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“Tell Dr. Fernando,” he said. “Then your parents. Then my mother. Margy, Bess, and Anna. Then Reed. Then Henry. In that order.”

“And me?” she demanded.

“You will know first,” he said. “Before anyone. Before me, probably.”

She thought of the future, not as a solid road but as a series of possible recipes. Some might fail. Some might surprise. All would take work.

But tonight, for the first time, she did not feel as if she were balancing on a single narrow path between two lives.

She felt…held.

“I suppose,” she said, closing her eyes and listening to his heartbeat, “if we must practice every day, I shall endure it too.”

He laughed, low and genuine.

“Pepper?”

“Hm?”

“I never thought,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words, “that anything in my life could be better than that first bite of your mille-feuille.”

“And?” she asked.

“And I was wrong,” he said.

She smiled, drowsy and satisfied.

“Good,” she murmured. “You needed to be wrong about something.”

He made a wounded sound.

“Let’s practice again,” she said.

And he complied.

Epilogue

One year later…

Outside her door, the world held its breath.

Pepper heard it through a pleasant haze: the rustle of silk, a muffled squeal from a child quickly shushed, the Dowager’s unmistakable, imperious, “Well?” and Dr. Fernando’s calm reply:

“A strong, healthy boy, Your Grace. Mother and child are both doing very well.”

For a second there was only silence.

Then the room beyond exploded—Aunt Florence’s delighted “Ha!”, Mrs. Hart sobbing “oh, ma fille,” Papa’s “mon petit-fils,” and, over it all, the Dowager’s voice, surprisingly thick:

“A boy. At once. Of course. I never doubted him for a moment.”

Pepper almost laughed. The sound that came out was more of a shaky sigh.

Inside, the world had shrunk to the width of the bed and the warm, astonishing weight in her arms.

Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching dust motes and the faint steam from a forgotten bowl of hot water. The curtains were half-drawn, the air scented faintly with lavender, carbolic…and something new. Milk. Warmth. The indescribable, sleepy smell of a baby.

Her son lay against her, small and serious and outraged at the concept of air. His fists were bunched; his dark hair stuck damply to his skull; his mouth, which had expressed vigorous opinions a few minutes ago, was now slack in brief, indignant sleep.