I tilt the box in my hands and peer at the gelatinous jewels. My sugared heart quickens; the marmalade, still warm from its pot, brings promise of greater reward. Word had come, Her Majesty was so taken with my first offering, it was all but gone in three moons. I cling to it, as a chancer who throws the last dice. So, a babe may one day soon be blessed upon her, and with it my name will blaze. I’d begun with almonds from sun-lit groves, blanched and beaten into a creamy mound. Then sugar, more than a poorer coffer would bear. Simmering, simmering, boiling; the popping bubbles sweetened my nose. Next, sea holly, shorn of its amethyst bloom; plucked from a distant shore where the north salt-wind blows. This, it is said, the most potent ingredient of all. Hair wisps clung to my brow as I took orange peel and breathed its colour. Then quince, fragrant of late summer orchards. To the amber liquid I’d added musk in rosewater, and ambergris, born from the mysterious seas. I am just as an alchemist, whose tonic is honed with every turn of the ladle. Then cinnamon, grown beneath sultry skies. A sprinkle of ginger which blotted my fingers with aromatic hues. Lastly, mace and cloves, and a little time for the whole to blend. With one trembling hand I take a spoon to taste; perfection, not one drop under, is demanded of me again. Golden flavours surge on my tongue and, placing the box to rest, my thoughts settle. Those less exquisite I store aside, but leave not to waste; my slow-souring heart yearns for the same end. And I have not so many seasons left as our good Queen, for nature’s fortune to find me. --- Christine Collinson is a prize-winning historical fiction author. Her debut flash collection was published in 2023 and in the same year she won Aspects of History Magazine's Short Story Award.