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Peggy dashes to the kitchen for a glass of water, I assume, and I hurry over to Mrs. Sharpe in hopes of helping. My focus skitters from her to the plate still clutched in her hand, and—with a sickening thud in my heart—I suspect she’s choking on a shred of coconut.

I snatch the plate and grab her around the waist. I’d been taught the maneuver while working in a sweets shop in Southwark a few years ago. The owner made us all learn what to do for choking because at least one kid gagged while gobbling down hard candy each month. I’m about to yank Mrs. Sharpe hard against me by the waist when another bit of real-life training kicks in.

At a particularly nasty bit of choking on beef stew at the boardinghouse, Lottie warned us all away from helping Susan. “Never you mind what your boss told you.” She raised a brow at me. “If Sue’s still coughing and breathing, she’s getting air. Your meddling will only make it worse. Let her work it out until she can’t.”

We all sat in tense silence, and Susan, part terrified and part furious, turned slightly blue. But Lottie was spot on in the end. After a few more seconds of gasping and gagging, Susan was right as rain.

So even though Mrs. Sharpe is making dreadful noises with all her gulping and gurgling, she is definitely pulling in air. I step back, trusting—with prayers racing to heaven—that Lottie was as wise as I came to believe.

Peggy returns with the glass of water just as Mrs. Sharpe’s coughing quiets. She yanks the water from Peggy’s hand and splashes a good half of it across her blouse. She gulps the last bit so rapidly, a river of droplets runs down the silk to join the puddle. Her eyes, still bulging and red, scan the room, and I feel rather than see each woman step back. Her gaze lands on me.

“What did you do to that cake?” she barks. Her hoarseness rather than her volume gives her voice a brusque quality.

My hand flutters to my neck, and all I can think of is how much I hate that gesture. My mum’s hand, seemingly of its own accord, often did that when she felt incapable of handling something. It signaled her capitulating, giving in, receding, and leaving me alone—whether I was six when my dad effectively left us, eleven when I was sent away to the countryside, or seventeen when I returned to London and Mum lay dying.

I drop my hand and straighten my spine. “I followed the recipe precisely. Good Housekeeping promised it was a winner. It’s Princess Elizabeth’s favorite,” I say again, gesturing to the half still-beautiful cake sitting atop Mrs. Hastings’s rose-patterned platter. I reach for an untouched slice and examine it. “You must have choked upon a bit of coconut.”

“I did not,” she sputters.

“But I truly did everything right. Each and every step in order, and there were over twenty. All written out, right in the magazine.”

And, from the looks of it, I had followed all the steps. The cake is snow white and moist, if not a touch dense, and the icing—that’s where most of the icing sugar and all the shop’s tinned coconut went—lifts like snowy peaks with enough volume and texture to hold up the coconut shavings Mrs. Hastings sprinkled across the top for decoration.

I glance to Peggy for permission, as it’s her birthday cake, then take a large bite. I close my lips around the fork, and before I can even press my tongue against it, a sharp acridness fills my mouth. My throat convulses, but I refuse to cough. I clamp my lips tight and press my palm to my mouth. It’s no use. The pressure builds and I sneeze.

Cake pops out of my nose!

White bits of cake spray across the table and onto both Mrs. Sharpe and Lady Marchmont. I snatch up a napkin and swipe at my mouth. “I’m so sorry—” I step towards Lady Marchmont but stop just short of smearing cake onto her coat. “I don’t understand what went wrong.”

But I do. Just like the shortbread. Salt! Lots and lots of salt!

Mrs. Sharpe glowers at me. Mrs. Wynn appears horrified. Mrs. Barker has stepped back so far I can’t read her countenance. But Lady Marchmont seems vaguely amused. She picks up a napkin and dots at the specks of cake on her shoulder. She says nothing. No one does. We all stare at one another until I stammer out another apology.

That’s when Peggy steps forward. “Please go on with your meeting. Just leave this mess and I’ll clean it up later.”

“Yes, Sylvia, let’s do. You’ll be alright, dear.” Lady Marchmont steps towards the row of chairs.

But Mrs. Sharpe won’t follow her. She won’t be placated. She presses a hand to her soaked blouse. Her head bobs up again, and I catch a fleeting look of embarrassment and humiliation before her aspect hardens to stone.

I reach towards her. “I am so very sorry, Mrs. Sharpe. If there is anything—”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t touch me.” She spins on Lady Marchmont and the other ladies. “I cancel this meeting. If we’re behind in planning, it won’t be my fault.” With that she strides back through the parish hall to the office, and we all hear the outer door slam shut.

Mrs. Wynn and Mrs. Barker glare at me, then silently trail after Mrs. Sharpe.

Lady Marchmont walks over to Peggy and me. “Peggy, dear, I’ll see you for next week’s meeting, but not on Sunday. I’ll be in town this weekend.”

She waggles a finger at the table and my beautiful-looking-if-not-tasting cake. “And while I’m curious about that cake, I don’t think I’ll try it.” She lifts a smile at me and walks—she even walks elegantly—from the room.

I drop into the chair across from Peggy’s desk. She walks to the window and peers out. “A few other committee members have just arrived, but Lady Marchmont is sending them away.”

I twist towards her. “Is anyone coming inside?”

She turns back to me and bursts out laughing. She pushes out a “no” in the midst of it.

I sit in shock, with an odd burning in my throat and my mouth that’s still producing an amazing amount of saliva. “I’m so sorry.”

My mind retraces yesterday afternoon. I recall reading each step, attending to each detail, just so another silly mix-up wouldn’t occur. Then my conscience pricks at me. Each detail? While adding ingredients, I kept track of life outside my window. I spied Charlie and Chief Constable Wilmot striding down High Street. I noted Mrs. Westing pushing her pram into the green.