![]() ![]() She had boiled and candied the delicate strips of lemon peel and ground sugar crystals into a fine powder for garnish. She had glazed the crust and crimped the edges like a lace doily. Five hours of weighing the butter and sugar and flour, of mixing and kneading and rolling the dough, of whisking and simmering and straining the egg yolks and lemon juice until they were thick and creamy and the color of buttercups. The aromas of sweet citrus and buttery, flaky crust curled beneath her nose. Setting the towels aside, she picked through the curled, sugared lemon peels laid out on parchment and arranged them like rose blossoms on the tarts, settling each strip into the still-warm center. ![]() The tarts trembled for a moment more before falling still, flawless and gleaming. ![]() She refused to take her eyes from the tarts as she padded across the kitchen floor until the tray’s edge landed on the baker’s table with a satisfying thump. The tarts’ sunshine filling quivered, as if glad to be freed from the stone chamber.Ĭath held the tray with the same reverence one might reserve for the King’s crown. She reached her towel-wrapped hands into the oven, ignoring the heat that enveloped her arms and pressed against her cheeks, and lifted the tray from the hearth. ![]() THREE LUSCIOUS LEMON TARTS glistened up at Catherine. ![]()
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