Chapter 4

Like a roving pudding. No, precisely like the Quaking Pudding, Henri thought. They were nothing but a blob of stale rosewater and crushed walnuts. It brought him pleasure to see his instructors so diminished.

Only André stood out, uncapped and in a tunic of sky-blue with slitted puffy sleeves bursting gold satin. Henri’s shoes felt gummed to the planks. He didn’t want to step-down. The sun seemed to shine brighter with André there. Henri was embraced in the warmth and hope. Maybe his angel wings would fly down the throat of André and ignite the royal p?tissier’sguts with pleasure.

André continued. “And Lord Montaigne wants a winter festival in anticipation of his first son’s birth with a grand prize going to the best dessert. I know the little toadess is going to have her Italians whip up something special. She is going to try to bewitch the kingdom through their throats. Well, I refuse to let this happen.”