Page 68 of Feel Free to Scream

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 abouthispies. 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.

I grin. “I’ll cut them up, you can help yourself.” Then, because my curiosity is killing me, I say, “I met your husband next door.”

Somehow, that makes her laugh. “Husband for another few weeks, anyway. The divorce paperwork is on the way.”

Christ. She doesn’t look older than, what, twenty-three, and she’s already getting divorced?

Catching my expression, she adds, “It was arranged by our families, darling. With my grandfather out of the way, I no longer need to be married to get my hands on my inheritance, so we’re splitting up. It’s just a formality. It wasn’t even consummated, so I could even have gotten an annulment.”

Jesus. These people truly live in another universe.

I see one other vesper: the dark-haired, reserved guy with glasses. Theo? “Looks good."

I offer him a plate, and he smiles, which completely changes his face.

Is everyone in this place hot? Like, is it an entrance requirement? He was rather handsome before he smiled, but now, it’s obvious I missed how much.

“Thanks, Claire.”

Dez had a point about making friends with pastries.

I grab one of the sticky notes on the kitchen counter and writeHelp Yourself—Claire, placing it next to the tray, before plating two portions and making my way to the elevator.

The doors open in front of Young Thor—Richard. His expression shifts into a wolfish grin as he looks at me. “Ah, our latest housemate.” He glances at the plate. “You’re bringing that to your master?”

Something bothers me both about the way he looks at me, and the words he chose. “What if I am?” I move to enter the elevator.

He keeps grinning. “It would be smarter to be nice to everyone here, for when Keller gets tired of you.”

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