flown too close to the sun. And by sun, she meant dulce de leche. And by flown too close, she meant tried to make. The problem was, Rosaline had watched enough of the show to know she needed an arc. But she also knew that some arcs were very, very short. And the shortest was always “was mediocre, fucked up, went out.” And then you added another item to the long list of failures your parents would never let you forget.
The judges, at least, were fairly kind to her, but in some ways, that made it worse because it was the sort of kindness that said This has gone so badly that the best thing for everyone is if we pretend it didn’t happen. Her chicken and tarragon, at least, had been passable—although Rosaline was convinced that Marianne Wolvercote liked it only because of the sherry—but the dulce de leche was not dulce de leche. It was a kind of milky sauce drizzled over pies that, thanks to the amount of time she’d spent crying and stirring, were almost inedibly undercooked.
Which left Rosaline to trudge back to her seat and face the depressing reality that her survival now depended entirely on someone messing up even worse than she had.
Alain, needless to say, had not messed up at all, presenting his own chicken and tarragon pies, with their wild gooseberry and custard companions, on a hand-carved wooden display stand. And nearly everybody else had produced some version of fine, with Harry’s take on a traditional minced beef pie, mash and liquor being praised for its unexpectedly delicate take on a working-class staple. That just left Anvita and Florian, neither of whom Rosaline wanted to go home either.
Florian had made miniature rainbow pies in an attempt to redeem himself from his disastrous blind bake. Unfortunately, when Marianne sliced one deftly in two, they proved to be less rainbow and more a blob of vegetables in a pastry case.
“Oh my,” he observed as an undifferentiated splodgy mass of spinach and peppers oozed onto the plate, “that hasn’t worked at all, has it?”
Wilfred Honey sorted through the mess looking for something to praise. “Your crust is okay.”
“And the principle was commendable,” added Marianne Wolvercote. Before turning to his sweet offering with a frown. “Unfortunately, these jam tarts are, as the name suggests, tarts rather than pies.”
Wilfred Honey helped himself to a mouthful. “They’re right tasty, though. And who doesn’t love a jam tart?”
“I don’t,” returned Marianne Wolvercote, “on a pie challenge.”
They didn’t quite play the funeral march as Florian carried his oozy rainbow pies and disqualified tarts back to his workstation, but they may as well have. And Rosaline sat there, stewing in a mess of guilt, hope, and anxiety about as well mixed as her dulce de leche.
Next came Anvita, with her palak paneer savoury and spiced apple sweet.
“Now that,” declared Marianne Wolvercote, “is what I call a pie: rich, flaky pastry, just the right thickness, wonderful South Asian flavours, and a fine balance of textures. It’s very easy for spinach to become soggy and unappealing, and this is neither. Very well done.”
“As for the sweet,” continued Wilfred Honey, “you really get all the spices coming through, and it goes beautifully with that sharp green apple. Lovely.”
Anvita beamed. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” And half skipped back to her workstation.
From there followed the usual period of sitting around, feeling restless and useless, while the judges decided who lived to bake another day and who was cast by the culinary wayside. This week, there was actually some uncertainty to it. For a start, no one had told Marianne Wolvercote and Wilfred Honey to go fuck themselves, so it was a lot less clear-cut who was going home. Florian seemed to be most obviously in danger, but after her disaster de leche, Rosaline felt like she was standing out for all the wrong reasons.
After what could have been forever, but probably wasn’t more than an hour or so, the judges returned, the contestants were arranged in the semicircle of fate, and Grace Forsythe stepped forward.
“So, my little pastry protégés, it is time for the moment of truth. And we begin, as always, by celebrating the achievements of this week’s winner. It’s someone whose St. Clement’s pie still owes us five farthings, but whose sweet pie was the apple of our eye and whose spectacular spicing stole the show. I speak, of course, of Anvita.”
Anvita made the obligatory face of surprise and delight. And she