The kitchen at Ashford Hall was large, equipped with multiple wood-burning stoves lining the wall and a long preparation counter running the length of the room. Copper pots hung from ceiling hooks in neat rows, and shelves of jars held flour, salt, and even some spices. It wasn’t a sleek modern kitchen with stainless steel and induction ovens, but it had a rustic charm to it.

  More importantly, at this hour—mid-morning on a Thursday, after the breakfast rush and well before lunch—it was mostly empty.

  Clara set the small wooden box on the counter. The confectioner’s ‘extra’ delivery had arrived at Claves just as Emma went to distribute the tea party invitations, and Clara felt a rush of excitement as she opened it.

  Inside it, nestled in straw, were six glass jars of a thick, white liquid. No, that sounds wrong. Six glass jars of creamy, delicious—Also no. She couldn’t help but let out a small laugh.

  She held a jar up and tilted it under the light, and the condensed milk swayed inside it, sluggish and dense. Looks like they got the consistency just right. This world didn’t have canned condensed milk, so Clara had to explain to the confectioner how to make it, combining milk and sugar and simmering for hours, until it reduced by about a third.

  She unscrewed the lid and dipped in a finger, then put it in her mouth.

  A smile crept across her face as the sweetness spread over her tongue. With this, she could finally make ‘it’.

  She was only eleven when she first tried it, on a vacation to Brazil with her parents. The details of the trip were long since blurry, but there was one part Clara remembered as if she were under the Blessing of Truth.

  They’d been walking through the Mercado Municipal in S?o Paulo, her mother holding her hand while her father tried his hardest to haggle in a terrible mix of European Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese Duolingo. The woman behind the stall had offered her a tiny paper cup with a dark ball inside.

  ‘Brigadeiro, querida?’ she had said. And when Clara took the first bite, it was dense and fudgy, and the smooth richness coating her tongue made her think it was the best day of her tiny life. Later, back at home, she’d spent a whole evening with her mother trying to recreate it exactly by mimicking subtitled cooking videos, burning through three pots of condensed milk before they got the consistency right.

  After the accident, Clara had kept making it. Not as often as before, maybe once or twice a year, when the loneliness got too bad. She set the jar down and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. There was work to do.

  Besides the condensed milk, the box contained two other ingredients: a tin of cocoa powder and one of sugar. As for the butter, Ashford Hall’s kitchen had plenty. Ideally, she would also have chocolate sprinkles, but since those didn’t seem to exist in this world, she would make the coating out of ground cocoa mixed with sugar.

  Clara spent the next hour combining the ingredients in a pot over a low flame, patiently stirring until her arm hurt, then switching to the other arm. She was only making one jar’s worth for now; the others were extra, in case there were any mistakes.

  Eventually the mixture thickened, and the color deepened to a dark, glossy brown. She closed her eyes and breathed in. Perfect.

  After checking the consistency, she transferred it onto a buttered plate to cool, washed the pot and wiped down the counter. Then she prepared the rolling station while the mixture cooled. When it was firm enough to handle, she buttered her palm and pinched off a small portion, rolling it, then dipping it in the cocoa-sugar coating.

  It came out slightly lopsided, but not too bad for a first try. She tasted it. The flavor was deeper than she was used to, less overly sweet, probably because it wasn’t canned condensed milk. But it was good. Really good.

  The second was better. By the fifth, her hands had remembered the motion entirely, and the little dark spheres were coming out round and uniform. Eventually, she had twenty brigadeiros arranged on a small ceramic plate. She covered it with a cloth napkin and carried it carefully to her and Emma’s room.

  Clara had just finished writing a letter to update Duke von Rhenia when Emma returned, just before lunchtime, slightly out of breath. Her freckled cheeks were flushed from running.

  “All five invitations delivered, Clara! Lady Charlotte’s maid was snappy about it, saying her lady doesn’t appreciate last-minute social engagements, but when I did what you said and mentioned Lady Iris’s name, she stopped complaining.” Emma sat down on her bed and stretched her arms. “Lady Vivienne’s maid was lovely, though. She even gave me a biscuit.”

  “Well done.” Clara gestured to the nightstand between their beds, where the covered plate sat. “I hope you still have some space after that biscuit. I have something for you.”

  Emma perched on the edge of her bed with a cautious look, and Clara lifted the cloth, revealing twelve brigadeiros.

  “What are those?” The girl leaned forward. “They look like… sugary dirt balls?”

  Clara snorted. “They’re called brigadeiros. It’s a sweet. Try one.”

  Emma picked one up carefully. She examined it from multiple angles, sniffed it, then finally took a small, tentative bite.

  Her eyes went round, and she pressed her hands over her mouth and let out a squeak.

  “Clara.” Her voice was muffled. “Clara, what is this?”

  “Cocoa, sweetened milk, and butter. That’s about it.”

  “I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s so—it’s so—”

  The door to their room swung open.

  “Clara! Emma! Did you—” Iris stopped mid-stride, her nose twitching. “What is that smell?”

  “My lady,” Clara started. “I was just about to come find you. The preparations for the tea party are all in order.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very good, but what is that smell?” Iris swept past her and zeroed in on the plate. “Oh.”

  “They’re called brigadeiros, my lady. They’re a sweet treat.”

  Iris picked one up and studied it with narrowed eyes. “It looks rather plain, Clara. Is this what passes for a pastry among the commons? One could almost feel bad for them.”

  “You should try it, my lady,” said Emma. “It’s amazing.”

  Iris hesitated, then bit into it.

  At first, there was nothing. Then her squint softened and her shoulders dropped just a bit. She chewed slowly, and then—very quietly—let out a soft sound.

  “…Oh.”

  She finished the brigadeiro in two more bites, then immediately reached for a second.

  “These are extraordinary. Where did they come from? Are they from the confectioner? Why wasn’t I told about them immediately?”

  “I made them, my lady. This morning.”

  Iris paused mid-reach for a third. “You made these? Where did you learn the recipe?”

  “I…” Clara paused. She couldn’t well say she learned it with her mother if she was an orphan, at least not unless she knew exactly when Stella’s mother passed. “I invented it. When I was trying the custard tart yesterday, I had the idea to mix sweetened milk with cocoa.”

  “You invented it?” Iris examined the plate again, lips pursed in deep thought. “How many can you make by afternoon?”

  “My lady?”

  “These need to be at the tea party.” It was not a suggestion. “Can you imagine the looks on their faces when they taste something nobody else has ever savored before? When the ladies ask where it came from, and I tell them it’s a secret of House von Rhenia?” Iris clasped her hands together, and her amethyst eyes sparkled. “They’ll be talking about it for weeks. Everyone will want to know my secret.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Clara chuckled. ‘Her’ secret?

  “I suppose I could make a larger batch,” she said.

  The private tea room at Westwick Plaza was exactly the kind of room Iris looked at home in. Tall windows overlooked the hotel’s courtyard, where a small fountain sat amid flowers and trimmed bushes. The wallpaper was a tasteful cream with gold leaf accents, and the chairs were upholstered in pale green. The round table at the center had been set with a lace cloth, and on it were six sets of porcelain cups and matching plates, and a three-tiered dessert stand. On the top section, like a crown jewel, were the brigadeiros.

  Clara stood by the sideboard, ready to serve tea when the guests arrived. Next to her was Emma, who was staring intently at the door. Iris had already taken her seat, with her back straight and her legs slanted to the side.

  The first to arrive, exactly when the town bell rang to signal six o’clock, was Lady Felicity, whom Iris had annotated as a notorious gossip. She was a wiry girl with sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes.

  “Iris, darling! How good of you to organize this. I’ve been simply starving for civilized company.” She kissed the air near Iris’s cheeks.

  “Felicity, you look radiant.” Iris touched the azure piece on Felicity’s collar. “Is that a new brooch?”

  “Oh, this old thing? Mother had it sent from the capital last week.” Felicity was already eyeing the dessert stand. “What are those?”

  “All in good time, Felicity. Won’t you regale me with your undoubtedly exquisite knowledge of what’s been going on while I was away?”

  They chatted about the various happenings at Claves, most of which went over Clara’s head, and it took some time for the next guest to arrive: Lady Philippa, the one who owed Iris a favor. She was a tall, tanned girl, with her hair pulled into a bun.

  “Lady Iris. Thank you for your most gracious invitation.” She gave Iris a stiff nod.

  “Philippa, please. We’re among friends.”

  The third and fourth arrivals came together: Lady Charlotte—whose maid was secretly dating someone in Forrest’s dorm—and Lady Cecily, who was a member of the Spellweaving Club with Forrest and Viscount Reginald. Charlotte was a petite blonde who somehow still managed to look down at everyone, and the plain-faced Cecily, with her kind brown eyes and dark green hair, couldn’t be more of a contrast.

  “I have another appointment in the evening,” said Charlotte, examining her chair for dust before sitting. “I do hope you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Iris sweetly. “We’ll endeavor to fit your schedule, Charlotte.”

  The last to arrive was Lady Vivienne, Helena’s friend. The other four made sense, but Clara didn’t quite understand why Iris had invited her. She was a serious-looking girl with dark skin and braided pigtails, and she bowed as she came inside.

  “I apologize for my tardiness, Lady Iris. I was in the library and lost track of time.”

  “Of course you were, Vivienne. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Clara poured the tea, and for a few more minutes, the conversation drifted around an assortment of topics related to Claves, while the ladies drank and nibbled the pastries—though Iris hadn’t allowed them to touch the brigadeiros yet. There were complaints about professors, gossip about new couples, former couples, and Charlotte criticizing the new curtains at the dormitory; the standard fare.

  “I must say, Iris,” Felicity started, “you seem remarkably well for someone who’s gone through so much.”

  Iris set down her cup with a delicate clink and smiled. “I appreciate your concern. The trial was an ordeal, but thanks to my maid Clara, it was all resolved as it should have been.”

  “Oh?” The five girls turned their gazes to her, and Clara kept only a polite smile on her face. “Is that the famed servant they say shouted at the Pope?” asked Charlotte.

  “I’m rather curious about how that went. I would love to hear about it,” said Vivienne. Cecily nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, that’s all very interesting, but what I’d really like to hear about was the situation with Prince Lochlann. I hear he and Lady Helena have become inseparable. Is that true, Vivienne?” said Felicity.

  Vivienne drank from her teacup without answering, and Iris shot Philippa a glare.

  “That’s old news, Felicity,” said Philippa. “What I’d like to know about is Forrest Lorne. A Memory Void? At Claves? Isn’t that horrifying?”

  “I feel so terrible for him,” said Cecily.

  “I heard Professor Morris did it,” said Charlotte. “Everyone’s saying so.”

  Iris finally chimed in. “Everyone says a great many things. Most of which turn out to be nonsense. Yet we can always trust Felicity’s ears, yes?”

  Felicity’s eyes lit up at being given the spotlight. “Well,” she leaned in, “I happen to know quite a bit more than ‘everyone’. The real story isn’t about Professor Morris at all. It’s about what happened right before that.”

  Iris glared at Philippa again. A flash of fear crossed the girl’s face, then she tilted her head with just the right amount of curiosity. “Oh? I’d heard something about that, but the details were rather vague. Something about a love confession.”

  Felicity raised her chin. “Ah, but it was not just any love confession. Forrest professed his adoration for Lady Marcella. She’s in the Spellweaving Club with him.”

  Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “Marcella Skerrington? But she’s the daughter of a count, and Forrest is a commoner!”

  Cecily spoke up. “Lady Marcella and Forrest seemed quite close to each other, from what I saw. He was always helping her with her spells, and she was ever so kind to him in return.”

  “How romantic,” said Vivienne.

  Iris frowned, but said nothing.

  “Oh, poor, oblivious Vivienne,” said Felicity. She took a small bite from a scone. “I suppose Forrest must’ve been oblivious, too.”

  “Oblivious?” asked Vivienne. “Of what?”

  “Viscount Reginald Vainglory favors Lady Marcella,” explained Iris. “He’s been courting her for years. Rather unsuccessfully, one might add.”

  “The viscount is quite territorial, and there’s almost no one more influential than him on campus,” said Felicity.

  Iris cleared her throat.

  “Of course, Iris is among that select group,” Felicity added quickly.

  Clara narrowed her eyes. Back at the trial, she didn’t feel she had enough to continue pushing after the viscount, but if he and Forrest both had eyes for the same girl, wasn’t that a plausible motive? That, combined with the brooch and the missing pages…

  Iris let out a small sigh. “How distressing it must be for Reginald. To find his affections so earnestly contested, and then to be the very one to first discover his rival in such a state.”

  She’s really doing an excellent job handling these girls. It’s almost like she’s running a board meeting at the world’s pettiest corporation.

  “Viscount Vainglory found Forrest?” Cecily raised an eyebrow. “All the way at Whitmore Hall?”

  “I heard it from the good viscount himself. Apparently, he went there out of concern for Forrest’s Spellweaving Club project,” said Iris, before taking another bite of her macaron.

  “Now that is odd.” Felicity smirked, then lowered her voice. “Keep this among ourselves, but I heard from a friend of a friend that the last foolish boy who confessed to Marcella left Claves within a few short weeks of being rejected. One might notice a pattern with the current happenings.”

  Clara raised her hand to her chin.

  Charlotte shook her head slightly. “That implication strikes me as quite fanciful; I doubt the viscount would take matters into his own hands like that. And if you think about it, a Memory Void might have been a blessing, compared to House Vainglory’s wrath. At least that doesn’t ruin one’s whole family.”

  Cecily recoiled. “Don’t you think that’s too harsh? Poor Forrest was only ever a nice boy, and Viscount Vainglory may be presumptuous, but I can’t imagine him going as far as to hurt someone.”

  After that, there was an uncomfortable quiet, then conversation seemed to lull into other gossip.

  Clara stepped forward behind Iris. “My lady, shall I serve the brigadeiros?”

  “Oh, yes.” Iris’s smile turned radiant. “Ladies, you simply must try these. They are a specialty of House von Rhenia.”

  Felicity was the first to take one, naturally. She bit into it, and her eyes went wide. She pressed her fingers to her lips. Philippa tried one next, and her severe expression cracked for the first time all afternoon.

  “This is remarkable,” Charlotte admitted after sampling. “You called them… brigadeiros? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  Iris waved a hand. “It’s an original recipe, created by my household staff. You won’t find them anywhere else.”

  Cecily and Vivienne each took one. Cecily’s reaction as she bit into it was a quiet smile, and Vivienne held the treat between her fingers and studied it.

  “This is quite an interesting texture,” she said. Then she tasted it, chewing slowly. “Oh my. It’s dense, but not heavy. Is that sweetened milk I taste? How is this prepared?”

  “Vivienne, dear.” Iris tapped her chin. “I’m afraid I cannot hand out a family secret just like that.”

  “Then perhaps your cook could make me a batch next month?” asked Vivienne. “My younger sisters have a terrible sweet tooth, and their birthday party is coming up. I’ve been trying to find something special for weeks.”

  Iris sighed dramatically. “Oh, Vivienne, I do so want to help. It’s just… I feel as though we don’t know each other terribly well. You’re always busy with your studies, and when you’re not studying, you’re tutoring, and—oh, speaking of which, I heard you’ve been tutoring Lady Helena? How generous of you.”

  Ah. Clara sighed, seeing where this was going.

  “Helena missed weeks of coursework while she was indisposed,” said Vivienne cautiously. “She asked for help, and I happened to have the time.”

  “Of course. That’s very kind.” Iris stirred her tea with her spoon in slow, deliberate circles. “Though I wonder, with midterms approaching, that must be quite a burden. Tutoring another student on top of maintaining your own excellent marks.”

  Vivienne frowned. “It is time-consuming. I won’t deny that.”

  “I’m only thinking of your well-being, Vivienne. You’re brilliant, but even brilliance has its limits. And Helena does have other options—surely the Crown Prince could arrange a tutor, for example.”

  The other girls exchanged looks.

  “I do spend a great deal of time tutoring,” Vivienne admitted. “And I suppose I would benefit from devoting more hours to my own studies.”

  “Well, then.” Iris plucked a brigadeiro and placed it on the edge of Vivienne’s plate. “Perhaps it’s time to let Helena find her own footing. You’re competing for top marks, Vivienne. That’s worth prioritizing.”

  She looked at the brigadeiro, then at Iris. Then she slowly nodded. “You make a fair point; I will let Helena know I must focus on myself until the midterms.” She paused. “And you’ll get them ready for my sisters’ party?”

  “Them?” Iris tilted her head. “Oh! The brigadeiros. I had almost forgotten about that. Yes, I would never deny my assistance to a dear friend. I shall have a large batch sent over ahead of the party. Let me know when you have the dates—and when you serve them, make sure to mention that they came from Iris von Rhenia. Oh ho ho!”

  Whatever one may say about her morals, this girl understands leverage.

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