Bee had never been so hungry in her life. Oh, she’d been hungry plenty of times. Stomach-growling, eat-a-big-meal hungry. But this was different.

They didn’t speak again but sat in disbelief and wonder as the cookies, made with butter, sugar, flour, eggs, and a dollop of exasperation, slowly cooled on their tray.

His bread was lofty, light. If she didn’t hold on to the sandwich tightly, she thought it might float away.

Lemon?” Bee asked. “What is that?”Master Bouts shrugged. “Something that grows in a far-off land, I daresay. See, the lemon is the yellow under the meringue. We can’t make lemon, but we can make meringue—when there’s a customer who can pay for it.