Watched the large hands covered in flour stretch out the sticky pastry in long, thin strips. Leo shaped it, made small rounds and filled them with custard. He made larger pastries too, ones that were shaped in loops that folded around each other. Then he piped in the custard, so fast and with such precision, and I could smell the sweet almond smell—the custard shiny and yellow with egg yolks. When I looked up at the tall man, at Leo, he was on autopilot. He could have had his eyes closed, because his hands knew the way. They were independent from him somehow, working steadily—loop and loop and loop and cut. Loop and loop and loop and cut. When they were finished, the pastries were like crowns, emblems of power. Sweet dough loops of magic. Almond flakes, marzipan, more custard, egg wash. Leo took the full tray and slotted it in the oven near the top. I could feel the heat on my face all the way from across the galley. He took another tray out, a hot tray—the pastries on it all golden and sun-kissed, the custard bubbling.
