Peter looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Ah, here they come—the Royal Court of Duvetshire, still in their morning robes and crowns of bedhead. Bore da, you two. I've got the cakes warm."

Tima grinned, suddenly shy. "Toast! We want toast!"

"You'll get toast when the kettle sings a hymn and the butter agrees," Peter said with mock seriousness, flipping another cake. "And not before."

Tima watched him work, her eyes tracking the golden cakes. She thought about this. "But... butter is nice. Soft butter. It wouldn't say no to toast."

Peter laughed, a real laugh that came from his belly. "Fair point. The butter concedes the argument."

"The butter's always nice, cariad. That's not the point," he said, though he was already reaching for the toast.

The scent of tea leaves and warm flour rose into the rafters, mixing with the cinnamon from the griddle—that spice that made Welsh cakes special, that transformed ordinary batter into something sacred on holy days. Papa leaned against the counter, reaching for a mug, breathing in the steam. "Do I smell cinnamon?"

"Of course. It's a holy day," Peter said, gesturing with the spatula. "St David would never forgive me if I left it out. And I reckon he was partial to nice smells as much as anyone."

Tima climbed onto her chair and watched Peter work, her chin resting on her hands. She watched his hands move—flip, flip, flip—steady and sure. "St David... is he hungry?"

Papa and Peter exchanged a look—the kind that only comes from long practice, from knowing what each other will say before they say it.

"Very hungry," Peter said, settling a plate of steaming Welsh cakes on the table with ceremony. The plate was warm from the heat of the cakes. "So we feed everyone on his day. That way, no one's hungry in his memory. We make sure no one's forgotten."

"Exactly," Papa said softly, and there was something in his voice—something grateful—that made it matter even more.

Papa poured her a small cup of milk and set it down with ceremony. "Special day, special milk."

Tima held the cup with both hands. "It's the same. Not different."

"That's the magic of it," Peter said, sliding into his chair with his own mug of tea. "You have to believe it's special first. Then it is."

There was a knock at the front door—three sharp taps, then a pause, then two soft ones. It was their signal.

Within an hour, the cottage had transformed from intimate morning space into gathered hearth.

Steph arrived first, her arms full of brown rolls still warm from the bakery. She set them on the counter and kissed Papa on the cheek—comfortable, easy. "Happy St David's Day, you two," she said, then bent down to Tima's level. "And hello, Your Majesty. I hear there's been a storm."

Tima nodded seriously. "Very loud."

"The worst kind," Steph agreed.