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It was with little hesitation the Confectioner filled a dozen cupcakes with cyanide infused buttercream. The piping bag gave way to the strength of the man’s fists as the scent of the darkest chocolate polluted the air; he scratched his nose. Sharp against the staleness was the combination of lush cocoa and bitter poison in the confinements of the kitchen. Had his daughter lived past twenty, she would have taken over the shop. Had his daughter lived past two, he would be a stranger to that sense of familiar despair beyond the Devil’s most outlandish fantasies. Ping! The Confectioner’s head shot straight up at the sound of the front door opening whilst beads of sweat traced the shape of his ageing beard. “Who is that?” his voice trembled with the question
as he made an effort to steady his tone.

“It’s only Eliza, sir. I came to check on the cupcakes I ordered.” A woman called over to reach the old man, who threw his hand to flush the light.

“Of course, I – one moment, please!” Eliza Peatry, child of the brother he had long come to despise, decked in ivory lace and with the palest locks of hair, stood centre of the chequered tile in the storefront, which became a clearer vision to the man as he flew through the kitchen door.

Though the Confectioner had several years on his sibling, his parent’s lack of support in his career in comparison to the bliss surrounding his brother’s image, what with a position in Parliament, earned him his share of their wealth whilst the Confectioner was left with a family to feed.

“How many guests is your father having for his birthday dinner this year, girl?” scoffed the Confectioner. Eliza shifted her weight as though she were sculpted marble at the hands of Michelangelo.

“Fewer than last year, Uncle.” Another scoff. Crystal blue eyes followed each step the Confectioner took toward her.

“One hour. The cakes will be ready in one hour,” grimacing, Eliza’s eyes met his. “Then, I don’t want to hear from you or your father until this time next year.” Dipping her chin, she turned and shuffled through the door.

The velvety cushion of the nearest stool sank with the weight of the Confectioner’s exasperation with increasingly rapid breaths escalating up his throat. His brother’s birthday meant the anniversary of his daughter’s death. Ruby had been so young; it felt as though he’d been robbed of fatherhood in its entirety. With the whistle of a gail outside, the man rested his cheek on cusped and withered knuckles before eyeing the flashes of yellow and red dancing underneath a fresh loaf of bread within the wooden stove, which appeared through the glass of the kitchen door. Some nights, sleep transported him back nineteen years ago to Peatry Manor again.

On his child’s last day, the Confectioner, his wife, and naturally, Ruby, gathered in the heart of his brother’s inheritance on the eve of his birthday. Hollowed shadows traced the faces of the family as they enclosed a lavish, glowing cake. The brothers’ relationship had soured following the line drawn by the late Peatry’s will upon their passing years prior, but this was no basis on which they saw fit to cancel celebrations. Eliza, merely three years old, and Ruby a few months short, hobbled over chilled tiles, clinging to the legs of a mahogany table and tugging on its cloth. The fireplace, lit within peripheral sight, hissed rabidly beneath conversation.

“The china plates, brother?” An earnest nod was given as the Confectioner rose promptly to retrieve them. Making for the cupboards he had grown stealing cookies from, the Confectioner took note of a sudden stillness just seconds before the eruption. Without warning, the sound of his daughter’s scream rang shrilly and bounced off the walls and the numbing scent of smoke whisked around the corner. The Confectioner felt his feet move before he’d thought to do so, drawing himself toward the apparent emergency. Flames draped the manor’s majesty whilst the man caught sight of a person’s silhouette. Scanning the room for Ruby and his wife, the Confectioner started toward his brother and the pair tumbled outside with clouded lungs. The silken sleeves of his wife’s blouse found him and held him tightly. The Confectioner, sighing with relief, gazed into his wife’s eyes only to detect distress.

“Ruby’s not with you?” His head snapped back toward the manor, which found itself in the company of his brother once more with another brooding nod in his direction. The couple watched Peatry Manor burn to the ground as thick, black ashes coated the courtyard. Clutching one another desperately whilst Eliza ignorantly pressed her tiny hands into the soot, the Confectioner and his wife gaped as his brother emerged from the shambles and dust holding not their daughter, but a safe containing his most valuable possessions.

Inside the flames the Confectioner presently found limited solace, for it was within the depths of a collection his child was engulfed during her final moments. Gazing into their luminance felt as close to hugging Ruby as physically possible, which simultaneously broke and replenished his heart. Despite envisioning her red curls framing the bright smile she carried, the Confectioner was quick to madden himself each time he paid mind to the fire. The reminder only enhanced struggle to absolve his brother’s betrayal so many years later.

The Confectioner detected his wife’s desperation for a child months following the fire, but with age, he was unable to provide one himself. It wasn’t long before she had left for his wealthier sibling, with whom she could also assume the role of “mother”. Now, alone in his shop, he worked daily through the year to serve customers as they bustled about, ordering treats for their families, enjoying their lives as he lived to contemplate purpose and time. The bread finished baking whilst the man organised his brother’s cupcakes in the largest box he stocked, and placed them on the front counter. Cardboard sliced his finger as he reached in and selected one. He would whip yellow frosting every year. Yellow was Ruby’s favourite colour. The buttercream was like velvet against his tongue and he closed his eyes to savour the texture before collapsing to the floor. An hour had passed since his niece had left, at which point the door opened a second time. As the rise and fall of his chest over the ceramic diminished, the Confectioner found the light of the sky and the figure of a young girl.

“Sir?” His eyes, though blurred, widened to glimpse Eliza as they instead fell onto a face framed with red curls.