Having resigned himself to the fate of only being a waiter at Wang's, Vicente hadn't expected Yao to sit him down after dinner one long day and present him with a thick stack of paper. The first piece of paper was half-covered in words, the other half in hastily-drawn pictures. After taking a closer look at it, he realised that they were recipes. "What's all this?" He asked.

Yao dropped his notepad onto the stack of paper. "Do you remember all the pastries we bought before we moved to Arlingdale?"

"You can't just answer a question with another question —" Vicente caught himself. "Not really. I remember egg tarts and curry puffs from Hong Kong, and different buns from Taipei, but not really."

Vicente jumped when Yao slammed a hand down on the stack. "All of these are recipes for pastries — well, pastries and desserts. I did my best to look up what I forgot, and I looked through that folder Mother left behind."

"You mean the folder I hid in my closet that you somehow found?"

"Whoops."

He lightly kicked Yao under the table. "Whatever. But these…" he gestured at the stack. "They're all recipes?"

"That's what I said." Yao began flicking through the stack, showing him pictures of pineapple pastries, turnip pudding and even more sweet treats he thought he'd forgotten about. "I got recipes for tofu skin sweet soup, red date pudding, taro balls, all the stuff we've had before." His eyes gleamed. "Imagine if we could serve this all at our restaurant! People love desserts, this will give us the chance to strike gold."

"But you're already cooking all the food," Vicente pointed out. "Can you handle all the orders if we expanded the menu?"

He shook his head. "Of course I can't. That's why I want you to help me." Before Vicente could butt in, Yao continued, "ever since we were young, you've always loved making desserts. Starting from next week, I can make the main dishes, and you can make the desserts. It'll be like we're kids again!"

When he and Yao were kids, they nearly collapsed from exhaustion every day from cooking, studying and taking care of Leon and Ling, and it was a challenge to stay awake at school, but he didn't mention it. It would be nice to get to work in a kitchen for fun instead of for survival. "I guess I could do it," Vicente said slowly, "but your stack of desserts here is as thick as a copy of War and Peace. There's no way I'd be able to memorise them all and cook them well."

If professional pastry chefs can do it, so can you, was probably what Yao was thinking, but he shrugged. "We don't have any desserts on the menu yet. We can add a few right now and add some more if people like them." He pulled out two pieces of paper. "We can start with Portuguese-styled egg tarts and custard buns. They're not too hard to make."

He was already starting to feel excited, thinking about kneading dough and making custard and feeling the stuffy heat of the oven. "That sounds good." Vicente took the recipes and looked over them, trying to make sense of Yao's messy handwriting. Next week couldn't come any sooner.

...

It took Yao a day before the desserts were to be added to the menu to find a problem.

He flurried into Vicente's room at seven in the morning, making Leon fall off his bunk (thankfully he didn't break his nose again) and climbing up the ladder to shake him awake. "We don't have time to make the puff pastry!"

He squinted at his brother, only seeing a blurry, flesh-coloured blob as he fished for his glasses. "Hah?"

"We need puff pastry to make the egg tarts, and we don't have the time to make the dough and roll it out and laminate it and things!" Yao's face came into focus as Vicente put his glasses on. "We'll need to buy ready-made pastry."

"Oh." Vicente blinked, rubbed his eyes and cracked his neck. "Okay."

"There's a big bakery in the nicer part of Trofilos that sells some, I think." Yao grabbed his arm and tried to pull him off his bunk, acting remarkably like Ling when she was a kid. "Go buy some there."

Vicente tried not to step on Leon, who had fallen back asleep, as he climbed down his bunk. "At seven in the morning?"

"Yes, at seven in the morning!" Yao stopped to haul Leon back into bed. "Tell Ling to take you there, she knows the way."

After a hasty breakfast and five minutes of a very cranky Ling cussing Yao out with swear words he didn't even know existed, they left the apartment and began walking towards a bus stop. The air was still crisp and cool, and birds were shrieking at each other in the trees.

"Why can't we go later in the morning?" Ling kicked away a stray can as she walked. "I haven't gone out at seven in the morning on a Sunday in, like, six years."

"You were awake, though."

She stretched, nearly hitting Vicente in the face as she did. "I was going to watch the premiere of my favourite band's newest number." A bus rolled up at the stop, and they climbed on. "Hopefully I'm not too late by the time we reach that bakery place."

"How far away is it?"

Ling took a seat by the window. "It only takes ten minutes to reach the stop, and it's right across the road."

He noticed that she was idly tossing her phone up and down as she talked and prayed that it wouldn't fall. "I hope the puff pastry won't cost too much. If we have money left, maybe we can pick up some coffee afterwards."

She perked up at the sound of that. "Oh, coffee. That would be awesome."

The bus rolled to a halt and Ling stood up. "We're here."

They got out in front of a tall, fancy building that looked older than the ones surrounding it. "That's the city hall," Ling explained. "They hold dance lessons there sometimes."

Before he could ask why Ling knew, she grabbed his wrist and walked him across the road, where their destination was. The sign above the bakery was painted baby-blue, with glimmering gold paint writing its name in sloping cursive.

"Boulangerie Bonnefoy," he read out loud. "I'm guessing this is the place Yao was talking about."

"Oh, no, he wants us to get puff pastry from that bookstore." Ling snorted and pushed him towards the bakery. "Go do your thing. I'll wait for you in the city hall."

Then Ling went back across the road to the city hall, where she was probably going to watch her band premiere, and abandoned Vicente in front of Boulangerie Bonnefoy.

The bakery's glass doors were covered in pastel paintings of different types of bread, and a cheery sign that read "OPEN" swung from the doorknob. Through the glass, he could see a pair of round tables on either side of the bakery, waiting for customers to sit at. A glass case was underneath what looked like the cashier at the very back of the bakery, filled with stands of cakes.

But none of those compared to the shelves. The one on the right side was stacked with more types of bread than Vicente could name; in one bucket were a dozen baguettes, on the top shelf what looked like five different types of brioche were neatly arranged in a row. The left shelf had see-through cases displaying an impressive assortment of pastries — croissants, millefeuilles and éclairs galore. He'd never seen anything like it.

Then he decided that he'd gawked enough and stepped into the bakery.

The entire place was filled with the heavenly scent of melting butter, and soothing jazz music played in the background. Though he'd never been to France, it felt like the owners of the bakery had somehow taken a part of the country of love and brought it to this tiny city. Vicente approached the left shelf to take a closer look at a croissant. Its many layers were glossy with egg-wash, a beautiful golden-brown colour from caramelisation. It almost looked unreal, like a plastic model and not something a baker had spent precious time and energy making.

"Oh, those took me years to perfect."

Vicente turned to see somebody standing at the counter. His blue eyes sparkled, and he undid his hairnet to let his blond hair down. His apron was smudged with dough, flour and what looked like caramel, and he took it off before continuing, "croissants can be a pain to make, even after all this time. Every time I do, my hands smell like butter for hours afterwards." The man laughed. "But I guess it could be worse, so I shouldn't complain."

"They're very nice," Vicente observed. "Do you make the dough yourself?"

He only realised that that was a stupid question after the man gasped. "Of course! Here at Boulangerie Bonnefoy, we make everything by hand. By the way, I haven't seen you around before. Are you new to Trofilos?"

He nodded. "I was told that I could get some good puff pastry here."

"Ah, the very type we use in our own recipes." The man gestured behind him, at a door that undoubtedly led to the kitchen. "Just tell me how much you'll need, and I'll go to the fridge and get — "

They both jumped as a loud "BEEP" echoed throughout the bakery. The man hastily put his apron and hairnet back on, glancing at the door. "Oh, dear, those must be the macarons. Excuse me for a moment, you know how finicky those things are." He laughed, though this time it sounded a little more harried, and ran into the kitchen.

The door began to close at snail-speed, and through the crack Vicente could hear the man shouting, "Madeline, there's a young man outside who wants some puff pastry. Go get some for him, won't you?"

A girl, presumably Madeline, shouted back, "I can handle the macarons, you go out and deal with him. You saw him first."

"You're going to make the shells sink while you're daydreaming like you did last time."

"I will not!"

The door was about to close. Vicente stared at it awkwardly, trying to block out the bickering.

"Yes, you will. Come on, we both know I can work with these better. Now go get the puff pastry, d'accord?"

A refrigerator door slammed inside the kitchen. A few moments later, Madeline stepped through the door. Her hairnet was askew, her apron half-off, and she was glaring at him through her glasses. She muttered something under her breath and set down the frozen packet of puff pastry none too gently on the countertop. "Is this enough?"

"What?"

Madeline tugged her hair net off. A neat braid, the end tied in a maroon ribbon, tumbled over her shoulder. "Is this enough puff pastry?" She asked. "If not, I'll go inside and get more." Vicente noticed that she had the same golden hair, the same blue eyes as the man who'd disappeared inside the kitchen. Where they siblings?

"Oh." He blinked. "Yes, I'll need quite a bit more than that. Er… probably at least a kilogram, to be honest."

She couldn't hide her surprise. "Are you going to be cooking for a small army?"

Vicente couldn't help laughing. "Just some customers."

"Well, they're basically the same thing." Madeline tapped her fingers against the counter. "Do you run a restaurant?"

"My brother does. He realised we didn't have time to make our own puff pastry and sent me out to buy some. I got shaken awake at seven in the morning."

"Too bad," Madeline said, not unkindly. "I get up at four every day. Working with Francis means a terrible sleep schedule."

Francis? "Is he…"

"My brother? Unfortunately. I heard him say you were new to town, I hope he doesn't scare you off. If he does, though, I hope you don't stay away from us. Not that we need the money, but it's always nice to be able to talk to someone about pastries and desserts and — " She jumped. "Oh! I forgot to get your puff pastry. I'll be back."

Once again left alone in the bakery, Vicente listened to Madeline and Francis talk while in the kitchen, exchanging phrases in what sounded like French. Madeline returned a few minutes later with five more packets of puff pastry, saying quickly, "Francis wants me back in the kitchen to wash dishes, since that's practically all he keeps me around for, so pay quickly." Vicente didn't miss the bitterness in her voice. He gave her the money and shoved the puff pastry into his bag.

"It was fun talking to you." Madeline counted the change, foot rapidly tapping against the wooden floor. "If I have time, I'll visit your brother's restaurant…" she looked up at him expectantly.

"My name's Vicente." He caught the coins she slid across the counter like tiny hockey pucks. "Uh, have fun washing the dishes."

She smiled shrewdly. "Might as well have fun if I'm forced to do it. I'll see you again."

And with that, she disappeared into the kitchen again. Hefting up the shopping bag and feeling robbed of a good conversation, Vicente left the Boulangerie.