It was a crisp autumn afternoon, and the bakery was crowded with impatient patrons. While customers waited, they breathed the scents of the bakery's finest goods, pulled fresh from the ovens: scones drizzled with maple glaze, croissants over-stuffed with chocolate, and cupcakes decorated to look like the princess' favorite gowns.
It was Vale's job to decorate the cupcakes. At 73, Vale's grandfather -- the owner of the bakery -- had gotten arthritis and couldn't properly hold the piping bag in his weathered brown hands. His shapes were coming out shakier and shakier, and as the youngest of three brothers, Vale was more than happy to step up to the task.
Vale's oldest brother, Clarence, had gone off to join an adventuring troupe, but was currently 'between quests', spending most of his time at the tavern and regaling strangers with his tales of valor. Vale's second-oldest brother, Florence, had become a wizard somewhat early in his teens, and now worked as a successful magical tutor for those attending the magician's academy, which was called Havencroft, and was positioned just above the highest cliff on the mountaintop. Vale had never had much of an interest in magic, and it made him lightheaded to think of traveling all the way up to visit Florence. So, he wrote letters, helped his grandpa clean the bakery, and entertained himself by decorating the cupcakes.
Vale's talent with the cupcakes was legendary. He'd become famous in the kingdom for decorating cupcakes that looked exactly like the gowns of the ladies of the court. At first, he had experimented -- trying to capture a seasoned matriarch's gowns here, or a young debutante's there. But over time, he realized he loved the princess' dresses the most -- because he adored the girl behind the gown.
The princess was as delicate in temperament as a chocolate souffle. She was as difficult to master as a macaron. She was as sweet as a plum pudding -- though definitely more attractive than that particular dessert.
Vale was certain she would melt on his tongue like spun sugar whenever he caught a glimpse of her. It didn't matter the context: she rode in her carriage to and from the palace; she accompanied her father, the King, to jousting tournaments; and she entertained foreign dignitaries with radiance. She wasn't just beautiful -- though the gowns she chose accentuated her every curve and asset -- but she seemed to genuinely glow. Her soundless laughter carried with it a feeling of eloquence and secrecy, as her courtiers whispered to her. What secrets was she hiding in her silence, Vale wondered. She tossed her long, flowing blonde locks over her shoulders when she turned a corner, catching the sun's rays. She listened to the children's petitions when they strode up to her with confidence Vale could only dream of.
"Vale! Get your head out of the clouds. We need three chocolate croissants and a maple scone." Grandpa Hendrick barked. Vale blushed, embarrassed that he'd been caught daydreaming again, and rushed to complete the morning's orders.
As the crowd finally thinned around noon, the postmaster stopped by to deliver a letter. Grandpa Hendrick's hands shook when he opened the seal, recognizing it at once.
"Who is it from? Is it from Florence?" asked Vale hopefully.
"Nay, boy," growled Grandpa Hendrick. "It's from the palace. They've... they've heard of your skill with sweets. They want you to attend the Royal Ball and... and craft cupcakes for the princess' new charity."
Vale's mouth dropped. This was an opportunity that he hadn't dared to dream of. A chance to see the princess... to be near her and speak to her... to share his thoughts and dreams with her... and to kiss her, to swim through those layers of chiffon and silk to the soft skin that lay beneath...
"Well?" asked Grandpa Hendrick, raising an appraising eyebrow. "They require you to start immediately. The Festival is in three parts, the first in only two days' time. Can you do it, boy?"
"Y-yes. Yes!" Vale gasped out, immediately rushing to pack his bags.
The old man cackled. "Well, don't worry about me, then," he said, "I'm sure I'll be able to find good help for the week you're away. Oh, to be young again..."
Vale could not afford a carriage to the palace. He hopped, skipped, and ran all the way to the front gates, and provided the doorman with his letter, stamped with the king's seal. Out of breath, dusted with flour, and grinning like a man on the brink of something momentous, Vale was admitted to the castle.
Immediately, Vale was ushered to the royal kitchens. They were in the midst of preparing the nightly feast. Everywhere Vale turned there were men and women chopping, spearing, skewering, shouting, basting, slicing, dicing, searing, and shouting some more. The smells were overwhelmingly delicious.
"Did the king request ham...?" Vale asked no one in particular, identifying the one smell that seemed to rise above the others.
"No, the princess did -- and the princess always gets what she wants." A tall, thick man with a curly mustache and even curlier eyebrows eyed Vale. Vale shuffled under his gaze -- suddenly self-conscious about the obvious blush beneath his brown skin. "My name is Chef Truffle Poirot."
"Chef Poirot," Vale said, setting down his suitcase to shake the man's hand, "I've heard so much about you. It's an honor to be working with you, sir."
"Ha! You'll be working for me, not with me." huffed Chef Poirot. "And it's just for the week, mind you... and only by request."
Vale's heart jumped into his throat. "The King requested me?" he asked.
"No, the princess did. And as we know, the princess gets what she wants. Bellwether? Show this man to his quarters. Get him out from underfoot. And for goodness' sake, boy, get that starstruck look off your face! Slap it out of yourself if you have to." Poirot laughed heartily, surprising Vale as another servant led him out of the kitchen. Through the haze of daydreamy thoughts, Vale heard Poirot say,
"He's here for the week, let's not eat him alive..."
Which was met with jibes and laughter from his staff.
The servant -- Bellwether -- led a dazed Vale through the corridors of the palace. She chattered as they talked, about specific paintings on the walls, important historic sites, the gardens -- Vale didn't hear any of it. His ears were ringing, ringing, ringing -- the princess had requested him. The princess knew who he was. He was shaking with excitement when they finally got back to his room.
It was a sparse, little space -- the bed pushed against the wall with a side table. It was obviously servant's quarters, but Vale was quietly relieved that for once, he wouldn't have a roommate. His grandfather snored horribly, and it would be nice to have a good night's sleep.
"Well, I'll leave you to rest," Bellwether said finally, after turning down his bed and seeing that he had no money to tip her with a raised eyebrow. "The princess will expect you in the morning to talk about collaboration -- and of course, the grand finale."
Vale's skin buzzed.
"The grand finale?" he asked.
"Yes. Well. The cake. Didn't you read the packet?"
"Cake?" Vale's eyebrows went up.
"Yes. The princess wants a cake." Bellwether waited a beat, then rolled her eyes, shook her head, and left.
Vale tossed and turned all night. Outside his window, an owl hooted through the night. He had never decorated a cake before. It had always been cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes. Cupcakes were the right shape for gowns, cupcakes could be adapted to look like a dress. A cake -- even a small cake -- was too large, too bulky, and unwieldy.
When morning came, he told himself that he couldn't sleep because he was excited. Dread curled in his stomach like an insidious dragon as he dressed to meet the princess. Surely she would understand, he reasoned. She had requested him, after all. And when she met him, he was sure their true love would be fated and undeniable. She wouldn't be able to resist their mutual adoration. How many times had he played through similar scenarios in his head...?
Bellwether arrived promptly at sunrise to take him to the princess's quarters. When they arrived, Vale was startled to hear shouting behind the doors. Not just any shouting, either. This was shrill, grating, ugly shrieking -- a tantrum of a sound.
"...but I wanted to wear pink! I told you, I wanted to wear pink!"
There was a pause in the screaming and the sound of mumbling. Then,
"Find a way to make it work! It's my party! It's my charity! I want to wear pink!"
There was another pause, in which Bellwether cleared her throat and swung the door open. They were met with an atrocious scene: fabric strewn across mannequins, sequins dashed across the floor, silk ripped and torn, skeins of lace draped across windowsills. It looked as if all of the princess' fine taste had been ripped out of the glossy papers and shoved down the throat of an unholy fabric beast, only to be vomited back up onto...
The woman stood on the dais, hands on her skinny hips as she berated her seamstress. Her face was pinched and pink, a far cry from the composed princess he'd fallen in love with from afar.
"The prompts were clear, milady," the seamstress said patiently. "Three traditional gowns: one for the first evening, one for the second night, and one for the third dawn, to be worn the next morning, after the engagement."
"I want to wear pink!" the princess screamed again, taking a hand off her hip and shaking it in a bratty fist at the seamstress' face.
Vale resisted the urge to turn heel and walk out. He could, he reasoned. He could leave and run home now. If he hurried, he would be able to help Grandpa Hendrick with the afternoon orders of sandwich bread and salt-water bagels --
Bellwether cleared her throat. The princess' head jerked up.
"And what on earth could you possibly want from me now, Bellwether?" snarled the princess.
"This is the baker boy that was requested. Vale Hendrick. He's making the cakes."
The princess straightened up and looked right at Vale. Their eyes met, but instead of feeling joy or a spark, Vale felt... horror... as her eyes glazed right over him, and found her own reflection in the mirror behind him. She set her shoulders back and readjusted her hair in the reflection.
"Well, then, shouldn't he be in the kitchen with the others? I'm busy." She pulled down the hemline in her reflection until it was dangerous. Then she gave a twisted frown and looked down at the seamstress. "This is the boy you asked for, or whatever?"
"Yes," the seamstress said firmly.
"Well then, you can talk to him about the three pink gowns that I will be wearing that evening!" the princess shrieked with a toss of her regal head. The seamstress hesitated. "Go on!" the princess said. "And tell them to bring me my lunch. More ham. Hurry up!" she shooed the three of them out of the dressing room.
The doors swung shut behind them and Bellwether scurried off to get the princess' lunch. Despite himself, Vale began to laugh.
"What's so funny?" asked the seamstress, crossing her arms over her chest. Vale finally got a good look at her: she had a sharp, heart-shaped face and brilliantly dark, almost black eyes. Her hair was unruly and a wicked red color -- he was reminded of wild strawberries. She had made no attempt to tame it. He saw that her guild pins marked her as one of the kingdom's premier seamstresses...the crest was of a pair of scissors and thread. A smaller homemade pin signaled she was a shapeshifter. She was the kind of shapeshifter that probably seduced men in the dead of night. He swallowed hard, trying not to be scandalized. She probably rode a broom. She probably poured essential oils into her baths and massaged them into her soft skin. She probably --
"I'm waiting," she said in her soft, raspy voice.
"Oh. I, uh -- I just -- it's a bit absurd, isn't it?" his laugh bubbled up again, unbidden.
