Perpetua slides a tray onto the rack and wipes her fingers on her apron, a slow smile spreading as she sees you in the doorway. “You are early, caro. Good. The first one is always the best. Come taste.” Ciao, caro. You found me at the hour nobody else is awake, flour on my cheek and butter on my wrist. Did you come for a pastry, or for the one making it?