“No, they ain’t. They said do three lots of twelve and that’s me lot of twelve.”

Grace Forsythe pressed a hand to her already be-crumbed lips. “Ooofmugoomf Mmfohsorry.”

“Mate, did you eat my twelfth cookie?”

“Oh my God, I did. And I have to tell you, it was delicious.”

“That’s not helping me. I’m going to go into the judging a man down. It’s gonna wreck my formation and there ain’t nobody on the subs bench.”

“And I feel”—Grace Forsythe struck a tragedian’s pose—“truly terrible. I think I was overwhelmed by your gooey succulence and lost all control of my mouth.”

Harry made a gesture of surrender. “It’s fine. I’m just going to dip my Hobnobs.”

“And I,” announced Grace Forsythe, “shall retreat to a distance at which I can do no further harm.” Something on Josie’s bench caught her eye. “Oh I say, is that a Garibaldi?”

Claudia was up first for judging, with a selection of homemade Oreos—or rather Oreo-like biscuits—in different flavours, served with a glass of milk. The judges thought it was too simple because, well, it was. Anvita and Nora had both done better, Anvita, as usual, being praised for her flavours and Nora’s rationing-era biscuits admired for their theme.

When Rosaline’s turn came up, she found her earlier confidence had evaporated like a splash of water in a stir-fry. She’d been watching the show for a long time and seen far too many people admitting shyly to the camera that they had a good feeling or thought they’d nailed it two seconds before they served up the biggest disaster of the series.

“So, um,” she said when she finally reached the front of the ballroom, “I’ve made a series of traditional family favourites reinterpreted with, um, booze. So there’s brown butter shortbread with Bailey’s—”

“Sorry.” Colin Thrimp darted briefly forward. “Can we have that without the brand name?”

Rosaline took a deep breath. “So I’ve got brown butter shortbread with an Irish crème liqueur, which is sort of my take on a custard cream. Then I’ve got black-currant jammy dodgers with raspberry liqueur. And, finally, cinnamon brandy snaps with triple sec Chantilly cream.”

Marianne Wolvercote pounced on a jammy dodger. “I do like that. I like that a lot.”

She seemed to have nothing further to add. Which Rosaline took as a good sign.

“I was a bit uncertain,” added Wilfred Honey, “because for me a biscuit should feel like home. Not like the pub. But actually you got the balance really nice. And the brandy snaps remind me of my mam.”

“Big drinker, was she?” asked Grace Forsythe.

Wilfred Honey twinkled. “Well, who don’t like a snifter of an evening?”

They both glanced at Marianne Wolvercote for comment, but she was too busy trying the shortbread.

Josie and Alain followed, Josie’s biscuity reimaginings of classic desserts, including a treacle toffee macaron and a key lime digestive, hadn’t quite worked but were praised for their ambition; and Alain, having preempted any possible concerns about his narrative, received good comments on his flavours and the quality of his bake. Finally, Harry came forward with his two and eleven-twelfths dozen childhood-memory-inspired biscuits.

“Mea culpa,” said Grace Forsythe, literally putting her hands up, “bit of a snafu. Someone, who shall remain nameless, but was me, may have inadvertently eaten one of Harry’s cookies.”

Wilfred Honey picked up one of the insufficiently numerate biscuits. “Well, we can’t hold you accountable for random acts of Forsythe, so what have we got here.”

“I thought I’d do”—Harry looked nervously from Wilfred to Marianne to Grace back to Wilfred—“one biscuit for each of my three sisters. So those are Toll House cookies ’cos my sister Ashley had a holiday in America and really liked ’em and now she eats ’em whenever she can. And those are party rings because Sam’s got kids so they always have party rings in the house left over from birthdays and stuff. And that one there’s a chocolate Hobnob—”

“Chocolate oat biscuit,” put in Colin Thrimp.

“It’s a bloody Hobnob, mate. Everyone knows it’s a Hobnob.”

“Because of the unique way the BBC is funded, we aren’t allowed to broadcast this unless you say oat biscuit.”

Clearly feeling either guilty or like she wanted to annoy the production company, Grace Forsythe offered, “What if I say, other oat biscuits are available?”

“And that one there,” said Harry, pointing, “is a chocolate . . . oat biscuit. Because my sister Heather is a nurse and that’s pretty much all she can eat on her breaks.”

Wilfred Honey gave one of his most grandfatherly smiles. “Well, I think your sisters can be very proud. Because these taste lovely.”

It wasn’t quite a “by ’eck,” but it was still pretty good.

“What impresses me,” added Marianne Wolvercote, “is that these are surprisingly refined, given their inspiration.”

Harry blinked. “You what?”

“The feathering on the party rings is actually rather neatly done. And your chocolate work is very precise.”

He returned to his stool, looking baffled but pleased.

Rosaline’s brain was in a bit of a whirl as they were herded outside for another round of interviews. For the first time since week one, she thought she might be in the running and that was dangerous. Emotionally, because she’d never been an “every setback is an opportunity” type of person. And practically, because she didn’t want to be all Yes, I’m amazing and have done amazing on national television, only to find out she was actually mediocre and had done mediocre. Yet again.

Back in the ballroom, they were once more gathered together like the suspects at the end of a Poirot, with Rosaline feeling about as anxious as if she’d murdered her great-aunt with a silver-plated poniard and now had a moustachioed Belgian descending upon her.

Harry nudged her with his elbow. “Reckon you got this, mate.”

“And now my little ginger nuts,” began Grace Forsythe, “it is time to lower the digestive of eternity into the coffee cup of fate. Which is to say, the results are in. And I am delighted to announce that our winner this week is someone whose nankhatai were nankhatastic, whose brandy had exactly the right amount of snap, and who, most importantly, got us all pleasantly tipsy. That’s right, it’s Rosaline.”