On her tongue, something had rotted. To be precise, the nutmeg dissolved within the sauce had oxidized slightly during distribution. The trace of that degradation weighed less than 0.1 grams. Even measured by instruments, it would likely fall within the margin of error. But Nomura Jun's tongue knew it. He left the airline meal's plastic tray on the table and gazed out the window. A sea of clouds spread beneath him. White, flat, stretching endlessly. Beyond it, Japan no longer existed. The middle-aged man seated beside him was bringing the same menu to his lips with contentment. He hadn't said it was delicious. He was simply eating. His face suggested that was enough. Nomura had never been able to do that. Narita to Paris. A twelve-hour flight. Today, Nomura had turned twenty-six. Spending his birthday in the air wasn't lonely, exactly. He didn't have the luxury of feeling lonely. In his bag: his grandmother's handwritten recipe notebook, a letter of recommendation addressed to M