Chapter Thirty Cake O’clock
Chapter Thirty: Cake O’clock
The cake was a triumph of engineering disguised as confectionery.
Five tiers, each slightly smaller than the one below, rising to a height of nearly four feet.
White icing, intricately detailed with sugar flowers and delicate piping.
Elizabeth had won that particular battle: the cake, at least, was exactly as she had specified, commissioned from a London baker, of the type that would have fainted if you asked for a loaf of bread.
It stood on a table in the centre of the ballroom, illuminated by soft lights, looking like something from an art gallery rather than a baker. The guests had gathered in a loose semicircle around it, champagne in hand, waiting for the traditional cutting ceremony.
But instead of a silver cake knife, the one Elizabeth had selected, engraved with the family crest, James had arranged something else entirely.
‘Is that a sword?’ Anastasia said.
‘Family tradition,’ James said, accepting the ceremonial blade from Gerald with evident pride.
‘It’s been in the family since the Napoleonic Wars.
Allegedly used at Waterloo, definitely used to open champagne bottles and at every family wedding since 1847.
Great-great-grandfather started the tradition.
Said a man should cut his cake like a soldier, not a seamstress. ’
‘That seems vaguely misogynistic.’
‘It absolutely is. But the sword is magnificent, so we overlook it.’ He held it up, the blade catching the light. ‘Ready?’
‘You want me to cut cake with a sword.’
‘I want us to cut cake with a sword. Together. It’s symbolic.’
‘Of what?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. Conquest? Partnership? The violent destruction of baked goods?’ He grinned. ‘Come on. It’ll be fun.’
Anastasia took her position beside him. Her hand found the sword handle; his hand covered hers. They raised the blade together, poised above the pristine white icing.
At that moment, Viktor approached.
‘Perhaps I could help?’ He was holding a knife, a kitchen knife, sharp and practical, ostensibly retrieved from the catering supplies. ‘Cut the first slice for the photograph? A brother’s contribution to the moment.’
Anastasia’s hand came off the sword and went to her hip, there was a slight shift in her weight, the coiling of tension beneath her calm exterior. She knew what that knife was for. She was calculating distances, angles, responses.
But James, oblivious and cheerful, solved the problem himself.
‘No knives needed, old chap!’ He raised the sword with playful enthusiasm. ‘We’ve got a sword! Much more dramatic. Freddie, get a photo of this...’
His accidental parry; entirely playful but very effective, knocked the knife from Viktor’s hand. It clattered to the floor, spinning away under the table.
‘Oops. Butterfingers. Sorry about that.’ James didn’t even pause. ‘Right, where were we? The cake!’
They cut the cake. Fed each other pieces: James managing to get icing on his nose, Anastasia laughing as she wiped it off. Everyone applauded.
Viktor retrieved his knife from the floor, his expression perfectly composed. Only his eyes betrayed him: cold, calculating, murderous.
This was not going to plan, but he still had options.