Pax Multi Pt. 08

"N-Nothing! Baking is easy!" Beatrice exclaimed.

Lou felt the knot in his stomach relax. He breathed out a slow sigh, chuckling. "You know, you can throw burned pie into the compost heap? Or into the fabricator?"

The two bodies exchanged a glance. Then the door to the cottage opened and her moth body emerged -- and she was dressed in a chief's apron and nothing else, which was an arresting enough image for Lou to stop and gape at her for a bit. But it was the huge smile on her face that made him forget about the future, forget about Cornelius and Bosch, forget about everything save for the look on her face and the way that she held, in four hands, each contained in an oven mitt, a large foil pan that contained a soft, brown looking pie. Steam rose from several slits in it, which she pointed too with one of her upper hands.

"See, I sliced them precisely as the cook book told me too!" She beamed. "This was my first and only attempt, for baking is quite easy!"

Lou chuckled, then walked forward, leaning over the pie carefully to breath in the smell. It smelled like grape and honey. His brow furrowed. "Where did you get the ingredients?" he asked, curiously. "From the fabber? Or did you gather the grapes from the trees?"

"The grapes are from the fabber," her wasp body said, walking past him, her arm hooking onto his. Then she leaned in close, her voice warm and teasing. "The honey is from me."

Lou sat down and then watched as spider Bea walked past him, showed off the knife that she had fabricated for this affair, then sliced into it, while Moth and Wasp Bea both walked around to stand at the far end of the table, to watch him with such eager expectant eyes that Lou felt almost more pressured by this than by facing down a Plurality assassin with chainsaw blades for arms. He gulped, slightly, then nodded as Bea carefully, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, sliced into the pie, then carefully slid the piece free, then set it down. It was a thick, grape pie, with a crumbly, delicious looking crust.

"Oh! Do you want whipped creams?" Bea asked as Lou picked up his fork.

"No, I'm sure it'll be delicious!" Lou said, smiling. He held his fork, then drew it down, pressed it into the pie...then paused and looked up, his brow furrowing as he saw each of his wife's bodies leaning in, with such eager, expectant faces that he actually felt tempted to set the fork down and ask her to back off. Instead of that, he clenched his jaw, forced himself to slice into the pie with the fork, then lift the piece up and slide it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed...and then smiled, slowly.

"Perfection," he said.

His wife beamed at him from three bodies.

The next day, Lou woke up to find that she had baked fifty three pies while he had slept.

TO BE CONTINUED