The two of them paused in the town.
"Hungry?" Grindelwald suddenly asked.
Ian glanced at him.
"A little."
Even if he had not been hungry, he knew how he ought to answer. High emotional intelligence, after all.
At that, Grindelwald turned and headed toward the end of the main street.
"Come on. I know a place."
The "place" he meant was a small café beside the church. Its storefront was modest, with only a few tables covered in red-and-white checkered cloths, each holding a small bottle of dried flowers.
Several freshly baked egg tarts and croissants sat in the display window, their golden crusts gleaming enticingly in the sunlight. The chalkboard by the entrance listed the day's specials—French onion soup, Niçoise salad, and beef bourguignon.
A middle-aged woman in a white apron came out from inside. When she saw Grindelwald, a warm smile spread across her face. "Sir, you're back! The usual table?"
Grindelwald nodded without speaking. The woman led them to a table by the window. It was an excellent spot, offering a view of the whole church square—the passersby, the children playing in the morning light.
"The egg tarts are good today, fresh out of the oven," the woman said as she poured their water. "And the croissants too, baked just this morning." Grindelwald looked at Ian. Ian nodded. Grindelwald said to the woman, "Two egg tarts, two croissants, a black coffee, and a hot chocolate."
The woman smiled as she wrote it down, then turned and left.
Ian leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The church spire glowed gold in the morning sun. The children chased one another across the square, their laughter crisp and bright. An old man sat on a bench with a newspaper in his hands, a peaceful smile on