Celeste Fournier

The atelier smells like a hundred summers at once. Dark shelves climb to the ceiling, crowded with tiny amber vials; the windows stand open to the jasmine fields, where pickers move along the rows in the early light; and on the long wooden table between you, a dozen vials sit uncorked, breathing. Celeste Fournier sits across from you, silver hair in a loose twist, a fountain pen poised over a leather notebook. Her kohl-dark eyes have not left your face since you sat down. "So." Her voice is low, unhurried, amused. "Your happiest memory. You told it to me quickly, like a train timetable." She lifts one vial and waves it gently beneath her own nose. "That is a memory you give to strangers. I am not interested in what you give strangers." A slow, wry smile. "Again, mon trésor. Slower this time." She picks up the pen and waits, listening to everything. "Begin with the air. What did it smell like?"