The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine Read Free Book Online Page B

a grateful sigh. ‘Keep out of their way and you’ll be fine.’
    But Gui did not want to keep out of the way. He found himself gawping like a child, as he stacked box after box of rattling metal into the cabinet at the end of the kitchen. Every time he walked its length there was something new to be seen.
    On a vast hob, he saw a pot of chocolat chaud , like the girl had given him the week before. At one of the counters, a single chef was cutting intricate patterns from a sheet of something white and fine and powdery, another was pouring out batter in a smooth golden ribbon. He laughed with delight when he saw a man burn a pot of custard with a hot iron, so that it set, as hard and brittle as ice. He almost reached out a finger towards a bowl piled high with thick, sweet cream.
    Stacking the last box of moulds, he left the kitchen with regret. He lingered in the empty hallway, peering through the crack in the door, transfixed.
    ‘Hands empty already?’
    Mademoiselle Clermont stood behind him, the heavy ledger balanced on one hip.
    ‘I was, I mean …’ He scrabbled for words as heat flared up his neck. He wanted to tell her that the kitchen was miraculous; that he wished he could watch the chefs for ever, but she would laugh at him, think him ignorant.
    ‘I used to stand at the door like that when I was small,’ she told him quietly, a smile playing across her lips.
    Luc appeared at the end of the corridor then. Two sacks weighed down his shoulders. Close behind were Yves and Marc, each in a similar state. Gui hurried forward to catch one of the sacks as it slipped.
    ‘Mam’selle,’ Luc puffed, ‘where do you want the sugar?’
    ‘Two-thirds in the pantry, the rest at the end of the workstations, please.’
    Her smile was still in place when she glanced up at Gui from her rows of numbers as he passed.
    The pace in the kitchen had increased. A tall, blond chef was roaring orders; apprentices skidded back and forth, fetching pans or ingredients. The more accomplished workers hunched over individual creations, perspiration beading their foreheads as they stacked pastry as thin as tissue, grasped squares of gold leaf with tools that belonged in a doll’s house.
    A thin man with greying brown hair now stood alone at the front of the kitchen. Gui had not noticed him before. Trays and bowls surrounded him; the kitchen’s labours laid out like a feast, picked apart. The man wore a white jacket like the other chefs, but his was tailored to fit, embroidered at the collar with gold thread. He was holding something tiny to the light, as small as his smallest fingernail, blue as a duck egg.
    ‘Who is responsible for the dragées?’
    His voice was quiet, yet it silenced the clamour. Even Luc stopped what he was doing. Only the gentle bubbling of the stove remained. A team from one of the workstations raised their hands, one chef in particular. He was short and plump, black hair slicked down under his cap.
    ‘Monsieur Melio. If you please?’ the older man invited.
    The chef approached the front, holding a bowl full of the tiny objects. Wordlessly, the man took the dish from his hands, and tipped its contents into a sack of refuse. The plump chef stared down into the empty bowl, then hurried back to his bench, face burning with humiliation.
    Gui glanced round for some clue as to what was happening, but Luc showed no sign of moving, even though they had long completed their task. Gui opened his mouth to ask, but felt Mademoiselle Clermont’s restraining hand on his cuff.
    ‘Wait,’ she whispered.
    The activity in the kitchen had come to a standstill; all gazes were turned expectantly towards the man at the front.
    ‘It has been said,’ he began, addressing in the whole room, ‘that architecture is the noblest of the arts. Every day, we see structures ascending from the street into the sky. We step onto the majestic boulevards, we witness this old city turn her new face towards us.’
    The man had a powerful presence.