"Then you're even more complicated a liar than I thought."
The other judges, Mrs. Morrison, the vicar, and Mr. Ironwell, watched this exchange with fascination. Mrs. Morrison, in particular, looked like she was mentally composing the gossip she'd be spreading for the next six months.
"Perhaps we should begin?" the vicar suggested nervously. "The pies are getting cold."
“Yes,” Marianne said, her voice so sharp it could have sliced pastry. “Let’s judge pies. I’m sureHis Gracehas many important opinions about pastry, given his extensive experience with common baking.”
“Actually...” Alaric began, but she wasn’t finished with him. Not nearly.
“Oh wait,” she said, turning to the assembled judges with brittle brightness, “that wasMr. Fletcherwho had experience with baking. His Grace, of course, probably has his pies prepared by French chefs who’ve never seen a common kitchen in their lives.”
“I don’t have a French chef,” he said, though the protest sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
“How disappointing for you,” she replied, sweetly venomous. “Now, shall we begin, Your Grace, or do you need a footman to hold your fork?”
“Marianne...Mrs. Whitby...can we please talk?”
She smiled, all teeth and fury. “Wearetalking. About pies. Which need judging. So—judge them.”
And so began what could only be described as the most excruciating pie tasting in the history of mankind. Every slice felt like an act of penance, every spoonful a moral reckoning. Marianne presided with the precision of a general and the temperature of an arctic wind. The other judges...Mrs. Morrison, the vicar, and Mr. Ironwell...did their best to pretend this was a normal civic duty and not a public dissection of a duke’s soul.
Alaric sampled the first pie, an apple-and-pear confection. “Excellent crust,” he said cautiously.
Mrs. Morrison nodded. “Exceptionally flaky.”
“Unlike some people,” Marianne murmured, not even looking at him.
Mrs. Morrison blinked. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” Marianne said crisply. “Just commenting on the texture.”
The next pie was cherry. The vicar, striving valiantly for peace, ventured, “the filling is perfectly spiced.”
“Yes,” Marianne said. “At least the cherries are honest about what they are. Cherries. Not secretly oranges pretending to be apples.”
The vicar frowned. “That’s… rather philosophical.”
“Is it?” she said. “I think it’s straightforward.”
Mr. Ironwell cleared his throat. “The metaphor doesn’t quite...”
“I’llwork on it,” Marianne snapped.
Alaric tried to focus on the judging sheet before him, but the words blurred. He had faced Parliament inquiries with less terror.
They moved on to Mrs. Ironwell’s mince pie, which was shaped like a star and somehow tasted like regret.
“Delightful presentation,” Mrs. Morrison said gamely.
“Presentation,” Marianne echoed, her gaze cutting to Alaric. “Funny thing, that. How people put so much effortinto appearances when the substance underneath is so very… misleading.”
“Marianne,” he said softly, “please...”
“Don’t.” She sliced into the next pie as if it were him in its place.
When they reached Mrs. Martin’s entry, an absurdly tall creation that looked more like a tiered monument than anything meant for human consumption, Alaric set down his fork. The thing was glazed, gilded, and groaning under sugared holly leaves.
“It’s overworked,” he said finally. “Too much decoration, not enough attention to the fundamental structure. All appearance, no substance.”
