Free The Confectioner's Tale by Laura Madeleine

would surely not begrudge their use on a holiday. He combed at his short hair with his fingers, and stood in front of the mirror to survey the outcome.
    He had grown thinner, he noticed with frustration, no doubt due to the long nights of work. He slapped some colour into his cheeks and pushed his cap to a jaunty angle worthy of Nicolas. With his wind-tanned face, his tawny hair growing back and the bright red scarf, he looked more gypsy than good Christian, but that did not stop him from stepping out into the Christmas morning.
    In the cold, he retraced the previous day’s route. He did not pause when he reached the quay but ventured onto the bridge. His steps led him to the back of Notre Dame, where great buttresses propped up the bulk of the chapel. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, chilling his skin and sending him hurrying into the cathedral. A service was taking place and worshippers filled the pews, radiating their heat. Candles blazed – hundreds of them – and the light was so golden that it was hard to believe in the grey weather outside.
    He slipped into a back pew. Here, the people were like him, with chapped fingers and patched clothes, never quite warm enough. The rich took their places nearer to the front, in their velvet and fur.
    Gui sat quietly and listened. He had never paid much attention to his prayers as a child, but the presence of others was comforting; murmuring in unison with them made him feel less alone.
    Soon, the service drew to a close and he found himself in a crush of people eager to leave, to return to their hearths and Christmas toasts. He stepped into the aisle only to be shoved aside by a wealthy man in leather gloves. He swore and turned angrily to confront the man, only to come face to face with familiar blue eyes.
    Gui dropped his gaze and stepped back, shame flooding his stomach. Mademoiselle Clermont was staring at him. An older woman took her arm and hurried her away. Gui kept his head lowered until they were gone, then inched his way along with the rest.
    Outside, the congregation evaporated onto the streets. An enormous fir tree stood solitary in the square, its little tin ornaments clinking in the rain. He stood under its branches to look up. Water dripped through the thick needles, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of greenery.
    ‘Guillaume?’
    Mademoiselle Clermont was standing a few feet away, blinking at him through the rain.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked without thinking.
    She hurried under the shelter of the branches and raised her face veil.
    ‘I should ask you the same.’ She gazed at the sheet of water on the stones. ‘I assumed you would have gone home for Christmas. Bordeaux, did you say?’
    He jammed his hands in his pockets, for warmth, he told himself.
    ‘Yes, Bordeaux.’ He paused. ‘It is a long way.’
    ‘What of your family? Won’t they miss you?’
    ‘There’s only my mother now. I sent her my wages. It will mean that she’s comfortable, I hope.’
    The rain continued to fall on the square, reaching them in fat droplets that smelled improbably of deep forest.
    ‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly after a while, ‘about earlier in the church.’
    ‘No, I am to blame.’ She sighed, voice fading. ‘I forget …’
    Her skin was pale, almost translucent against the heavy fabric of her high collar. It reminded him of tempered glass. Impulsively, he wanted to take her hand, to run with her from the rain into a crowded bar, see her laugh again. He would order a jug of wine and they would sit close together, watching the passers-by, growing warmer as they drank.
    ‘Would you …?’ he began.
    Her eyes were fixed ahead; he followed her gaze. A carriage stood at the edge of the pavement. A man was lingering on the step, waiting for her to board.
    ‘I must go,’ she stammered, ‘but I hate the thought of you having a gloomy Christmas. Please, take this.’
    From a tiny bag on her wrist she produced a coin. It shone