Chapter 164: The Smell of Victory

NORA’S POV

Mom didn’t flinch under the bright television lights.

She calmly smoothed her hands over her clean white apron, looked right into the camera lens, and offered the reporter a warm, steady smile.

"The other chefs chose their convection ovens because they specialize in modern French pastries, mousses, and delicate creams," Mom said in a clear voice. "Every station has the option, but for true artisan sourdough, nothing compares to baking directly on natural volcanic stone. My late husband always said stone gives bread its soul. We came here to honor thirty years of his craft."

The reporter smiled, clearly touched by Mom’s poise. "A beautiful tribute, Mrs. Bennett. Best of luck to Sugar and Spice!"

The camera swung away, moving on to Station Five.

Up in the front row of the spectator gallery, Bear pumped his fist in the air, grinning ear to ear.

"Nailed it, Mom," I whispered, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

"Your father would have said the exact same thing," Mom murmured, a soft shine in her eyes before she clapped her hands together. "Now, let’s get back to work. Those frangipane crowns aren’t going to braid themselves."

By nine-thirty, the first fermentation cycle finished.

Knox slid open the warm proofing drawers, lifting the proofing bowls. The brioche dough had risen into pillowy, golden clouds, rich with butter and our active starter.

I turned the dough out onto our floured prep table.

Using my rolling pin, I rolled the dough into smooth, wide rectangles. Mom spread our rich almond frangipane paste evenly across the surface, dusting it with ground cardamom and cinnamon.

Working together, we rolled the dough into tight cylinders, sliced them down the center, and braided the exposed layers into six symmetrical, circular crowns.

"Look at those layers," Knox said, leaning in to inspect the braided dough. "Clean and tight."

"That’s the butter lamination," I explained, carefully lifting each crown onto a parchment-lined baking peel. "When that hits the hot stone, the moisture in the butter turns to steam and puffs the layers apart."

Beside us, Mom portioned the cranberry-birch dough on the digital scale, cutting exact four-ounce pieces.

Together, we cupped our palms over the dough balls, rolling them in tight circles against the wooden table to create smooth surface tension. The dark red cranberries poked through the creamy dough like little rubies, smelling rich and earthy from the birch syrup reduction.

By ten-forty-five, the massive digital clocks above the stage read 01:15:00.

"Ovens are ready," Knox announced, tapping the temperature gauge on Station Six. "Stone deck is holding steady at four hundred and seventy-five degrees."

"Time to bake," I said, a rush of pure adrenaline surging through my blood.

I grabbed my wooden baker’s blade. With quick, confident cuts, I sliced crescent moons into each dough roll. The dough opened right up, showing its light, airy middle.

Knox gripped the long handle of the wooden peel, sliding the first batch of rolls straight onto the lower stone deck.

I pulled the heavy brass lever on the side of the oven.

A loud, pressurized hiss echoed through our station as clouds of hot steam sprayed across the blazing volcanic stone. The steam trapped the moisture on the surface of the dough, ensuring the crust would expand and blister into a glassy, golden shell.

On the upper deck, we loaded the frangipane brioche crowns, adjusting the dampers to allow a softer, gentler radiant heat.

Within fifteen minutes, magic happened.

The heat from the stone deck coaxed the dough into a massive oven spring. The sweet, buttery aroma of toasted almond frangipane, caramelized birch syrup, and warm sourdough began to drift outward from Station Six.

It spread across the arena floor, sweet, rich, and utterly mouthwatering.

Several judges at the main evaluation table lifted their heads, visibly sniffing the air with sudden interest. Even in the spectator stands, people began leaning forward in their seats, pointing toward our corner.

Across the room at Station One, Marcel Moreau noticed.

He glanced up from his spun-sugar domes, his jaw clenching as the warm, buttery scent of our baking bread completely overpowered the faint perfume of his vanilla glazes.

"Smell that?" Knox murmured in my ear, his hand settling warmly on the small of my back. "That’s the smell of victory."

I smiled up at him, my heart pounding with fierce pride.

At eleven-forty-five, the public announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers.

"Fifteen minutes remaining! Fifteen minutes on the clock!"

The entire hall kicked into a frantic, breathless sprint.

Chefs shouted instructions, mixers scraped, and baking trays clattered against steel tables.

"Let’s pull them," I said, pulling on my heavy leather oven mitts.

Knox swung open the steel doors, and a blast of dry, fragrant heat rushed out into our faces.

The bakes were breathtaking.

The cranberry-birch rolls had grown into beautiful, round loaves with dark, crispy crusts. The brioche crowns were baked to a golden brown, puffing up light and flaky with sweet almond paste.

Knox used the peel to slide the baking sheets onto our cooling racks with ease.

Mom picked up a pastry brush, gently glazing the warm hearth rolls with a light, glossy sheen of reduced birch syrup. I dusted the tops of the brioche crowns with a fine snow of powdered sugar, highlighting the intricate braids.

"Five minutes!" the announcer warned. "Plating begins now!"

Mom and I arranged five identical tasting plates on polished black slate boards for the judging panel. On each board, we set a warm, split cranberry-birch roll alongside a generous slice of the golden frangipane crown.

Knox wiped down the edges of the slate with a damp linen cloth, making sure every presentation was spotless.

The crowd in the gallery began counting down in a deafening roar.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

I stepped back, setting the final slate board down beside Mom’s.

"Three! Two! One!"

A deafening air horn blasted through the arena.

The giant overhead clocks flashed: 00:00:00.

"Baking ceases!" the head judge announced into her microphone. "Hands in the air! Step away from your stations!"

I raised my flour-dusted hands, letting out a long, ragged breath that felt like it had been trapped in my chest for four straight hours.

Mom turned to me, tears spilling over her lashes as she pulled me into a fierce, tight hug. "We did it, Nora. We did it."

"We did it, Mom," I whispered back, burying my face in her shoulder.

When Mom stepped back, Knox reached out and pulled me against his broad chest. His arms wrapped around me tight and protective, not caring about the flour all over his black apron or the television cameras panning across the floor.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing warm against my temple.

"You were incredible, Bookworm," Knox murmured, his voice thick with unshakeable pride. "Look at what you made."

I looked down at the two beautiful bakes resting on the slate. They were elegant, and filled with heart.

Up at the main podium, the head judge picked up her clipboard, followed by the four other culinary panelists.

"Judges will now begin live station evaluations," she announced, stepping down the stairs and turning directly toward our side of the room. "Starting with Station Six."