On Sunday, Vicente woke up at six o'clock, trying to massage away a cramp in his shoulder, to make the tarts. Baking them was already second nature; making the custard filling and preparing the tart shells felt so familiar that he could probably do it in his sleep. By half-past six, half a dozen of the egg tarts were baking away in the oven.

Once they were done, Vicente put them into a plastic box and went off to the bus station alone. He was careful not to tilt the box even the slightest bit, lest the tarts tip over or the delicate pastry break. When he lived in Hong Kong, his father had once bought a big box of egg tarts for Yao's birthday, only for the box to be jostled around during the drive home. Yao had opened the box to see a mess of crumbled, broken tart shells, spilled custard filling and not an intact tart in sight.

He was determined not to let that happen.

All throughout the bus ride, he held the box steady and made sure that the rumbling of the bus didn't make the egg tarts move around. If Ling or Leon saw him putting so much effort into keeping the tarts unharmed, they'd probably joke that he was delivering them to the President or something. Thankfully, Vicente got off at the city hall with the egg tarts perfectly all right.

This time, Madeline was waiting for him at the counter. She waved, eyeing the box that he was holding carefully. "Good morning, Vicente."

"Morning." He set the box down on the counter, looking around at the bakery. A pavlova, which Madeline talked about so passionately last week, was on display, its crackly white surface drizzled with raspberry sauce and topped with fresh strawberries. Next to it was a beautiful mille crêpe, every thin, delicate crêpe sandwiching a layer of pale beige cream. Then he realised he was spacing out and looked back at Madeline.

"In case you're wondering, I made the pavlova." Madeline smiled. "Hopefully it won't sink, or that'll be quite a lot of ingredients wasted. And Francis made the mille crêpe."

"It looks amazing."

"He's the only one who can make crêpes successfully. Every time I try, they're not perfectly round or end up too thick." She smiled, just a little bit. "Francis always calls them Satan's pancakes, and that's one of the few things I agree with him on."

For a hasty dinner, Yao had once made an egg pancake and wrapped it with lots of cabbage, pork floss and sun choi. He'd called it jian bing, which apparently was a popular street food in Beijing. Vicente wondered if that counted as a sort of crêpe. "I've never tried crêpes before, but they look hard to make."

"Oh, they're a nightmare," Madeline lamented. "If you put too much batter onto the pan, they'll pretty much be pancakes, and if you put too little, they'll most likely rip or burn. Once, I burned a crêpe so badly that the entire thing turned black."

He couldn't help the snort that escaped him, but quickly stopped it from turning into laughs. "Sorry," Vicente said, trying to keep a straight face. The story was barely funny; why was he holding back laughter?

Madeline ignored his apology and turned towards the box of egg tarts. "So these are the tarts you make for your brother's restaurant?"

"Yeah." He took the cover off and let the still-lingering smell of butter and vanilla join the symphony of flavours already there inside the Boulangerie. "They're not much, especially compared to the stuff you make every day."

"Nonsense, they look amazing." She peered into the box, pushing her glasses up. "I'd have one here and now, but standing at a counter's no way to enjoy a nice tart." Madeline took off her apron and put it into a drawer behind the counter, then brushed stray patches of flour off the burgundy blouse she wore underneath. She stepped out from behind the counter while scooping up the box, and placed it onto one of the tables at the side of the Boulangerie.

She looked up a moment later, having already sat down at the table. "Are you going to stay standing?"

Cheeks prickling with heat, Vicente sat down at the chair across hers. "The tarts taste best when they're right out of the oven," he babbled awkwardly, "and at our restaurant we usually serve it with milk tea or some other iced drink. My sister likes having them with iced coffee."

"Too bad we don't have drinks here, then." Madeline pulled two pieces of tissues from the napkin holder and laid it out in front of the two of them. "But with how hot it gets here during the afternoon, a glass of iced tea would be lovely with this." She took out a tart and laid it on her piece of tissue.

He couldn't think of anything else to say and took his own tart. Madeline took a bite of hers, setting the tart down daintily as she chewed. "It's lovely," she said after a while. "Tastes even better than it looks. And the custard is simply perfect. The balance of puff pastry, custard and vanilla is just right; but you're right, it would be even nicer right out of the oven, with the pastry crackly and hot and a glass of something cold to wash it all down." She stopped herself suddenly and reached for another piece of tissue awkwardly.

"I'm glad you liked it." Vicente had no idea why he felt so proud, why all of the nice remarks about the tarts in the past two weeks combined didn't give him half as much joy as Madeline's words did now. He nearly knocked over the napkin holder somehow. "Uh, I make custard buns at the restaurant as well, maybe I could bring some over next week?"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, that would be great. If the buns are anything like these tarts, I'm sure they'll be delicious." She put the cover back on the box of tarts. "I'll save the rest of these for my brothers. Neither has had breakfast yet, so I'm sure they'll finish these off quickly. I bet it'll be the best breakfast they've ever had." Madeline stood up, brushing stray flakes of puff pastry off her pants. "It was certainly mine."

"Thanks," was all Vicente could say. "Oh, and I have to buy some puff pastry. The same amount as usual." He was beginning to see why he'd gotten terrible marks in all his speaking assessments back at school.

"Right." Madeline put her apron back on and disappeared into the kitchen. She hurried out a few moments later with the packets of pastry, closing the kitchen door slowly. "Francis is being scarily nice today. I think he's just happy I manned the counter today without saying anything."

He took the packets, fingertips melting little holes into the frost, and stood up from the table. After paying, and saying "goodbye", he stepped out of Boulangerie Bonnefoy.

…

Yao was waiting for him at the restaurant with his hands on his hips in a valiant attempt to look intimidating. The moment the puff pastry was safely stored in Wang's freezer, he began berating Vicente in a horrifying mixture of English, Cantonese and Mandarin.

"Wang Ka Lun, I woke up this morning to find your bunk empty, with Ka Long and Ling having no idea of where you are, and you disappear for half the morning with no indication of where you went! I was this — " he pinched his fingers together, leaving only a tiny gap — "close to calling the police because I thought you were lying dead in an alley. Do you know how terrifying it is to have your brother disappear on you first thing in the morning, hah? Next time you want to spontaneously disappear on us to go buy illegal things or deal with gangs or whatever you went to do just now, leave a note telling us you'll be back soon, kě yǐ ma?"

Leon and Ling were watching from the sinks, busy washing dishes. They both looked very entertained, given that they weren't the ones being told off for once. Vicente stared at Yao, who was bright red and looked like he was going to explode, and replied, "sorry for making you worried, I just went out to get puff pastry."

"Alone, at six in the morning, which took one and a half hours?" Yao demanded.

"Okay, maybe I got carried away a little. But I got the puff pastry. I didn't go join a gang or anything, I promise."

Ling tossed a dirty dishcloth towards the basket at the corner of the kitchen. "Did you talk to Madeline again?"

Yao narrowed his eyes. "Who's Madeline?"

"She works at Boulangerie Bonnefoy. She helps me get the pastry every week."

"And she's not secretly a serial killer?"

"Good question," Leon called. "Maybe we'll wake up one morning to find her stabbing Vicente in the chest."

"No, you won't." Vicente rolled his eyes. "Madeline isn't a criminal or anything, she's just Francis' sister. Am I done being interrogated yet?"

"For now." Yao pushed him towards the sinks. "To make up for scaring the life out of me, you're washing dishes for the rest of the morning. I'll handle the pastries."

Accepting his fate, Vicente picked up a dirty plate and began rinsing the food stains off, thinking of the custard buns he'd make next week.

Sunday felt an eternity away.