Chapter 7

“Ahh…so it is!” the man said. “It’s majestic! Did you make it?”

Henri nodded without thinking. His auntie had given it to him to take out. She was still in the kitchen and his wrists ached from stirring. He puffed out his chest. This was the first winter he was tall enough to see over the table.

The guests had all fallen silent in awe of the log. Too realistic to be an actual dessert. All spellbound by his auntie’s creation. Was everyone waiting for a live woodpecker to spring out? Their conversations halted, with their goblets half raised. Mouths hung open. Henri could see some the fried fins of sardines from the supper’s stew. All seemed bewitched. None of the guests had dared lift a knife to make the first cut.

“If you baked this, then perhaps you can tell me where the Christ child is buried.”