The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine

Gui could feel his attention being dragged across the kitchen.
    ‘Thus,’ the chef continued, ‘if architecture is the noblest of the arts, then I say that pastry must be the highest form of architecture, the purest and most delicate. How are we to achieve this if we are presented with building blocks unequal to the task? Who can tell me what steps must be taken to ensure a dragée presents a seamless covering?’
    The noise of a discussion filled the kitchen. Gui loosed a pent-up breath.
    ‘Should be safe to venture out now,’ Luc said. ‘What do you say, Mam’selle?’
    ‘I should think so.’ She smiled.
    They strode through the kitchen once again. From the outer door, Yves and Marc appeared, arms loaded with packets. They were obviously accustomed to such episodes.
    ‘What was that about?’ Gui murmured as they walked, glancing back at the chef over his shoulder.
    ‘My father believes in discipline,’ Mademoiselle Clermont said quietly. ‘His kitchen is known to be the best in Paris; he has a reputation to uphold. Besides, poor work can cause accidents.’
    Gui looked at her out of the corner of his eye, hoping that she would continue, but she hurried away. He had no time to talk, in any case. The work kept him busy.
    He thought about Monsieur Clermont’s words as he emptied crates and passed the contents to Yves. He had never considered pastry to be anything other than a luxury, something for the plump, rich people who drove their carriages around the parks, but Clermont had described it as an art form, a trade. It too must have its foundations then, its bricks and mortar. Gui was so absorbed in contemplation that the bottom of the final crate came as something of a shock.
    ‘No need to look so surprised, young man,’ Luc announced cheerfully. ‘We’re done for the night.’
    Gui blinked his eyes to clear them. The sky outside was lightening with dawn, the air of a clear December morning brushing his face from the door. Mademoiselle Clermont was watching him as she signed a piece of paper and handed it over to Luc. There came a build-up of noise from the kitchens. Chefs and apprentices burst into the corridor, steaming cups of coffee and wedges of bread in hand. They talked boisterously, laughing, released from the pressure of a long night’s work.
    ‘They must be finished,’ said Mademoiselle Clermont, peering around.
    ‘Finished?’ croaked Gui. His throat was dry with fatigue.
    ‘I will show you, if you like. Would anyone else care to see? Marc?’
    ‘Nothing that interests me I’m afraid, Mam’selle.’
    ‘We shall take a peek through the scullery window,’ she told him archly and headed towards a different door.
    With a smirk, Marc nudged Gui forward. The door led to a narrow galley space, lined with deep enamel sinks. It was warm and dark and filled with steam. Freshly washed pans dripped from racks upon the walls. A second door with a tiny circular window connected to the kitchens.
    ‘I would take you closer,’ said Mademoiselle Clermont as she stepped to avoid the puddles, ‘but the sugar is drying. Father will not allow anyone near until it has properly set. There.’ She sighed happily, her breath fogging the window. ‘It’s twice as magnificent as last year.’
    Gui shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to move. The space was cramped, and squeezing in next to the girl did not seem entirely proper. As if sensing his embarrassment, Mademoiselle Clermont shifted to one side, beckoned him closer.
    He hesitated. The whole evening had been like a dream, a glorious, golden world that he would have to forget when he returned to the rail workers’ dormitory, to the furnaces and the damp, barren tracks. Yet he was desperate to see what had kept the kitchen so busy all night.
    Before he could think better of it, he stepped to join Mademoiselle Clermont. She raised an arm to give him room, and he caught her scent again, spring flowers, clean linen. He forced himself to concentrate and peered