The Paris Key by Juliet Blackwell Page B

au chocolat
, and a huge croissant. Beside these were two tiny pots of preserves: one orange marmalade, the other raspberry jam.
    Genevieve had always associated hot chocolate with special events: the occasional camping trip or going to get a Christmas tree. Someone would pour hot water into powder, and if you were super-lucky they’d add a couple of marshmallows. Too impatient to let it cool, Genevieve always tried to drink it while scalding, burning her mouth. The anticipation of sweet liquid chocolate was now forever entangled with the memory of that searing sensation on her tongue.
    â€œEat, eat!” Tante Pasquale said. “And then you must go with your uncle, to make a little visit. And be sure to go by the
boulangerie
on your way home—you must remind your uncle, as he forgets and comes home without baguettes!”
    â€œWhat a scandal,” said Catharine in a sarcastic tone.
“Quelle horreur.”
    The hot chocolate was in a tiny white pitcher, and there was an oversized cup, as big as a bowl, sitting on the saucer. It was as if things had changed places, Genevieve thought. Like in a dollhouse where things were out of proportion, but you pretended everything was normal-sized anyway because you absolutely needed Barbie to have a cup of coffee or an apple, or whatever.
    The entire room filled with the scent of rich cocoa. Genevieve sat on the side of her bed and tried to pour the chocolate into the cup. Instead of pouring like milk, it had a sludgy, slow quality as it drizzled into the cup. It was darker than she was used to as well, not the light brown of camping trips but a deep, rich brown closer to coffee. She began to wonder if Pasquale had merely melted down a candy bar.
    She blew on it, sipped cautiously. It was the perfect temperature, not too hot at all. The thick liquid coated her mouth. Her entire soul was now wrapped in the divine substance: chocolate.
    â€œGood, huh?” Catharine’s loud voice interrupted her reverie.
    â€œUm, yeah,” Genevieve replied, suddenly embarrassed at her show of pleasure.
    Catharine rolled her eyes slightly. “My
maman
, she is . . . how you say? Indulgent. Don’t get used to it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œDo you see a tray for me? She is doing this because it is your first morning here. It’s not typical. I’m just saying.” Catharine’s English, though subtly accented, was excellent; Dave spoke to her in English, and she read a steady stream of American comics and novels.
    Genevieve didn’t reply, losing herself again in the chocolate.
    â€œYou dip the bread in the chocolate.”
    â€œAll of them?”
    â€œNo, you choose. Whichever one you want.”
    Genevieve didn’t want to be a pig, so she tore off a bit of the baguette and dunked it in the hot liquid, coating it with a thick brown glaze. She put the bit in her mouth. The crisp, chewy doughiness of the bread combined with the heavy sweetness of the chocolate to create an entirely new taste.
    Genevieve started to feel overwhelmed. She hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet on her first real day in Paris, and already things were so . . .
different
. The chocolate was fantastic, but foreign, nothing like the Hershey’s chocolate bar she and Nick were very occasionally allowed to eat in s’mores when friends came for sleepovers. And she had never, not once in her life, been served breakfast in bed. Genevieve had a sudden visual of the morning light streaming into her room at home. She thought of the raucous call of their old rooster, Roscoe, whom they had to get rid of last year when the housing development encroached on their old working farm and the new neighbors started to complain. Knowing she had to check the chickens for eggs before school, even the mean old spotted one that always tried to peck at her. The familiar dread of having to face her classmates at school. And her mother, knocking on the door, yelling at