Read Online The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Madeleine
Ads: Link
page: sugar, paste, almonds … The book’s cover was missing, but even so, it would be more than he could afford. Before he knew what he was doing, the book had found its way beneath his jacket. He thrust the final handful of papers at the old man and turned away, heart thundering in his throat. A noise behind him could have been a shout, but the wind was too loud to hear clearly. He risked a glance over his shoulder: the man was staring after him, but was soon lost to the weather.
Gui broke into a run, arms wrapped tight around his wet coat and the precious object beneath. In the hammering rain he felt elated. His steps became leaps, over puddles and onto the pavement, where he bowed absurdly to a carriage horse that stood in the gutter. By the time he reached the station quarter, the shops were closing.
His coins bought him a bottle of red wine, poured hurriedly from a vat. He had no money left for food, but the wine would help him forget that. He stood to one side as a woman elbowed past, arms and baskets weighed down with groceries. A drainpipe belched its load over the pair of them and the woman gasped, grappling for her hat. One of her packages slipped unnoticed into the mud.
The thought of an empty belly was enough to send Gui stooping for it like lightning. He hurried away before she realized what had happened, fingers releasing the sodden wax paper to find a slab of cheese. He told himself that feeling guilty wouldn’t fill his stomach, and shoved it into his pocket, whistling a Christmas hymn as he squelched back to the empty dormitory.
By the time night fell he was huddled by the coal stove, wrapped in a blanket. His clothes hung dripping onto the wooden floor. Wind and rain rattled the roof, but he was cosy. The book lay open before him, waiting to be explored. A loose sheet shoved hastily into the middle contained the title page. He smoothed the worn paper with careful fingers, entranced by the letters. They were grand, ornate even, surrounded by curls and illustrations.
He had never owned a book, beyond his catechism for school. This one was by a Monsieur Carême, who described first-hand the creation of wonders: palaces, temples, even ruined castles, all constructed from sugar. An architect , Gui realized with a jolt. There were many words he did not know, but read them over and again until he almost understood.
Monsieur Carême was his companion that Christmas night. He turned the pages deep into the early hours, his head filled with images of construction and confection, explained by the voice of a master at his craft.
Early the next morning, he awoke to the hush of rain upon the roof. For long minutes he lay still, taking in the rare, melancholy luxury of waking alone. Somewhere, it was Christmas morning. His mother would be trudging the muddy track of a country town to visit their relatives without him. He rolled over in his cocoon of blankets. The book was on the floor, pages splayed. He must have fallen asleep reading it; he stroked a page lightly in apology and turned to where he had left off.
Eventually, church bells began to chime nearby and Gui’s surroundings clarified themselves: cold, damp dormitory, an empty bottle, a rind of cheese. Monsieur Carême’s lessons were not for the likes of him, yet he could not help but smile as he tucked the book carefully beneath the hard pillow.
He drank water, ice-cold from the pitcher, to quell the hollow in his stomach. He would have to venture out to scrounge a meal. Sometimes, the churches gave out food on Christmas Day. He should feel ashamed, he knew, begging for alms, but since no one knew him here, he did not see the harm.
Most of his clothes were still too wet to wear. He scrabbled into his trousers, wincing as the clammy fabric caught about his legs. His spare shirt was threadbare, but dry, so he pulled it over his head.
In another boy’s trunk he found a waistcoat, worn red velvet, and in another, a scarlet neckerchief. Their owners
Gui broke into a run, arms wrapped tight around his wet coat and the precious object beneath. In the hammering rain he felt elated. His steps became leaps, over puddles and onto the pavement, where he bowed absurdly to a carriage horse that stood in the gutter. By the time he reached the station quarter, the shops were closing.
His coins bought him a bottle of red wine, poured hurriedly from a vat. He had no money left for food, but the wine would help him forget that. He stood to one side as a woman elbowed past, arms and baskets weighed down with groceries. A drainpipe belched its load over the pair of them and the woman gasped, grappling for her hat. One of her packages slipped unnoticed into the mud.
The thought of an empty belly was enough to send Gui stooping for it like lightning. He hurried away before she realized what had happened, fingers releasing the sodden wax paper to find a slab of cheese. He told himself that feeling guilty wouldn’t fill his stomach, and shoved it into his pocket, whistling a Christmas hymn as he squelched back to the empty dormitory.
By the time night fell he was huddled by the coal stove, wrapped in a blanket. His clothes hung dripping onto the wooden floor. Wind and rain rattled the roof, but he was cosy. The book lay open before him, waiting to be explored. A loose sheet shoved hastily into the middle contained the title page. He smoothed the worn paper with careful fingers, entranced by the letters. They were grand, ornate even, surrounded by curls and illustrations.
He had never owned a book, beyond his catechism for school. This one was by a Monsieur Carême, who described first-hand the creation of wonders: palaces, temples, even ruined castles, all constructed from sugar. An architect , Gui realized with a jolt. There were many words he did not know, but read them over and again until he almost understood.
Monsieur Carême was his companion that Christmas night. He turned the pages deep into the early hours, his head filled with images of construction and confection, explained by the voice of a master at his craft.
Early the next morning, he awoke to the hush of rain upon the roof. For long minutes he lay still, taking in the rare, melancholy luxury of waking alone. Somewhere, it was Christmas morning. His mother would be trudging the muddy track of a country town to visit their relatives without him. He rolled over in his cocoon of blankets. The book was on the floor, pages splayed. He must have fallen asleep reading it; he stroked a page lightly in apology and turned to where he had left off.
Eventually, church bells began to chime nearby and Gui’s surroundings clarified themselves: cold, damp dormitory, an empty bottle, a rind of cheese. Monsieur Carême’s lessons were not for the likes of him, yet he could not help but smile as he tucked the book carefully beneath the hard pillow.
He drank water, ice-cold from the pitcher, to quell the hollow in his stomach. He would have to venture out to scrounge a meal. Sometimes, the churches gave out food on Christmas Day. He should feel ashamed, he knew, begging for alms, but since no one knew him here, he did not see the harm.
Most of his clothes were still too wet to wear. He scrabbled into his trousers, wincing as the clammy fabric caught about his legs. His spare shirt was threadbare, but dry, so he pulled it over his head.
In another boy’s trunk he found a waistcoat, worn red velvet, and in another, a scarlet neckerchief. Their owners
Similar Books
