Free An Owl's Whisper by Michael J. Smith Page B

girls were in bed, each with a towel-wrapped, oven-warmed brick at her feet.
    Isabelle from Paris pulled her tasseled nightcap over her ears. “I dreamed last night of my mother’s bouillabaisse. Wherever I was in the house, its aroma would seek me out. So rich, smelling was almost tasting. Mama used to make it on cold winter evenings, like tonight. And she baked crusty bread to go with it. Her bread smelled of yeast and wheat, and she served it oven-warm so that the butter melted into it and dripped onto the plate in a yellow pool.” Isabelle burst into tears. “It seems so long ago—in another life.”
    Camille climbed into Isabelle’s bed to comfort her and ended up crying too.
    Bébé pulled her knees tight to her chest. “Mirella and I’ve been talking about something for weeks now. Planning it. When the stinking war’s over, we’re going to make the world’s biggest confection. For all of us. It changes with every day, but right now it’s layers of chocolate, cherry, and génoise gâteau , with butter cream frosting. We’ll hollow it and fill the hole with glacéed walnuts, marzipan, licorice, honey, sugarplum, strawberry jam.…Let’s see. And pineapple gelato and hazelnut praline. Oh, and penuche crumbled on top. Did I forget anything, Mirella?
    “Uh-ha,” Mirella said. “ Blancmange and whipped cream.”
    “Oh, yes. Blancmange and whipped cream piled on till it spills down the sides.” Bébé broke into soft sobs.
    Simone blew on her hands. “I’ve gone beyond thinking of food to thinking of hunger. Days I can push it from my mind, but at night, lying in bed, it’s always here, like a worm gnawing my insides. And nights like this, when I can see my breath, I shiver ‘till my body aches.”
    Clarisse LaCroix brushed her long, red hair. “When Mom died, my aunt moved in with us. She was an awful cook. I lived on bread and jam in those days. But her cuisine was like something from Maxim’s compared to the shit we’re served here, these days.”
    “So you dined at Maxim’s often, did you, LaCroix?” sassed Isabelle from Paris.
    Soleil scolded, “Clarisse, you know Sister Martine does her best with what little she has. Don’t be so critical.”
    Clarisse shot back, “Sister Martine is a ninny. Everything she makes tastes like dishwater. So she doesn’t have a full larder? For variety, she could have Sister Eusebia dangle her stinking feet in the soup for a few minutes—at least that might flavor it.”
    Camille groaned. “Oh, Clarisse, you’re a sick bitch. I wish you’d just shut up.” She ducked as Clarisse’s hairbrush flew by her head.
    Eva jumped out of bed. “Girls. Girls! Please. Maybe it’s time for a meeting of the Whispering Owls. Françoise, light a candle. It may not give off much heat, but its glow will distract us from the thermometer’s mischief.”
    With blankets pulled over their shoulders, the girls in their white flannel nightgowns formed a tight circle around the candle.
    Eva gave them a moment to settle. “When I’m hungry and cold, it makes me feel better to think of the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup. Does that work for you, too?”
    The girls looked at each other and chorused that they didn’t know the story.
    “Don’t know the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup? Well then, you must listen.
    “During the time that the geese occupied the forest of the school of St. François D’Assisi, food there became scarce. At first, Mother Swan’s boyfriend, Monsieur Ermine, brought gifts of food, but he proved to be an unreliable weasel. The wrens cried that they were hungry, for all they had to eat was watery soup and a few grains of corn. Sister Mouse, the cook, said she had nothing else to prepare. Mother Swan would not take food from others in the forest, who were all hungry too, and certainly would never ask the geese for help. As always, it was old Sister Tortoise who came up with a gem of an idea, without knowing it.
    “Sister T told the wrens, ‘If you are