Just as he did last week, Vicente rose early to make the custard buns. The dough he used for the buns was left over from the day before, and he placed the bowl filled with it into the refrigerator while he made the custard. He placed a saucepan of milk on the stove while in scraping seeds from a vanilla bean. In a bowl, he whisked egg yolks together with sugar, carefully pouring in the milk bit by bit. As he slowly formed the custard over a double boiler, its rich, comforting smell filled the kitchen. He took the pan off the heat to chill in the fridge next to the dough.

  Once the custard was solid enough for him to work with, he took the pan and the bowl of dough out of the fridge to make the buns. A tiny dollop of custard was rolled out and wrapped in a layer of the dough — not too thick, not too thin — then shaped into a ball. After that, it was another twenty minutes of waiting before he could pop the buns into the steamer.

  Forty-five minutes later, four freshly-steamed, piping-hot custard buns were wrapped up in rice paper and in a paper bag. Vicente packed his bag to leave for Boulangerie Bellecourt, leaving a note on the countertop lest Yao made good on his threat and call the police. After storing the saucepan back in the supply cabinet, he went off to the bus station.

  At the counter, Madeline was busy fiddling with the display case of cakes, placing hand-written labels in front of every cake. The pavlova was gone, as was the mille crêpe, and in its place were a few babas au rhum (tiny, rum-soaked brioche buns), a canary-yellow lemon tart and a pound cake glistening with Royal icing. The labels were all written in elegant cursive, set down in front of each gleaming silver cake stand, and Madeline stood up after the last one was placed.

  She jumped at the sight of Vicente, eyes widened slightly. There was a few seconds of silence before she relaxed and began to untie her apron. He stepped back awkwardly, the custard buns pressing into his chest. "I-I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

  "No." Madeline folded her apron and slipped a hand into her skirt pocket, saying, "it's all right, I'm fine. Are those the custard buns you make at your restaurant?"

  "Yep, I made these just this morning." He laid the paper bag on the counter. "They're great even at room temperature or cold, but I thought you'd want to try some fresh ones."

  Madeline reached out to poke the paper bag, making the paper rustle. "They're still warm." She messed around with the bag a bit more, then stepped away. "Wait here; I made something for you as well."

  He took the bag of custard buns and placed it at the same table he and Madeline had sat at the week before and opened it up. The buns looked a little squashed, but luckily none of the filling was leaking out. He pulled two of them out and placed them on a pair of napkins.

  From the kitchen, Madeline emerged. She was holding two plates, each one with a slice of pale-brown tart. It was dotted with florets of meringue, the outsides brown after being flambéd, and looked like a work of art compared to his plain custard buns. She left the counter area and set them down at the table.

  Vicente watched her sit down, pull a napkin holding a custard bun towards herself. "Sorry to ruin the mood, but, uh, what if someone else shows up and sees you away from the counter?"

  She tore the custard bun in half, miraculously avoiding getting any of the custard filling over her fingers. "It's seven in the morning, and it's a weekend. We won't get any other customers in here until at least eleven, so until then you'll be the only one in here." Madeline nudged the plate holding the tart slice towards him. "So don't worry about it. Nobody will interrupt our Sunday mornings."

  The way Madeline talked about their Sunday mornings made it sound like it was some sort of routine, even though they'd only seen each other four times. Not that he was against it; it was nice having someone apart from his siblings to talk to once in a while. He took a bite of the tart, shocked at the rich chestnut flavour that came from the silky-smooth filling. The meringue was crispy and surprisingly sweet, with a tiny hint of smokiness.

  Across the table, Madeline was watching as she nibbled at her custard bun. "Is it good?"

  The tart was flawless. Vicente had only had chestnuts ones, years before, roasted ones his mother had bought for him and Yao at a stand in Hong Kong. He'd burned his fingers trying to open up the rock-hard shells and resorted to smashing it with his bag to get it to split open. But somehow the chestnuts in Madeline's tarts had an entirely different flavour, mildly sweet and creamy; it was heavenly when paired with the meringue and the buttery, flaky crust.

  But making a small speech on the perfection of someone's baked good was weird, so he settled on replying, "it's perfect. How's the bun?"

  "It's amazing." She took another bite, closing her eyes in elation. "I thought the egg tarts you brought last week were good, but these are even better. I bet Lucien would be dying to hire you if you weren't already working somewhere else."

  "Are they really that good?"

  "I said what I said. The buns aren't like anything you'll see us make." Madeline pressed on the snowy-white exterior of the custard bun, watching the custard filling slowly ooze out. "I'd ask for the recipe, but I suppose that's a secret only your restaurant can know about."

  Vicente chipped off another piece of the tart. "Not really. I could bring the recipe over another day, maybe next week." The recipe was still written on a yellowed piece of paper in his mother's handwriting and he didn't really want to part with it. "Or maybe I could send it to you after translating it — "

  "Translating it?"

  "It's in Chinese," he explained. "I could send you an English version of it over email or something."

  Madeline pulled a pen out of her apron pocket and began to write on a piece of tissue from the napkin holder. "This is my phone number," she said. "you can send the recipe here, and I'll send the one for the chestnut tart." She looked down at her own slice, untouched. "Lucien insists that the flavour is too boring, the meringues are unreliable, and the tart shell is boring, so I'm glad you like it."

  He took the piece of tissue and took a look at the number, then pulled out his phone to copy it into his contacts. While he turned off his phone, he noticed the date — it was nearly September, when his first semester at the local university was to start. "School's starting in a week," he said aloud.

  "Hmm?" Madeline glanced at him, confused. "Do you mean Trofilos U. or...?"

  "Yes, that." Vicente put his phone back into his pocket. "I mean, I have my textbooks and all that, but I honestly have no idea what I'm getting into." During June, he'd picked a subject at random, making sure it sounded like something his stepmother would approve of. In hindsight, that had been a really stupid idea.

  "What are you taking?"

  "Hospitality management." At least it might ensure that he knew how to run Huang's if Yao fell sick for some reason.

  "I'm taking that, too. I originally wanted to take the history of dance, but that's not very useful, does it?" She sounded bitter. "But I guess a degree is a degree."

  "As long as I don't flunk out midway, I'll be all right," he agreed. "Anyway, I should get going now, I don't want my brother to worry."

  Madeline stood up. "Do you need any puff pastry?"

  "Oh, right." After sharing their food and talking for so long, he'd completely forgotten about why he had to be here in the first place. "Sorry about that."

  "Don't worry, everyone forgets things sometimes." Madeline went behind the counter again and into the kitchen, returning just a minute later with the usual packages of pastry. "Lucien is still surprised that I agreed to man the counter. I don't think he knows it's because I like waiting for you every Sunday, but I suppose he can stay in the dark." She accepted the money and dropped it neatly into the cashier. "Thank you for the buns, by the way."

  "Any time." Vicente blinked hard; waking up so early had taken its toll. "I'll see you in school, it'll be nice to have a friend around."

  "I'll see you there," she echoed.

  The taste of chestnut still fresh in his memory, as well as buzzing thoughts about his friend and classmate, Vicente left the Boulangerie and made his way home.