Page 110 of Baking and Angels

“Those look beautiful,” the cameraman recording him noted in a familiardry voice.

“Yeah, smells good, too,” noted the mic man beside him.

They were Eleanor’s pair, Peterand Pedro.

Once Rafferty set the cookies on the cooling rack, however, they both turned without further comment to go back to Eleanor’s station. Each pair of tables had a cameraman and a mic guy. These two were apparently his to share with Eleanor. While they had been making sure to take footage of the important steps to both their processes, evidently following a shot list required by the production company, they still focused more on Eleanor’screations.

Even without the demonic thumb weight on her scale, Eleanor’s creations were definitely something to contend with. She made macarons, at least three different flavors indicated by their colors. She was in the process of setting them up on a stand shaped like a cascadingwaterfall.

Rafferty glanced up at the judging tables, which were taking completed creations as they came. None looked as beautiful or artistic asEleanor’s.

For himself, he didn’t bother doing anything so fancy. Instead, he brushed a simple glaze over his cookies, zigzagging slashes of the white paste, while brewing some herbal tea. When it was all ready, he intended to pour the tea into a cup in the middle of the plate and set the cookies around at a slant with a sprig of holly as a garnish. The whole look was cozyand homey.

Yet, despite all this, he didn’t feel cozy or homey. When he wasn’t doing the next step, his eyes scanned everywhere, looking for a glimpseof Helena.

Heneededto talk to her.

Why was she making him wait so long?

No torture he had ever endured felt as bad as this.

“Going for a cottagecore look, I see,” Eleanor noted, coming back over, while the double P’s moved in to take final footage of her plating.

“Come to spit on them?” he asked, the barb slipping out before he could think better of it. His worry for Helena had bled through his tongue.

Eleanor closed and opened her eyes slowly, like a cat who couldn’t be bothered, then thrust out one of her macarons to him. He wasn’t sure what to make of the offering and didn’t get a chance to do more than take it before a helper suddenlyappeared.

“Are you two ready to present your entries?” they asked, marking them off on a clipboard. The appearance was very suspect.

Probably trying to head off more issues between us,he thought.

“Yes, yes, let’s hurry up,” Eleanor said, swirling back to pick up her macaron design, all her focus fixed on not destroying her presentation in transit.

“Are you ready, chef?” the helper repeated, eyeing the plated cookies and the empty cups waiting for tea.

“I have been expecting to speak to Ms. Rhodes, do you know when I can see her?” he asked again, even as he reached for his steeped teapot, pouring a steaming golden-brown stream intoeach cup.

The helper’s smile slipped. “Uh, I’m sorry. I will check while you’re doing your presentation. I’m sure she just got held up,” they said as they reached for the walkie at their side.

Rafferty didn’t like it, but he saw little choice but to let this inefficient system work. The last thing he wanted to do was cause unnecessary trouble for Helena ather event.

Following Eleanor up to the judge’s table on the stage, he waited as she presented her creation, then served each from it.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” one gruff judge said with a deep voice despite his overly thin frame. He had a scarf on despite the warmth in the room and glasses that seemed more an accessory than a need. He whipped them off as he spoke. “This is sophistication and taste all in one simpledessert.”

“And the presentation is delightfully whimsical,” a woman said, holding her manicured fingers over her mouth as she chewedand spoke.

“I would be proud to have this served from my own kitchen,” another man said, dressed in chef’s whites with a very clean and jaunty kerchief tied around his neck and no toque onhis head.

They heaped more praise on Eleanor’s entry, which didn’t surprise Rafferty inthe least.

Finally, he got the signal to step up and set his own tray on the table. He then slid a plate to each of the judges and stepped back.

All three stared at his offering for a full three seconds before reacting at all.

“What in the world is this? You call this a presentation?” the glasses and scarf guy said, turning the plate this wayand that.

“I almost feel insulted looking at it,” the chef declared. “You do realize this is a competition of some of the best pâtisseries in the city, doyou not?”

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