TAP! A sly paw flicked the switch. The cake spun faster than a tornado in roller skates. SPLAT! Frosting fireworks blasted overhead. Chocolate continents rained from the sky. Gasps bounced around the stadium like ping-pong balls on a trampoline. Frozen, the twins stood sticky and stunned. Biscuit licked a sprinkle from his whisker.

The clock tick-tocked. “We’re doomed,” sighed Freya, caramel smooshed on her nose. But Isla’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Not doomed—detoured!” She chased floating crumbs. Freya scooped blobs of frosting with a ladle. Ten minutes left, half the stuff gone, but hope hovered close by.

Swiftly, Isla mashed crumbs with bubbling vanilla, shaping chewy moons. Freya pressed them to the frosty glass; they crunched into little meteors. Each one dipped in sparkling stardust glaze. Biscuit, feeling maybe sorry—or maybe just peckish—unzipped his collar and produced a pouch of dazzling silver sugar.

The twins blinked. “Where’d that come from?” Isla whispered. Biscuit pressed a button. ZOOM! Holograms swirled: young Biscuit whizzed through space, winning the Galactic Pâtissier Cup. Biscuit winked. “Trust me, I’m seasoned,” his look said. The girls burst out laughing, worries melting like butter.