Patisserie Valerie was one of Britain's most famous dessert chains, though its beginnings were something of an accident.
The founder, Madame Valerie, was Belgian. After marrying her English husband, she moved to London.
Unable to get used to British food, she began cooking for herself.
Her English friends tasted her creations and loved them—especially the desserts. They suggested she open a small shop.
And so, in 1926, her little bakery appeared on Frith Street.
Maybe it was that her recipes matched the British palate, or maybe it was just that in the land of "stargazy pie" there wasn't much competition—but within a year, she opened a second shop. Within ten years, Patisserie Valerie was everywhere across Britain.
The store had two signature offerings:One was the Strawberry Cake, fresh cream layered with fruit, described by locals as pure joy in a bite.The other was the Fruit Tart, somewhat like a custard tart, except topped with fruit instead of egg custard.
Perhaps Isabella's taste buds had crossed over with her when she time-traveled. A couple bites were enough for her to think PV's desserts were about as close to "not too sweet" as possible—but after a few more, she still found them cloying.
She set down her spoon, her frown edging into a bitter expression that made Vivian chuckle.
"Sweetheart, are you full already?"
"Yeah~"
"Strange. You used to finish a whole one yourself."
"Oh, Mom, maybe I've grown up. I just realized you're right—PV's desserts are a little too sweet."
"Hahaha~"
Vivian covered her mouth, laughing lightly. She slid her cup of black tea toward her daughter.
"So I'm guessing you need a sip of plain tea—no milk, no sugar—to cleanse your palate?"
"Of course!"
Naturally, Isabella picked up her mother's cup and took a small sip.
And at once, she tasted home.
It was Keemun black tea.
Britain's tea culture dated back to the 17th century, when a Portuguese princess married into the English court and brought her love of tea with her. Drinking tea became a noble social custom.
Even now, Britain consumed a million tons of tea each year, the finest leaves imported from the continent.
The fruity fragrance lingered on Isabella's tongue, soothing her as she closed her eyes. To Katherine, though, that blissful expression was downright irritating. She rolled her eyes and turned to her mother.
"Mom, about this afternoon—"
Isabella groaned inwardly. Talk about bad timing!
Vivian, however, only smiled back at her eldest.
"Oh, Keisha, the situation at the Lyceum is a bit complicated. They are hiring this year, but the position was filled a month ago. So the information we had was already outdated."
"But that's not important."
"The Lyceum is a top choice, yes, but it's not the only theatre. Others are hiring too. Tomorrow I'll visit another one. Don't worry—your mom won't be defeated by a small setback."
Since Vivian hadn't given them a reason to "celebrate" earlier, her failed audition was obvious enough.
To Isabella, there was no need to press her mother for confirmation.
If Vivian wanted to talk, she would. If she didn't, it only meant one thing—she wasn't feeling great.
"Mom, I'm done eating. I think I'll go upstairs to practice piano."
"Alright, go on. I'll call you when dinner's ready."
Not wanting to linger in the awkward mood, Isabella slipped away with a casual excuse.
She bounded upstairs to the second floor.
The house was large.
Though her father had lost everything in his reckless gamble, he hadn't burned through all their assets. There was still enough to ensure a comfortable life. The house itself had been purchased when Vivian and Eric married—a four-story villa.
The first floor was open-plan, with living room, dining room, and kitchen connected, plus a guest bathroom. On the west side were two servant rooms, though Vivian disliked live-in help, hiring only a cleaning company for weekly service. The servant rooms had become storage.
The second floor held a music room, dance studio, gym, and a guest room, each with its own bathroom. Vivian might have left the stage, but she never gave up fitness or dance. The music room belonged solely to Isabella.
The third floor held three bedrooms: one large master for Vivian, and two smaller ones for Isabella and Katherine.
As for the top floor—The west side housed Eric's meditation study, where he used to read and pore over financial reports.The east side was Katherine's art studio, with canvases for oil, watercolor, and sketching.
Four floors plus a basement, 6,500 square feet—about 600 square meters.
By the standards of any global first-tier city, that was impressive. Even more impressive was its location.
Mayfair.
Passing through the double doors, insulated like a recording studio, Isabella entered the spacious music room. In the center sat a Steinway grand piano. She perched on the bench, lifted the lid, and her eyes lit up at the sight of the hand-polished 88 keys.
Her fingers glided across them. Notes flowed out, soft and round, like pearls wrapped in velvet. Isabella was delighted.
With a flick of her wrist, the lively melody of Turkish March sprang from her pale fingers.
The original Isabella had loved music, hence the piano lessons. But as for this Isabella…
Her previous life had been steeped in the arts as well.
Her family had been artistic. She trained in the erhu from childhood, then took up the piano in school, eventually focusing on it as her main instrument. She'd entered a top conservatory, graduated, and made her living performing and teaching.
She'd been on stage, she'd taught students.
She wasn't rich—nothing compared to the celebrities—but steady work kept her life comfortable.
When the piece ended, she felt refreshed, ready to continue. But just then, the old-fashioned wall sconce on the far wall flickered to life with a faint gaslight glow.
It was the call bell her father had installed when designing the room.
She rose and opened the door.
Standing there was Katherine.
Her tense expression made Isabella speak first. "What is it?"
"Do you have time? I want to talk." Katherine's tone was firm.
"Of course. Come in." Isabella pulled out a chair for her sister.
Katherine sat and went straight to the point. "Isa, I want to ask—do you even know what kind of situation our family is in right now?"
"Uh… yes and no…"
"What?"
"I said I know because I'm aware Father is gone. That means we can't live carefree anymore. But I also said I don't know—because I don't understand why you're asking me this. How could I not know what's happening at home?"
"Oh! My! God!"
The moment Isabella finished, Katherine practically exploded, sparks flying from her head.
"Isa! If you know all this, then how could you sit there laughing while eating PV's cake, laughing while drinking tea?"
Looking at her sister's serious expression, Katherine wanted nothing more than to punch her three times over.
"You know Father's gone! You know the peace we had is gone! Don't you realize that now everything falls on Mom's shoulders???"
"She has to take care of us and worry about how we'll survive in the future!"
"So! Tell me!"
"Isa! Don't you feel even a little sorry for Mom?"
"Don't you want to share even a bit of her burden?"
Katherine stared at her, unblinking.
Her chest rose and fell, breath coming unevenly from the force of her outburst.
Her challenge was like a lion's roar, and Isabella pressed her lips together. Truthfully, she understood Katherine's feelings. The sudden loss of a family's breadwinner was a thunderbolt.
But still…
"Keisha, do you want some water?"
"I'd rather throw the water in your face."
"Oh, you absolutely could. Just not here—if it splashes on the piano, I'd be heartbroken. Dad bought this piano just for me. To get it upstairs, he even tore down part of the corridor wall and a window."
"…"
"Alright then, no water. You asked if I feel sorry for Mom? Before I answer, let me ask you—do you think panicking can change anything at home?"
She looked straight at her sister. "I know you want to ease Mom's burden. But is her problem really finding a job?"
"No. The real problem is money—and a lot of it."
"Life costs money. School costs money. Even if we're lucky and never get sick, just this house requires thousands of pounds in property tax every year. And tell me—can Mom earn that kind of money acting?"
"No."
"So then, if we already know the outcome, why wear long faces around her?"
"Why keep reminding her that no matter how hard she tries, it won't be enough?"
"Wouldn't it be better to just smile at her, make her feel a little happier?"
Katherine fell silent.
She knew Isabella was right. The biggest problem wasn't simply having no income. It was that no one could replace Eric's ability to make money.
Or rather, their family's expenses were simply too enormous.
Take education, for example. Katherine attended St. Paul's Girls' School—tuition alone was £20,000 a year, not counting extras. Riding lessons cost £200 per session, equipment not included.
One Shetland pony alone cost half a year's tuition.
But it was worth the expense. St. Paul's sent 100% of its graduates to top British universities—the so-called G5. Forty percent went to Oxford or Cambridge.
Bluntly speaking, it was early-stage filtering in a capitalist society.
For Katherine to have a shot at Oxbridge, Eric had been spending at least £100,000 on her education every year.
And now?
How many operas would Vivian have to sing to make that much?
Still, as the saying goes: rich or poor, life goes on.
But people are always reaching upward.
Who can accept falling in class?Eric couldn't—so he jumped.
Vivian couldn't—so she pretended to work hard.
Yes, Isabella thought, her mother wasn't really job-hunting. She was searching for comfort, for a way to show her daughters that she was strong enough to carry on.
Katherine stared at her for a long while, then sighed heavily.
"Isa… so this is what you think?"
"This isn't what I think. It's the truth."
"…I could transfer out of St. Paul's."
"But could Mom accept that?"
Silence again. Katherine's face fell, a defeated look settling in.
"So we're just going to die a slow death?" she muttered, looking like a deflated beagle.
Leaning against the piano, Isabella curved her lips into a smile.
"Keisha, if you hadn't come to me, I was going to come to you tonight."
"Hm?"
"You're right. It isn't fair for Mom to carry this alone."
"What do you mean?"
"Simple. I think I have a way to make money—a lot of money. But I'll need your help."
"What??"
Katherine's eyes widened. "Isa! Do you even hear yourself? We're not talking pocket money here—we need huge sums!"
"Of course I know. I've never been more clearheaded. Because of this."
Isabella pulled something from her pocket: the newspaper she'd secretly bought that afternoon.
She unfolded it, the front page plastered with J.K. Rowling's photo. Above it, in bold black headline letters:
"Harry Potter Film Adaptation in Trouble? Months of Casting Searches Yield Nothing"
And beneath it, the subheading:
"Warner Bros. Demands Production Begin Immediately, Frustrated by Delays"