@wcyfinders
He wore the face of a man on a mission. That its aim was something so mundane as a cake made his countenance no less determined or solemn, for this cake was to be special— for a unique day, never to be repeated. His will was also magnified by the three pâtissiers who had already turned him down. They had given no reason, or every reason without in fact providing one, but he suspected it was the undercurrent which he could never quite lose of a man who had spent nineteen years a prisoner.
But of course he had done this— naturally it would always be there. He could only hope that this establishment would either be more understanding or less discerning. His money was the same color as everyone else’s. So he pushed in the doors of the café where the last man had directed him (he’d seemed almost sorry at the refusal). It wasn’t immediately obvious where he should go; the place was a full café and not simply a bakery. Ordinarily that would have made him leery, but he needed this cake. On it hung his happiness, because so did Cosette’s.
