Frederic looked at the calendar and groaned. Just one more day…

From her spot on the couch, where she was idly flipping through a magazine, Polka heard him. "What's the matter, Frederic?"

"Oh, nothing…"

She got up and went to lean against his shoulder, peering at the calendar. March 1 was circled in pencil. "Is that…your birthday?"

He nodded. "I'm going to be forty. I'm going to be old."

"I guess you don't want a celebration, then."

He shook his head.

"Okay."

The next day, Polka raced out of her house and into the square. Ten years ago, after mineral powder had been revealed as toxic, the pharmacy in Ritardando had closed down. It had remained a dusty, derelict building for seven years until Polka used the increased profits from her sales of floral powders, extracts, and essences to buy it and move out of her mother's house. She sold floral products from the first floor and lived on the second and third floors. Since Frederic had no other place to go, it was only natural that he move in with her. And now it was his 40th birthday.

She crossed the square to the bakery. The bell over the door tinkled as she entered. "Mrs. Bruscamente? I need some help."

The portly baker smiled at her first real customer of the day. "Good morning, Polka. What's the matter?"

Polka flushed. "Um, well…my boyfriend's birthday is today. He has a sweet tooth, so I was wondering what kind of cake would be a good idea to make."

"Your boyfriend? Not that no-account Allegretto, is it?" Never mind that Allegretto had grown to assume a post as advisor to Queen Serenade herself.

She shook her head. "His name is Frederic. Haven't you met him yet?"

Mrs. Bruscamente went into the back room, calling over her shoulder. "It's a pity you didn't come earlier. I could have made you the cake myself. I'll sell you the ingredients, though. Does he like chocolate?"

Polka grinned and nodded. Realizing that the baker couldn't see her, she replied, "Yes, very much. And strawberries, and vanilla. "Oh, and I think I need some flour."

Mrs. Bruscamente came back behind the counter, bearing bags marked 'flour' and 'chocolate' and a small bottle labeled 'vanilla'. "Here you go. That'll be 500 gold marks." She took out a scrap of paper and pressed it into Polka's hand. "Take this recipe too—free."

She paid and left, studying the recipe. I need strawberries, 12 ounces of butter—no, I have that at home—8 ounces sugar, 8 eggs, and a little cream—got that… Where am I going to find strawberries in February? Clutching her bags of ingredients, she glanced around, hoping to spot a street vendor. Her eyes settled on a young man sitting on a blanket.

"Fruit, fresh fruit! Raspberries, strawberries, oranges, tangerines, pears! Just in from Rococo, where the sun always shines!"

She approached him. "How much for a box of strawberries?"

"Eighty-five gold marks."

Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the fruit on display. "Eighty-five? For that much I could get pounds of berries from Gavotte. I'll give you thirty."

"Ah, but would they be so sweet, so fresh? Sixty-five."

"Forty."

"Forty-five."

"Deal." He handed her the box.

Now for his present. She strode purposefully off to a store that had recently opened up near the pier. It was a boring, nondescript building--except for the brightly colored silks and lace that made up the awning. I hope Frederic likes what I buy him…I know I will.

When she returned home, she was greeted by the halting notes of a piano. Frederic must be working on a new composition. That's good. I'll have some privacy to bake.

She went to the kitchen and pulled open the door of the icebox. To her relief, she saw that she had the heavy cream, eggs, and crock of butter she needed for the recipe. Rolling up her sleeves, she set to work.

Now, let's see… 'Cream butter with 4 ounces sugar and vanilla essence, add egg yolks and milk…'

As she worked, she began to hum along to the melody taking shape upstairs. It's beautiful…but kind of sad… She shook her head to focus her thoughts on the task at hand as she beat the egg whites.

Okay, now I need to add this to the butter and put the flour in. Setting her whisk down, she folded the egg whites and the flour into the butter and sugar. Alright, now that can go into the oven.

The oven door clanged shut. She flinched and glanced in the direction of the stairs, but the music didn't pause. Now she just had to make the frosting. Carefully, she poured the cream into a pot and heated it to a boil. Now, how much chocolate do I need to make a glaze…?

Frederic had been trying to work out the melody of his latest composition for hours. I can't believe this. I woke up with the tune stuck in my head, and now I can't remember a note. Did the last bit go like this? He played a few notes. No, that's not it. Or like this? He played several more notes, slow and sad. "Ah!" That's it!

He built on the melody, using his other hand to keep time. Idly, he found himself wondering where he could get a metronome. The delicious smell of baking cake wafted up from the kitchen, distracting him.

…Cake? Am I imagining things? He closed the lid of the piano and stood up, creeping downstairs.

Polka was eyeing her chocolate "glaze" with a growing feeling of apprehension. She was almost sure it wasn't supposed to be so thick. I think I need to add more cream. Was it three parts cream to one part chocolate, or three parts chocolate to one part cream? She glanced at the recipe before remembering that she had decided to try to make it from memory. Damn it.

"What are you doing?"

Polka gave a little shriek and spun around. "What?! Oh…Frederic. I thought you were working."

He smiled and leaned against the doorframe. "I was. What are you making, Polka dear?"

"Ummm…" She blushed and tore her eyes away from him. "Today's your birthday, isn't it? I know you said you didn't want to celebrate, but it's a landmark birthday…you should at least have a cake."

He left the door frame and went to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his face in her hair. "I don't want a cake. I don't want a big party. I just want you." He sniffed and glanced around. "Do I smell strawberries?"

She laughed and gently disentangled herself from Frederic's arms, reaching for her spoon. "I'm making vanilla pound cake with chocolate glaze and strawberries on top. It was supposed to be a surprise, you greedy man. I think the cake is done now—will you take it out of the oven for me?"

Frederic knelt and wrapped his hand in a dish towel. Carefully, he opened the oven door. "It's hot…" Polka rolled her eyes and took the cake pan from him, setting it on the counter.

"Silly goose. Okay, now I need you to wait while I make the glaze." Stealthily, his hand crept towards the bowl of strawberries, and she smacked him. "And don't touch those! I need them for the garnish."

Frederic sighed and stood aside to watch her bake. Briskly, she picked up her spoon and continued to stir the melted chocolate-and cream mixture around in the bowl. "I think it's a little too thick to be right…Frederic, can you pour some of that cream into this for me?"

He reached around her to get the cream, pouring it into the bowl as she stirred. She sighed and leaned back in his arms as he slid a hand over the thin fabric of her shirt. "Ah, Frederic…" She squirmed and pulled away as his other hand moved to her hip. "Okay, do you want to eat this cake or not? Because it's getting cooler by the minute and I have to put the glaze on."

Reluctantly, he let go of her. She poured the chocolate glaze over the still-warm cake before reaching for the bowl of strawberries and carefully placing them in a ring around the edge of the cake. Once she was finished, she looked at him and smiled.

"It's finished. Let's eat."

He grinned. "It looks really good."

A faint smile spread across her face. "If you think that looks good, wait 'till you see what I bought you for a birthday present."

Later, as they lay in bed together, Polka asked, smiling into his shoulder. "Did you like my gifts?"

Frederic chuckled and glanced at the discarded lingerie that had wound up scattered over the floor. "You know," he murmured, running his fingers through her hair, "You really didn't have to go to so much trouble for me."

She smirked and raised herself up on one elbow, tracing lines down his bare chest with her other hand. "Mmm, it's alright. You could always…repay me later. Unless you don't think you're up to it?"

His eyes narrowed in mock anger. "And what is that supposed to mean?" He gasped as she slid a finger over one nipple.

"Oh, nothing…It's just that you were making such a fuss over turning forty earlier, I thought that an old man such as yourself wouldn't be able to do anything past 10 o'clock except sleep." She shivered as he ran a hand up the inside of her thigh.

"Old, am I? I'll show you old!"

It wasn't until the next morning when she reminded him that, after all, he was the one to first refer to himself as old. As he had just spent several hours last night disproving it—to Polka's great satisfaction—he did not take offense.