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    click, a metronome to Chloe’s thinly veiled disdain.


    rustic transport suits your… unconventional tastes.” She gestured to the platter between them—glazed tarts oozing cherry syrup, their flaky crusts begging to crumble onto silk. “Do try the pastries, dear. Cook slaved over them.”


    Slaved to lace them with enough sugar to glue a gullible girl’s sleeves to her face, Ella thought. She’d seen this trick before: the "accidental" spill, the humiliation, the whispered clumsy fool trailing her through banquet halls. Fourth time, actually.


    delicate constitution.” She patted her middle, then flipped open her own box. “Would you care for a Guangfu Zhai osmanthus cake? They’re quite light.”


    Accept, and admit my kitchen’s inferiority. Refuse, and look petty.


    taste tester. After that unfortunate incident with Lady Wen’s fig pudding…” She let the sentence hang, sweet and lethal.


    Ah, yes. The memory unfurled like smoke: Lily, age six, giggling as Chloe presented “Auntie’s special honey twists.” Later, the vomiting, the accusations of a “sensitive stomach.” Later still, the discovery of ground nightshade seeds in the kitchen.


    utterly boring ingredients. No drama, no surprises.” She took a dainty bite. “Like my life now. So… tediously safe.”


    splat.


    immaculate gown!”


    everywhere! Almost like someone planned this!”


    Justice for Lily, she thought, watching her aunt blot frantically. Petty? Perhaps. Satisfying? Immensely.


    adores gossip?” She leaned close, whispering, “I hear he’s baking a new tart called… Scarlet Ambition. Should I send you a box?”


    poetically just.” She licked her fingers, grinning. “Now, let’s find whoever’s serving wine. I’ve earned a little drama.”