It's charming, Claudius thinks, that Laertes would share a recipe before he's mastered it, and await judgment with such anticipation. He wonders idly whether Laertes was always like this in his pursuit of courtier's and scholar's skills, or whether he'd be warier of sharing any imperfection with his father's spies around.

"No," Claudius replies, simply enough. Of the pastry, he says, "You've learned well from your eclairs. Which were delectable enough, but you've a skill for preparing dough that now suits the savory as much the sweet. Laurel would no doubt like it if were drowning in syrup." He couldn't keep the name from his mind, and now he's said it. "He would have, at least. He isn't ..." Claudius sighs and saws with his knife, trying to get through what he has to say. "That's the news. He's Galahad again. Memories miraculously restored. I don't know if he cares for sweet things any longer."