A/N: Finally finished it. My computer's been pretty wacky lately (The entire bottom half of the screen is totally white), so it's been hard to open my files. Thankfully, I've ordered a new computer, which should be coming in a few days. I've also been getting ready to go to college, so I'm not writing nearly as often. Don't worry, though, I have no intention of abandoning the story (which is something, considering that it's me talking). Anyways, I promised you a better chapter last time, so I hope that this delivers. Thanks for all the reviews from last time and for staying with me through the story! I really appreciate it!
Anyway, hope you like it!
A/N UPDATE: I've been having some trouble getting into the right mindset to finish this and I'm really, really sorry for leaving the story hanging for so long. Especially without warning. I'd nearly forgotten about it when I came across it again in my files, so I'm planning on taking it up again in the near future!
Combeferre was exhausted. For the better part of the morning and into the afternoon, he had been trying to track down Jean Provaire, scurrying to near half a dozen predesignated meeting spots before finally locating the poet in a public garden. After skulking unnoticed behind a two-day-old newspaper, Combeferre was able to conclude that Jehan was doing his job admirably, keeping his normally impatient companion relatively toned-down. Silently congratulating Provaire on a job well-done, the weary law student began the trek back to the Musain, pleased that at least one part of the plan was going smoothly.
As he mounted the outdoor steps leading to the kitchen, Combeferre was able to make out voices within, engaged in the usual banter. It sounded like a small army was housed inside the room and he paused a moment, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of noise that waited to assail him. Gathering his resolve, he laid his hand on the door handle and let himself in.
Immediately, he was struck by the disconcerting impression that the room contained dozens of people. A wave of heat hit him full in the face and he held up a hand to block it. The air around the oven was shimmering slightly, a testament to its elevated temperature.
Several of his friends had turned at the sound of his entrance; he noticed that both Bahorel and Joly looked relieved to see him. "Well, how is he?" Bahorel inquired.
Though the question was vague, Combeferre did not need him to elaborate. "He's doing well," He said, moving further into the kitchen, the door shutting firmly behind him. "Everything is under control. How are you all getting along?"
"It's in the oven. All we need to do is wait for it to bake and then assemble it. Oh, and make the cream; but Bossuet and Courfey are handling that." He glanced across the room at the two, who were crowded conspiratorially around a pan, discarded ingredients surrounding them. Satisfied that they were actually working, Bahorel turned his attention towards the fireplace, where a figure was bent over a saucepan, staring at it as if he expected it to suddenly start tap-dancing. "How's that syrup coming, Feuilly?"
"It's coming," Feuilly assured him.
Bahorel nodded and leaned over to check how the pie plates were getting along. What he found made him slightly uneasy and he checked over the recipe for what felt like the thousandth time. "The pastry's not rising," He said grimly, his voice loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear.
"You were expecting it to levitate?" came a call from the direction of Laigle and Courfeyrac. Bahorel ignored it, instead focusing his attention on Combeferre.
Realizing that he was expected to respond, Combeferre leaned down to look in the oven, nearly getting the breath knocked out of him by a wave of heat. "Well, what do we do about it?"
The other man shrugged and ran a hand through his ruddy hair in an anxious gesture. "Just wait it out, I guess. It might start rising towards the end."
"Ho! Bahorel!" Laigle called out, wresting the large man's attention from the dilemma at hand. "Where did we put the vanilla flavoring?"
"Ah, I brought it with me." Combeferre fished a small bottle out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it over. "Can't have a vanilla cake without the vanilla."
"I thought we were doing a rum cake." The new voice was coarse and grating, almost as though rust had begun to set in. Grantaire had appeared in the doorway and was looking at Combeferre as if the other had slaughtered his puppy before his eyes.
"No, Grantaire," Combeferre replied, with the air of a man who has explained things more than twice. "It has to be something that we all can enjoy. We all agreed that it should be vanilla."
"I didn't," Grantaire growled.
"That's because you were passed out on the table." Despite the patience Combeferre managed to instill in his voice, it was plain that the day's events were starting to wear on him.
The drunkard glowered, his face darkening like a storm cloud. He opened his mouth to protest, but Joly quickly interceded. "Why don't you just pour rum on your piece, R? That would be a lot easier, wouldn't it? And you can have as much flavoring as you want that way."
Grantaire's eyes became thoughtful and after a moment he nodded slowly. "All right, that works for me. Though this pastry had better be a heavenly confection if you expect Apollo to like it."
"We'll keep that in mind," Laigle said cheerfully as he ignored the recipe completely and emptied the entire bottle of vanilla into the mixing bowl. Courfeyrac gave him an odd look, but held his peace, grabbing a spoon and beginning to stir the concoction.
"Has it been twenty-five minutes yet?" Feilly piped up, apparently having grown tired of saucepan duty.
"About," Joly replied, checking his pocket-watch.
"Don't let it boil!" Bahorel warned simultaneously. "We'll have to start all over."
"Cream's ready!" Courfeyrac chirped, licking a glob of it off of his finger.
"Good, set it aside and come help me get these pastry balls out of the oven. And for God's sake, stop eating the cream!"
A few minutes later, thirty-five balls of baked éclair filling were cooling on the counter, Courfeyrac was being scolded for having eaten one, and Laigle was nursing four burned fingers. "So now what?" asked Joly as he inspected the injury.
"Now we wait for these confounded plates of puff pastry to finish baking," Bahorel answered, his tone indicating that the pastry was still refusing to rise.
"Well, how long should that take?"
"They should be done right about now." He tested one plate with a fork before pulling it out with a cloth-wrapped hand and setting it on the counter. "'Ferre, could you get the other two?"
Combeferre did so, gingerly reaching into the hot oven and pulling them out one at a time. Bahorel consulted the recipe. "Now, we need to 'dip the balls in syrup and place them around the border of the pastry about two inches apart'. Feuilly, bring the syrup over here and start dipping. No, not with your fingers, pick them up with a fork."
Grantaire stood in the doorway and observed his fellows, his enthusiasm over culinary matters long since forgotten. "This cake is going to look ridiculous," he commented, watching as Feuilly began his task.
" I think it looks rather manly." Courfeyrac countered, a large grin plastered over his face. "Reminds me of myself."
"You mean you're both full of hot air?" Joly glanced up from bandaging Laigle's fingers.
"You wound me," Courfeyrac said, feigning hurt. "And here I thought our friendship meant something to you."
"Don't be too offended," The medical student replied. "I save you money on doctor's bills, after all."
Feuilly snickered, but Courfeyrac only gave a small smile. "Touché."
A/N: Next Time On Let Them Eat Cake: There's trouble on the ranch and Feuilly may be the only one able to stop it. But with the annual Cow Roping Competition just around the corner, will he be able to do it in time? Or will Jean Provaire's lifelong dream of becoming the King of Cows be shattered by the inevitable? And what about the mysterious black stallion who's taken up residence in Courfeyrac's living room?