Your pistou is extraordinaire, Z,” Layla says, twirling the green-flecked pasta into her mouth. The evening sunlight illuminates the feast I’ve made, spread out on the table on the roof patio—pistou, endive salad, and potatoes au gratin. “Merci,” I say, pleased. There’s still a thin coat of sweat on my face from rushing around the kitchen and darting up and down the stairs carrying the dishes. My hand’s still aching from smashing the basil in the mortar and pestle. Deliciousness comes at a price. Beyond our patio table, patchworks of red tile roofs stretch far into the rosy orange sky. Treetops rise from hidden courtyards, little islands of translucent green. It’s golden and comfortable up here above the city, the slightest breeze whispering through my hair. “Hey, are we on for the Entremont tour with Sirona tomorrow?” Layla asks, spooning more pistou onto her plate. “Sure,” I say, remembering how pleased Vincent was at this news. My eyes rest on the jar of sand from my fantôme, which I’ve stuck a candle in to form a centerpiece.
