“Oh no,” cried Anvita. “This is a caketastrophe.”

Grace Forsythe tried to give her a reassuring look from the opposite side of a cake that was rapidly turning into a landslide. “It’s fine. I’ll just stand here holding it for the rest of my life. You can tell the judges I’m an especially elaborate fondant decoration. Which, now I think about it, is what my ex-girlfriend used to call me.”

“Five seconds,” called Marianne Wolvercote.

The entire top tier of Anvita’s baketacular swan-dived to the floor with a wet little splat.

“And time. Step away from your bakes.” Marianne Wolvercote shot a sharp look across the ballroom. “That includes you, Grace.”

“I’m not doing anything,” protested Grace Forsythe. “I’m resting my hands.”

“Please do as she says.” That was Colin Thrimp, fingers to his headset as usual. “And don’t shoot any messengers, but Jennifer asks me to remind you that it’s not too late to replace you with, and I’m sorry, these are Jennifer’s words, ‘some other cosy-voiced shitstain people vaguely remember from the ’90s.’”

Grace Forsythe snorted. “We both know that’s an empty threat. All the other cosy-voiced shitstains from the ’90s are either off their face on cocaine, in rehab, doing documentaries about getting off their faces on cocaine and going to rehab, or far too busy banging their much younger spouses.”

“It’s all right,” said Anvita. “I’m prepared. Let her die.”

“Anvita’s cake.” Grace Forsythe gazed solemnly at what was left of it. “In the short time we knew you, we loved a lifetime’s worth.”

She stepped back. And the whole thing slumped sideways like an Old West gunslinger with a bullet in the chest.

“This”—apparently the drama had been sufficient to summon Jennifer herself from wherever she’d been lurking during filming—“is going to get us renewed for another two series at least. I fucking love it.”

They arranged for Anvita to go first for judging and kept their comments short and positive. Because there was no need to go into detail when the feedback was “This would have been fine except it all fell on the floor.”

Alain was next, with an elegant and very green offering, decorated with dark chocolate, and dark chocolate macarons.

“There’s no denying,” said Wilfred Honey, having cut a perfect slice out of Alain’s perfect cake, “you can bake. You’ve got three even layers with a good filling of buttercream between them, and the flavours are balanced nicely. But it’s very”—and here he made a sad Granddad gesture—“expected. When we set this challenge, we were hoping to see a little more of who you are: and all you’ve shown us is what you can do.”

“I see.” Alain was frowning in a way that Rosaline had learned meant he was pissed off and trying not to show it. “Thank you.”

“Next week, if you get through,” continued Wilfred Honey, maintaining the polite fiction that Anvita wasn’t definitely going home, “try to have some fun wi’ it.”

“For my part,” added Marianne Wolvercote, “I’m just sick to the back teeth of matcha.”

And since she seemed to have nothing further to add, Alain was obliged to pick up his cake and return to his seat.

Then it was Rosaline, who, if she said so herself, had done a pretty good job. Assuming the judges weren’t sticklers for astronomical accuracy, and it didn’t taste like arse, she was hoping that between this and her adequate performance in the blind bake she might be able to go home with the W. And then she felt bad for thinking about the W at all when they were probably losing Anvita.

“Now this,” observed Marianne Wolvercote, “is very pretty.”

“The marbling’s come out well,” added Wilfred Honey. “And I like you’ve told a story with it.”

Honestly, the story was mostly “It’s space,” but Rosaline would take it.

Marianne Wolvercote plucked a macaron planet from the top. “Good, even bake on the macaron.” She nibbled it. “Very light, which is what we want. Just the right level of chew.”

“And the cake’s nice too.” Wilfred Honey had cut himself a piece and was running a fork against the sponge to test the texture. “This has been a very good week for you, Rosaline.” He took a mouthful. “It’s got a nice rich, chocolatey flavour—and not too much buttercream. I think I could have a second piece of that.”

It wasn’t quite a “By ’eck, it’s gorgeous,” but it was still high praise.

Glowing but trying not to do it in a smug way, Rosaline went back to her seat, passing Harry on the way.

“So this,” said Harry, setting down his creation, “is a mermaid cake what I made for my nieces. Only they’re a bit of sick of it now on account of how I made six of ’em.”

The cake in question was a rich opalescent blue, with marbling that, Rosaline had to admit, had come out better than hers. The surface was decorated with carefully piped seashells and barnacles, and the top with a treasure trove of macaron oysters, tiny white chocolate pearls gleaming inside them. A fondant mermaid was diving into the top of the cake, leaving only her beautifully sculpted tail visible, and conveniently sparing Harry the embarrassment of having to create beautifully sculpted breasts.

“This is rather charming,” said Marianne Wolvercote, with the air of someone who resented being charmed. “I’m not normally a fan of whimsy, but I think it works. And you’ve shown a real eye for presentation here.”

“It looks smashing,” declared Wilfred Honey. “And the way you’ve used the macarons as little seashells is bloody marvellous. Of course, what really matters is what it tastes like.”

Rationally, Rosaline knew she should be hoping it was over-baked, or soggy, or close-textured, or the macarons would have air bubbles in them, but she . . . couldn’t. Any more than she could have celebrated Anvita’s cake falling over.

Wilfred Honey popped a forkful of Harry’s vanilla sponge into his mouth. “By ’eck, it’s lovely. So light. You’ve got a delicate touch for a big lad.”

“The macarons are exceptional as well,” chimed in Marianne Wolvercote. “The traditionalist in me would have preferred them to have a slightly more conventional presentation, but the whole thing has come together so well that I can’t hold it against you.”