The following days dripped like honey from a muse's jar. Adam and Quintella relaxed in the most expensive cafes. Concertos of violin and bass lulled their stay—fragrant steam from tea and coffee curling from their warm porcelain cups.
Quintella's chuckles reverberated with each new pastry she tried. The slightly sweet taste of pistachio cream filled her mouth when she tried a green macaron. Another time, she devoured an entire tart covered in a yellow film that sparkled like gelatinised gold.
The first bite made her grimace—the sourness of lemons. She hated sour things, like most children. And yet, when the pie crust cracked, and the buttered sweetness melded with the sourness, a delighted shiver ran through her rising hand. She cupped her cheek, gasping at the contradictory flavors that somehow managed to make perfect sense.
