Finally, at last, he found an old artist who said he could maybe do it. He lived in the north and worked with light and was willing to come in—at great expense, but Konstantin never noticed expense, and fortunately Joel’s budget was generous—and “see if the space worked for him.”

Konstantin had asked if the space often worked for him and didn’t receive much of an answer, but it was the best he could do. The artist insisted on flying in for a morning and out again, by which time apparently his artistic sensibilities would have taken in all they needed to know.

“I need to charm him,” Konstantin announced to the kitchen. “He needs to want to make one of his creations here.”

“I thought it was just hanging lights on a lamppost,” said Isla.

“Me too,” said Konstantin.

Konstantin was much more crestfallen than he would admit. He was used to impressing people fairly easily, something about himself that had somewhat evaporated in the last month. Still, either the artist wouldn’t care or he’d tell the papers, neither of which was ideal.

“I don’t know how to impress him. And he’s only here for breakfast.”

“You could make croissants,” said Isla. She meant it as a joke, but Gaspard came skidding across the kitchen like he was on roller skates.

“You make croissant?” he said, his lip curling.

Isla couldn’t help it, by habit she trembled slightly under his gaze. “Uhm . . . Flora showed me once.”

“You do it?”

“Well, I—”

“Aha! I knew it. Do not lie of croissants!” He turned to stalk away.

“I am not lying of . . . about croissants.”

The only reply was a contemptuous sniff.

“Okay then! We’ll do it!” said Isla, surprised at herself.

“You cannot pronounce the word, how you do it?”

Isla couldn’t believe where she found the courage. “You’ll see,” she said.

“I will see,” said Gaspard, but there was hope as well as disdain in his voice. “Pot boy, he help you.”

“I’m sure I can do it by myself.”

“No. You watch and learn.” He pointed at Konstantin. “Or if ees rubbish, you can forget.”

Which was how they found themselves, the night before the artist, Gunnar, arrived, up at four o’clock in the bloody morning—Isla resigned, Konstantin astounded—Isla having to come in the freezing dark to the warm, still kitchen in the middle of the night.

Gaspard had refused to let her use Flora’s recipe and left his own instead. She didn’t really remember much of Flora’s methods anyway. Spread chilled butter. Then roll it into the dough she’d started the night before. Then fold over the dough. Then chill. Then do it again. And again.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, looking at the enormous mound of butter. “How does anyone ever have the patience to do this? I forgot it was such a pain.”

“No, is croissant,” said Konstantin, trying to figure out the coffee machine and hoping if he did it badly enough that Isla would just take over and do it for him. She didn’t get his joke either. He straightened up. “Don’t people make croissants every day?”