Marianne stared at the disaster that had been dough, then at him, then back at the dough. "It's ruined."
"Can't we just... add more flour?"
"That's not how it works."
"Why not?"
"Because baking has rules!"
"You just said it was intuitive!"
"It's intuitive within a framework of rules!"
"That's contradictory."
"That's baking!"
Mrs. Whitby senior was now laughing openly. "Oh, Marianne, he's worse than the time you tried to teach Timothy Henderson."
"Timothy was seven," Marianne protested.
"And Mr. Fletcher has similar skills, apparently."
"I'm still here," Alaric pointed out.
"Yes, destroying my kitchen."
"One batch of dough is hardly destruction."
"Look around, Mr. Fletcher."
He looked. There was flour on surfaces he was certain had been clean when they started. The water incident had created asmall flood on the counter. Several utensils had somehow ended up on the floor. And was that butter on the ceiling?
"How did butter get on the ceiling?"
"You tell me. You're the one who flung it there."
"I didn't fling anything."
"Then it achieved altitude independently?"
"Maybe it's ambitious butter."
Marianne pressed her hands to her face, and for a moment he thought she might cry. Then he heard it—muffled laughter.
"Are you laughing at me?"
She dropped her hands, and indeed, she was grinning widely. "I'm laughing at the situation. The Duke of Wexmere's very proper steward, covered in flour, wearing my mother's red apron, having just created what might be the worst pastry attempt in the history of baking."
"It's not that bad."
"Mr. Fletcher, you've created glue. Actual glue. We could probably repair furniture with that."
"Then it's useful."
"Not for pies!"
"We could make... structural pies. For building."
