Floral band tattoo on upper arm

Two blossoms, my old master Ray would have said, were the most any sensible baker should attempt. He used to say the eye wants one flower to lead and one to follow, and the leaves do the rest, provided you shade them underneath where the light doesn't reach. I had a tin of edible silver and a fine brush, and I worked the petals grey at their edges while the ovens ticked as they cooled, the way a house settles once everyone has gone to bed.

The first blossom cracked when I lifted it off the parchment, a clean split down one petal, and for a minute I thought the morning was lost. Then I remembered Ray's other rule: you don't hide a crack, you give the flower a reason to be open. So I pressed the second bloom against the first, ran the thin stem through both, and laid a leaf over the split so it looked like a bud just beginning. Outside, the window went from black to the colour of wet slate.

When the van came for the cake at seven, I wrapped the middle tier by hand, leaves overlapping, the blossoms turned towards the door. The driver asked what the flowers were called. I said wild roses, though they were really only the ones I could manage before the sun came up.