “It’s time to stand up and I’ll stand behind you with my name. And it helps to stand on your own front step.”

Silence settled. Jews couldn’t own property, but if Mrs. Dove-Lyon signed for her, then Rosine could have her shop. And with a standing order, she’d supply the Lyon’s Den but also grow beyond. It was too good to be true. This is happening too fast. And at the risk of the Lyon Den’s future?

Sander shifted slightly, hands behind his back. “If we go down,” he said, “we don’t go quietly. I’m not running any more, I’ll stand by your side Rosine.” Well now, this was like a betrothal in front of Mrs. Dove-Lyon—and yet, she didn’t react. Had she seen it coming?

Rosine’s heart plummeted to her knees.

Had Mrs. Dove-Lyon made the match and she didn’t even know?

Or worse, at Sander’s request? For that’s how it went, didn’t it? One person requested a match and the Black Widow of Whitehall… oh no! I want my independence and they lured me into a net.