Pierre Praline wanted his cake on the royal table. He had built the mechanism for it. Five tiers, all clockwork, gears turning under buttercream. A gear no bigger than his thumbnail drove the third tier. When he wound the spring, the whole cake ticked and chimed and kept perfect time. He had ruined fourteen cakes to learn this. The fifteenth worked for three seconds before it fell. But now the machine ran clean. The Grand Exhibition judged at noon, and the winner served the palace. He cut a slice and tasted it. Then he set down his fork. The cake looked like a marvel and tasted like nothing. Plain vanilla. Any bakery on any corner made this. The judges would watch the gears turn, take one bite, and move on. A moving cake was a trick. A royal cake needed a flavor no one could forget. Pierre pulled out his recipe box. He shuffled the cards. Chocolate. Almond honey. Velvet caramel. He knew each one. Each one was fine. None was worth a crown. He had hours left and no new idea. The bell over his door rang. Gwendolyn Gobstopper came in fast, already talking. She owned the candy shop and never waited for hello. She pressed a small sweet into his palm before he could speak. "Taste it," she said. "Just taste it." He put it in his mouth. Bright citrus filled his tongue, sharp and sudden. He blinked. "That one was plain lemon yesterday," Gwendolyn said. She sat on his flour barrel. Her voice slowed. "It turned overnight. In the jar. I didn't add a thing." She looked at the candy in his hand like it might do it again. "My candies are changing, Pierre. I don't know into what." Pierre stared at the sweet. An idea moved in him. "Say that again. It changed on its own?" "Sharper every hour." He grabbed the candy and dropped it in a bowl. He crushed it fine. Then he folded the powder into his fresh batter and slid the pan into the oven. Gwendolyn leaned close, grinning now, saying nothing, letting him work. The cake came out warm. Pierre cut it and tasted. The citrus had bloomed in the crumb, bright and strange, unlike any bakery flavor in the city. He laughed out loud. "That," he said, "is a royal flavor." Gwendolyn hugged him, then stepped back. Her smile thinned. "Pierre. You should know. If it changes in my jar, it might change in your cake too. I don't know how far it goes." He looked at the slice in his hand. The flavor was perfect right now. But he had one batch, one cake, and no idea what it would taste like by noon. He wiped his hands and reached for the mixing bowl again.