I find the kitchen easily enough, and a beaming Dez greets me enthusiastically. “Hey! Come in, come in. Coffee, tea? There’s some apple pie left from yesterday.”

She’s clearly a morning person.

“I can have some more of your pie?” I marvel.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the one I made for the house. Markus is only particular about his pies. You want two pumps of caramel syrup and one of vanilla, right?” she checks, already starting a latte for me.

“You know, I really get why he wants to marry you.”

Daisy chuckles. “He only wants to marry me because his two brothers are already married. He hates to be the odd one out.”

I’m seated at a breakfast bar with a coffee and pie in no time, and Dez explains the mille feuille process to me while I eat.

“We’re starting with the puff pastry, as it needs to rest for a few minutes in the fridge, and then, we can do the creme patissiere—that’s the cream that was in yesterday’s pie. Learn to do that right, and all your desserts will be next level. Whenever a recipe tells you custard, or whatever, ignore it. Make a good creme pat. The puff pastry will need to be folded again, and while it rests, we’ll handle the icing and chocolate sauce. Ready?”

I take so many notes as I watch her move around the kitchen like a baked good goddess, in awe.

“How did you learn all this?” I ask as I help decorate the second tray of mille feuille an hour and a half later.

“The internet, mostly. And trial and error. I used to feel very awkward, where I lived before and when I first arrived in this house. Having a hobby that kept me away from everyone for a while helped. Plus, the pastries made people like me.”

I think I relate to this girl a great deal. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a hobby in the Vesper House, but I don’t want to trample over Claudio’s turf.

“It’s one of the guys’ birthday tomorrow, and he loves iles flottante. That’s super easy—but it needs to be refrigerated for a while, so I’ll make them in the morning, for the evening. You’re welcome to come back if you’d like. It’s pretty handy to know how to make a good creme anglaise. Don’t let the name fool you: it’s absolutely not custard.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

Dez lets me take the entire tray home—which is about a dozen mille feuilles after I cut them up—keeping the second for her own house.

It’s already ten when I make it back, and the house is a lot busier.

“Oh, goodies!” Calla chirps, eyes fixed on the food.