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Mother sat perfectly upright on the sofa, teacup untouched. Aunt Florence came to the window, shawl draped like a banner, eyes too bright to belong to anyone truly calm. Between them, Pepper felt like a parcel being discussed rather than consulted.

“Barbara,” Mother said, taking her in at a glance. “Your hair looks as if the wind has had opinions, and you smell of…vanilla.”

Of course I do. I’ve been standing in the room where my future happens.

“How do you do, Mama,” Pepper said, dropping a curtsy a shade deeper than necessary to hide the tiny lag of her right foot. “The kitchen is…busy.”

“One might imagine so,” Aunt Florence said. “Given we have been personally invited to the Pavilion this afternoon.”

Pepper’s grip tightened on her folded apron. “Invited?” I’m in charge of the pastries for the tasting.

“To observe,” Mother said, in the tone she reserved for dense men and stubborn daughters. “A new pâtissier from London will present his wares. Should we approve, the prince approves, and Brighton follows. Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Wyndale has requested our presence to meet her son more than to sample sweets.”

“She calls it charitable,” Aunt Florence added, dry. “I call it an excuse to sit closest to the custards.”

Mother leaned forward, eyes bright. “Do you understand what I have accomplished? A private tasting with your future in the balance. Do not waste this, Barbara.”

Various responses burned on her tongue. Pepper swallowed them. “Yes, Mama.”

Mother exhaled, satisfied. “Good. We shall have luncheon, then see about your gown. Florence, ring for tea, please.”

As Aunt Florence pulled the bell, she flicked Pepper a look that somehow said: I know what today is. I know you’d rather be with your custards. I can imagine what you did with that man on the beach.

Heat climbed Pepper’s neck. She stared firmly at the tea tray as a maid brought it in.

Mother poured. “Dessert,” she announced, “is power.”

“Is it,” Aunt Florence murmured.

“A good custard smooths more sins than a dozen apologies,” Mother went on. “A clever tart can mend a quarrel. Men forget conversation. They remember the sweet that came after. Remember that, Barbara.”

Pepper thought of Chester on the sand, lemon on his mouth, promise in his eyes. If he remembered anything from last night, it would not be dinner.

“Did you,” Pepper asked before she could stop herself, “remember the crème brûlée?” That was too much said. “Mrs. Hart mentioned it to me.”

Mother’s cup halted halfway. For a heartbeat she only stared into the dark surface, as if she could hide in it. She almost never spoke of Papa; his name usually sat between them like a closed door. Pepper saw the faintest tremor in her wrist and knew, with a little shock, that Mother was choosing whether to open it now.

“Yes,” Aunt Florence said sweetly.

“I remember everything about that shop I ought not to have noticed,” Mother said at last, still studying her tea. “How your father used sugar as though it were language. How he looked at me like I were not my parents’ plans, but myself.” Her mouth tightened. “None of which excuses you from using the chances I fought to give you to make good on my youthful misjudgments.”

You had that and let it go for me, Pepper thought, chest aching.

“You think my slate is clean,” she said quietly. “It isn’t. I limp. I may not…” The old doctor’s words rose—childbed may be… uncertain—and stuck.

Mother set down her cup with neat precision. “You limp,” she agreed. “You also breathe. You read and write and argue and bake with the staff like a lady oughtn’t. ‘May not’ is not ‘cannot.’ Plenty of girls hear dark predictions and go on to bear half a regiment. We will not borrow trouble.” Her gaze sharpened. “We will seize the opportunity. Wyndale will be present. His opinion carries weight. You will be everything you can be.”

Everything except honest.

“Perhaps,” Aunt Florence said lightly, “we might allow the poor child one breath before fitting her for battle.”

“We will fit her now,” Mother said, rising. “Come, Barbara. The gown from Paris has arrived. It will do you credit.”

There was no arguing with that. Pepper followed upstairs, Aunt Florence trailing like a reluctant second.

Mother’s bedchamber had become a staging ground. A new gown lay across the bed: sea-green silk, the color of shallow water over sand, with a modest neckline and short sleeves edged in lace. Tiny paste pearls dusted the hem like scattered dew drops and not carefully sewn on.

For one treacherous moment, Pepper forgot to be anxious. She brushed the fabric with her fingers. It whispered.