Prologue

 "Come on, slowpoke! If you don't hurry up, I'll eat your share too!" Her soft hand clasped mine as we darted through the cobblestone streets of Hogtown.

I shot her a grin, feeling the corners of my mouth lift. "Hold on, Sis! You're too fast!" I puffed, my legs burning as I tried to match her seemingly endless energy.

The memory surfaced like a distant dream, a fragment from the depths of my mind. Her laughter, a constant companion, was like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. The spring air was alive with the sweet fragrance of cherry blossoms, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil from nearby gardens. How old were we? It was hard to say. But one thing was certain: we had finally saved enough to buy something from the fancy bakery nearby.

The coin purse jingled with every step, a symphony of our excitement. The cool metal of the coins pressed against my palm, grounding me in the moment. As we neared the bakery, a customer exited, and the metallic bell above the door chimed. The spring breeze carried a wave of sweet, intoxicating aromas that enveloped the entire neighborhood. The scent of freshly baked bread, rich chocolate, and delicate pastries filled the air, making our mouths water. Our stomachs growled in anticipation.

"Hey Ellis, do you think we could bring home a whole cake?" she asked, her eyes sparkling like the sunlit river that ran through our town.

I chuckled, shaking my head. "I doubt Mom and Dad gave us enough allowance. Maybe we can get two slices," I replied, trying to manage her expectations. But even so, her enthusiasm was too contagious to say no.

The bakery, 'Lelong', was a small, unassuming place, a treasure trove of delights waiting to be discovered. Glass displays showcased sweets with names as fancy as their appearances. One dessert resembled a snow-capped mountain. Another featured colorful cookies that looked like soft pillows. The walls were lined with shelves holding neatly packaged treats, from delicate macarons to intricately decorated cakes. Patrons, dressed in light spring attire—floral dresses, pastel shirts, and straw hats—added to the vibrant atmosphere.

Each treat, from the golden éclairs to the jewel-like macarons, seemed more luxurious than the last. Doubt crept in—had we saved enough to afford even a taste of these exquisite delights? But her eyes were wide with wonder, completely absorbed by the spectacle. A knot of worry tightened in my chest, but I forced a smile, not wanting to dampen her excitement.

Then, I noticed an elderly man watching us. His stern face, framed by a hooked nose and deep-set eyes, gave him an intense look. He wore a crisp white uniform and a brown apron, his attire immaculate despite the flour dusting his sleeves. He looked like he stepped out of an old photograph. My first instinct was to pull my sister out of the store. Thoughts appeared as I wondered if we couldn't afford anything? What if we embarrassed ourselves?

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle and Monsieur. Welcome to Lelong. Please let me know if there is anything I can assist you with," he said with an elegance that felt almost magical.

"Sir, could you tell us what that is?" my sister asked, her eyes wide with curiosity, as if the pastry held the secrets of the universe. I marveled at her fearless curiosity, my own voice caught in my throat. I shuffled my feet, hoping she would ask the questions I couldn't.

"Oui. Of course, Mademoiselle," the chef said, his eyes twinkling. "This is a mille-feuille, a French delight. Each layer of puff pastry is carefully baked to perfection, and the pastry cream is my own special recipe." His pride was evident, and I found myself drawn into his passion.

The mille-feuille, with its countless layers of golden puff pastry, looked like a delicate masterpiece. As I stared, I could almost taste the rich, creamy custard nestled between the flaky sheets and decoratively cut strawberries layed on top.

"If you'd like, I can fetch a piping bag with the pastry cream for you to sample," he offered.

I hesitated, glancing at my sister. Her face lit up with excitement. We both nodded eagerly, and the chef disappeared into the back. A few minutes later, he returned with a piping bag brimming with vanilla custard. He squeezed a small dollop onto a piece of parchment paper. Unsure of the proper etiquette, I watched as the chef dipped his finger into the cream and tasted it himself. His expression remained neutral, waiting for us to follow suit.

The sweet and tangy aroma enveloped us, a tantalizing hint of the delights to come. As the crème pâtissière melted on our tongues, we exchanged wide-eyed, gleeful looks at each other. The soft, creamy texture with a hint of citrus was a revelation.

"This is incredible," I exclaimed, my voice filled with wonder. "I've never tasted anything like this."

"Can you tell us what's in it?" my sister asked eagerly, her curiosity piqued. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she leaned closer, her tone a mix of awe and determination. "Do you think we could ever make something like this at home?"

"Thank you for your kind words," the chef said, a twinkle in his eye. "But I'm afraid that's a secret recipe."

As we mulled over which dessert to order, a young woman with fair skin hurried over to the chef. "Chef Lelong, the soufflés just came out of the oven. Please take a look," she said, her voice edged with worry.

Curiosity piqued, my sister and I trailed them to the kitchen area. A delightful fruity aroma wafted from the open oven door, and we could see little purplish-blue specks dotting the tops of the desserts. The chef's hands moved with practiced grace as he inspected the soufflés, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. The young woman watched intently, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her apron.

"These won't do," Chef Lelong declared, a heavy frown creasing his face. "The soufflés were pulled out five minutes too late. We need to dispose of them and start over."

The chef's comment landed like a blow, and though the young woman nodded in acceptance, her shoulders sagged under the weight of the criticism. Even the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked goods did little to lift her spirits.

"No, please don't," my sister interjected, her voice trembling. "We want to buy them. Not just one, but all of them. Pretty please."

The elderly man's face was as unyielding as stone, his brow furrowed in deep thought. We knew our request was unreasonable, but we couldn't help ourselves. The kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, with the clatter of pots and pans and the hiss of steam rising from boiling pots suddenly went quiet. His assistants, usually composed, all looked perplexed, glancing between us and the chef. After a long pause, he finally made up his mind.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that," he said, his response disheartening. My heart sank at his refusal, but the sudden twinkle in his eye sparked a glimmer of hope. "Penelope, what time is it now?" the chef asked with a mischievous glint.

The young woman, surprised by the question, checked her watch. "I believe it is almost noon."

A joyful look spread across the chef's face, his eyes filled with mirth, further confusing his assistant. "Penelope, I've decided to go on my lunch break with my new friends. Could you please take over the bakery for me in the meantime?"

With that, he removed his apron and beckoned us to follow him. The chef's hands moved with practiced precision as he removed his apron, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter. His movements were fluid and graceful, belying his age. Gracefully, the elderly man carried the tray of soufflés to an open table.