The morning light was soft, filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the kitchen, but I had been awake since the birds started their first gossiping chirps.

Pregnancy had turned me into a creature of odd hours, but today, it wasn't just the hormones. It was the adrenaline of yesterday's victory and the quiet, domestic urge to build something sweet in a house that had seen too much salt.

The head cook, Mrs. Higgins, moved around me like a silent shadow, her eyes crinkling with approval as I folded the batter.

"Steady hands, madam Isabella," she whispered. "The cake can feel your heart."

I laughed softly, the scent of vanilla...