Gui nodded, the stiff collar sc.r.a.ping his neck. For the first time in his life he was wearing an entire outfit of new clothes. White trousers, white jacket, ap.r.o.n, hat, all starched and pristine. They did not belong to him, Josef the kitchen manager told him severely, but were property of the ptisserie and to be treated as such.

He may dirty the ap.r.o.n whilst working, but never the sleeves or the front of the jacket. Each apprentice had two uniforms, which were laundered thrice a week. If he forgot to include his clothes for laundering, his pay would be docked until the next laundry day. Pay would also be docked for dirty nails, dirty hair, muddy shoes or an incorrectly tied ap.r.o.n.

He was to start in the kitchen with the newest apprentices. He was not to touch the ingredients or any of the produce, but would observe and a.s.sist by collecting pans, moulds and utensils, washing and tidying after the more senior chefs. He was never to go into the ptisserie itself unless absolutely necessary.

'You are the lowest rung of the bottom ladder,' Josef told him, demonstrating the correct way to wrap the ap.r.o.n around his waist. 'Keep your head down, your eyes open and maybe you'll learn something.'

There was no unkindness in his voice, but no warmth either.

'You have one month to prove that you can fit into the kitchen and work hard. Do you understand everything I've said?'

Gui nodded, although he had no idea how he was going to remember it all. A foreign land, a strange, bright world, he thought as Josef whisked him into the kitchens, and his heart leaped at the spectacle of it all.

If possible, the place was busier than he had ever seen. There was no sign of the flood that had threatened so recently; everything looked spotless. The workers, too, in immaculate white, were moving so fast it seemed like a dance, chefs weaving between each other, hands finding the objects they needed from memory. Gui could see no one standing still. He had antic.i.p.ated a leap into the unknown, but he felt utterly lost.

'Service runs straight through the day,' Josef continued, steering through the activity like the prow of a ship. 'The afternoon is a busy time and you will have to be on your toes, because the next sitting begins,' he glanced up at a huge clock hanging at the far end of the kitchen, 'in ten minutes. A roster of breaks will begin at six. You will be in the last group. Ebersole,' he snapped at a balding chef nearby, 'new boy.'

Gui turned to ask what he would be doing, but the large chef was gone, striding towards the front of the room, examining workbenches as he went. The chef he had called Ebersole barely glanced up. He was leaning in close to a tray, inspecting row upon row of what looked like fat pastry fingers. An apprentice followed behind, flipping the fingers over onto their backs. Two more young chefs stood by, conical bags clutched at the ready. Ebersole frowned over the last tray and shook his head.

Gui found the tray thrust into his arms. There was nothing wrong with the pastries, so far as he could see, apart from the fact they look darker than the others. Ebersole barked something at him in German and moved away, clapping the younger chefs into action. No one was watching; Gui's shaking hand strayed towards the pastries, his stomach clamouring.

'Do not even think about eating them,' a low voice rumbled in his ear. 'Put them in the refuse sack. It's by the door.'

The man who had spoken swept past. Gui caught a glimpse of a lean face, a waxed brown moustache and a forehead that shone with perspiration. Reluctantly, he approached the refuse sack. It was full of similar examples of near-perfect baking, muddled together with sc.r.a.ps of paper, eggsh.e.l.ls, spoiled cream.

Quick as a flash, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up two pastry ends and shoved them into a pocket, tipping the rest away. Back at the workbench, two apprentices were moving from opposite ends, using metal nozzles to fill the pastry cases with fluffy cream. The chef with the moustache stood in the middle, holding a wide pan of slick, brown chocolate.

Ebersole lifted the filled pastries, floated them in the chocolate and whipped them out, swiping off the excess with his thumb. The process was repeated until thirty pastries lay glistening on the trays, all in decreasing sizes, all perfect. A completed tray was shoved at him. The scent of cocoa was overpowering, and it was all he could do to stop himself from stuffing one of the confections into his mouth.

'Take them to the cold room,' the helpful chef whispered.

When he returned, Ebersole had vanished and there was something of a lull.

'Thank you,' Gui said to the man with the moustache. 'I don't know any German.'

'Neither did I. And he isn't German, he's Swiss. Try not to get it confused.'

'I will, I mean, I won't.'

'I'm Maurice,' the man added, offering the back of his wrist. His hands, Gui noticed, were coated with chocolate. 'No time to talk now, just try to follow the others. We're making a religieuse, nothing too fancy for a Wednesday.'

Before he could say anything else, Ebersole was back, flanked by apprentices, trays balanced up their arms. The process began again. His arms were piled with rejected pastries; those deemed acceptable were covered with a lighter shade of chocolate until there were just as many as before. Returning from the cold room, he found a hushed group around Ebersole. The man was shaping circles from a soft, creamy clay substance with a tiny cutter wheel.

'Schablone,' he demanded under his breath.

n.o.body moved. The apprentices' faces were ashen as they stared at each other. Ebersole looked up in frustration.

'Schablone, the stencil, we are making a religieuse, no?'

'He means the mould we use for the headpiece,' Maurice hissed. 'Monsieur Clermont commissioned a new one a few weeks back, but I have no idea where they put it-'

Before he could finish, Gui was racing away towards the back of the room, towards the dresser he had piled with boxes, seemingly so long ago.

'Moulds, Goebel ...' He scanned feverishly, picturing his trips to and from the handcart, until he saw a little box with the Goebel stamp, 'religieuse' scrawled across it in pencil. He was back before the other apprentices had moved.

Suspiciously, Ebersole glanced inside the box, extracted a small metal mould. Gui received one hard look.

'Bon,' barked the chef.

The confection took another hour to complete. Maurice told him that the different coloured pastries were called eclairs and were flavoured with chocolate and coffee. They were balanced upon their ends in a circle until they spiralled upward in rows. A fat, round pastry went on top like a head, crowned with Ebersole's sugar work in the shape of a winged headdress.

'It looks like a nun!' Gui exclaimed.

Maurice gave him an odd look. He was balancing a card amongst the rows of piped cream. The word 'Clermont' looped in gold upon a green background. As soon as he let go, two apprentices lifted the religieuse onto a trolley.

Gui watched it disappear through the doors into the ptisserie.

'What happens now?' he whispered to Maurice.

'Now, lad,' the older man told him, wiping his forehead on his ap.r.o.n, 'we do it all again.'

Chapter Twenty-One.

May 1988 Five o'clock. My shadow lengthens as I cross the courtyard. Inside, it is cool and quiet. I give my eyes time to adjust after the glare of paving stones and river. For once, I am not late. In my bag is a request form from the Newspaper Library. After the business with Hall, I never had a chance to go back and read the article.

For a while, I wasn't sure whether I even wanted to. I'd been driven by the desire to prove Hall wrong, to show him that my grandfather was a good man, that there was nothing shameful in his past. But now I suspect that isn't true. Ca.s.s tried to persuade me to let it go; she reminded me that I wasn't responsible for my grandfather's actions or reputation, that I had my own life to think about.

She is right, of course, but at the same time, the thought of Hall unearthing the secret that Grandpa Jim kept for so many years turns my stomach. In the end, I realize that I have already made up my mind: if anyone is going to find out what happened that summer in 1910, it's going to be me.

Which means breaking the promise I made to Kaufmann: that I would give up the research and concentrate on my thesis. I battle my conscience into submission. It can't be helped. I will never be able to persuade her to sign the request form for the Newspaper Library, but hopefully, I'll be able to slip it past Whyke.

My dress flaps around my ankles as I climb the stairs, summer cotton with a flower print. I've made an effort, for once, to appear neat and well prepared, but now all I am aware of is how the b.u.t.tons strain across my chest. Of course, Whyke won't notice. I could walk into his office naked, wearing a bearskin, and he'd only ask me if I wanted tea.

'Ah, Petra,' he flaps when I arrive, searching for his notebook, 'your end-of-year review has been scheduled. Two weeks from today, like we thought. You might want to make a note of the date.'

My stomach drops as I scribble down the appointment. Whyke is still talking; I force myself to listen.

'... by this stage I'd normally expect to see a final draft, but I imagine Dr Kaufmann will take care of that.'

I nod, after the decision I've made, I feel more than a little ill at the idea of another meeting.

'I thought we could use our time on practical things, like your bibliography,' Whyke says, writing in his notepad with the wrong end of a pen. He is more preoccupied than usual, but I decide to take the plunge.

'There's one last bit of research I'd like to check out beforehand.' I try to sound casual as I pull out the request form. 'It wasn't available when I checked, but the library said you'd be able to order me a copy of the microfilm.'

I surrept.i.tiously scrub my hands dry on the dress as Whyke grabs the form and starts to tick boxes. He has reached the signature line when the biro pauses, hovering above the paper.

'Remind me, have we talked about this source before? What is it, exactly?'

'It's an English-language newspaper from Paris,' my heart is hammering. 'There's an article about a society scandal that I want to read.'

Whyke is looking at me closely across the coffee table. I realize that I have made the same mistake many people do in underestimating him.

'Which scandal?' he demands.

The breath dries up in my throat as I struggle for a reply. My carefully constructed answers vanish.

'This is about the Clermont place again,' he accuses, watching me steadily, the form poised on his lap. There is a tightness in his tone I've never heard before.

'Yes,' I have to admit, trying to keep my voice firm, 'but it's important, Professor. I have to find out.'

'You've been told,' Whyke barks, 'time and again, that pursuing anything to do with your grandfather is a bad idea. Which part of that do you not understand?'

'You don't understand the significance of this,' I say hotly. 'Some of the things that I've found-'

'Treasures from your grandfather's collection?' he interrupts. 'How am I meant to substantiate that?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, where is your proof? Whatever it is you've discovered, how am I meant to support you? I don't even know if these things exist.'

Now, more than ever, the memory of the emptied bag makes my hands clench.

'But you've seen the photograph,' I say, 'I showed it to you, and I can get the other things.'

'Then where are they now? Petra, I'm concerned about where these sources are coming from. People will a.s.sume that you've-'

Abruptly, Whyke pulls himself back. The unsaid words hang heavily between us.

'That I've what? Made it all up?'

'I never said that.'

I can't stop the angry tears from flooding my eyes as I collect my bag. Whyke is on his feet, looking severely alarmed. At any other time, I might have laughed, but now I push past him.

'Petra, wait.'

'No, I've had enough of this. I shouldn't even be here. Tell Kaufmann she was right.'

I take the stairs at a run, until it's clear that Whyke has not followed me. The tears are spilling over. I swipe them away furiously, feeling empty and sick.

The walk back to college is a blur, but during it, I come to a conclusion. My room is too quiet, cluttered with folders and books, evidence of a year's wasted effort. Slowly, I shuffle some of the papers together. When the phone shrills into the silence, I almost don't answer.

It's my father. I have to stop myself from laughing bitterly. We haven't spoken for over a month, and he chooses this moment to call. I answer in monosyllables when he asks how I am. If I sound strange, he doesn't mention it.

'Dad,' I take a breath, steel myself to say the words: I'm quitting university.

'Petra, did you take any of those papers?'

His words slap me out of my daze.

'What?'

'Simon's just had a word with me,' he continues, I can tell he's annoyed and trying to hide it. 'He says that you told him to stay away from your grandfather's papers.'

'I did,' I tell him flatly. 'That didn't stop him stealing them from me.'

'You're being ridiculous. I've told Hall that he has complete access, and that you won't be bothering him any more. Is that understood?'

'Tell him I know what he's doing, and that I want them back,' I snap and slam down the receiver.

I'm shaking with anger and emotion. Ca.s.s is out of town for the day, and apart from her, there's only one person I want to see.

Alex meets me later that night in the pub. I hug him tightly when he walks in, hold on for longer than usual. He stands motionless for a second, but then squeezes me in return; his arms warm around my back.

I can tell he's feeling the pressure of deadlines, too. He looks more rumpled than ever, hair sticking up at all angles, a coffee stain on his T-shirt. I can't bring myself to load my problems on him straight away, and listen instead as he complains about lab work, about supervisors and the upcoming review. I know he'll be fine, and tell him so as we nurse our pints.

'Sorry for the rant,' he tells me with a wry smile, 'I came here to see you, not to talk shop all night. What's going on?'

I tell him about Hall, and Kaufmann and Whyke, about the decision I made that afternoon.

'I've been kidding myself,' I say slowly, 'this whole year, I've been falling behind. Now it won't be long before Whyke tells the faculty about me, if he hasn't already, and Kaufmann will back him up; she doesn't think I should be here either. They're right, Al.'

Alex snorts dismissively. 'If tutors reported every highly strung student, there wouldn't be a faculty.'

I smile weakly. Alex rolls his eyes.

'Look.' He pokes me in the arm. 'Whyke never said he thought you should quit, neither did Kaufmann.'

'You just don't want me to leave,' I accuse, nudging him with my shoulder.

'Of course I don't,' he declares, and takes a hasty gulp of his beer. 'I'd-' He hesitates, mouth open to say something. My stomach does a flip.

'You'd what?'

His face drops into a grin. 'Get bored without these weekly doses of drama.'

I try to swallow a sudden wave of disappointment as he pushes my drink towards me.

'See the rest of the term out, at least, P. How you spend it is up to you.'