Epilogue
“To make ink, make sure to boil the bile for three days in rainwater or that of a stilled pond before adding the vitriol and gum Arabic. No running waters.”
—From the salvaged notes of A., apprentice in the kitchens of Fontainebleau c. 1530s
Henri delicately picked the snails from the lavender leaves. He made sure not to squish them between his fingers. If he was still apprenticed in the kitchens of Fontainebleau, he would’ve tried to determine how to candy the flesh till it turned to sweet meat. This morning, he didn’t think its shell would be better if stuffed with creams and carved of marzipan. He didn’t think anything of the sort. And he never would again. His taste for desserts had soured. Every sack of sugar reminded him of days gone by and of those no longer able to stir
