Sweeter than Silk

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.

"The princess, I mean, I just -- I guess I never thought -- "

"You are calling our royal highness absurd?" asked the witch, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh. I just mean the -- the situation is -- I just mean it's a bit -- " He couldn't stop laughing. When he finally calmed himself, he said, "Yes. I am calling her absurd."

"That's treason, Vale," said the witch.

"I'm sorry. I'm just calling it like I see it," he said, laughing again.

"So am I. You could be executed for saying something like that."

His laughter stalled in his throat. "Just-- just joking," he stuttered out.

She did not smile when she said, "And this is all a joke to you, then?" she said.

"No. No!" he said hurriedly.

"We'll see who is laughing at the end of the week. You saw the fabrics. I expect to see your designs for the three cakes by tomorrow night." And with that, the witch turned heel and sauntered away. Vale was left standing in the hallway, sputtering, staring after her and the subtle sway of her hips.

Bellwether returned with a plate piled high with ham and a garnish.

"Bellwether, I'm confused," Vale confessed to the servant. "I thought the princess requested me...?"

"The request for you was sent in by the princess," said Bellwether, catching her breath from running to the kitchen.

"But she didn't even recognize me. She didn't even look at me," Vale said.

"Yes, well... as we know, the princess always gets what she wants," Bellwether said, her words measured. "So... say it might be possible for someone else to submit the request... under the princess' name... and someone else to get you here... even if you never even looked down your nose at her."

"Who?" asked Vale, flabbergasted. Then -- "The seamstress?!"

"Her name is Luca," Bellwether said with a deep frown. She shook her head, threw back her shoulders, and opened the door to the princess' dressing room, bellowing, "I have your hams, milady..."

Vale stumbled back to his room in a daze. He spent the day wandering through the palace's grounds. He was afraid to ask Chef Truffle how to decorate a cake, and he was afraid to ask Bellwether where to go, and he was afraid to ask Luca anything at all.

The hours ticked away, and eventually, Vale returned to his little room in exhaustion.

Again, he heard the hooting of an owl in the evening -- then the fluttering of wings -- then an owl was sitting on his windowsill.

Vale's breath caught in his throat. It was a beautiful creature: a barn owl, with a smooth white face and intelligent black eyes. It felt somehow familiar, looking into those black eyes. Vale smiled at it woefully.

"I wish I had some food to give you, sweet thing," he said.

With a flourish and a flash of feathers, the owl transformed into the naked form of the seamstress witch. Vale gaped and whirled around, trying to give her privacy even as his heart skipped a beat, or several. He wondered if this was a dream, or some sort of magical trick.

"You shouldn't -- you're not supposed to be here," he stuttered out.

"You left an offering for me," she said in her whispery rasp, gesturing to the lavender sprig on the windowsill.

"It must've blown off the bed," he said desperately. "Bellwether left them around the room to freshen up the place. I didn't ask for you, I swear it. You can go." His panicked thoughts returned to the stories his grandfather and brothers had said about shapeshifters and their propensity for dangerous magic. While Vale was stunned by Luca's beauty and her mysterious black eyes, he didn't want to lead Luca into thinking he was here to make some deal for his soul.

"Hm. Is that truly what you wish?"

He finally turned and allowed himself to look at her. Where in his mind, the princess had been rounded and soft, Luca was all tight angles -- like a huntress. Her body was lean and lithe -- in the soft candlelight of the bedroom, she was radiant. She smelled of pine needles and sea salt, and for some reason Vale thought of hunting. She watched him with those keen, sharply intelligent eyes, even as he looked at her. She was unashamed of her nakedness, of the sharpened desire in her eyes. She took a step forward, and Vale fought back a gasp as her barn owl's wings -- hidden earlier in the day by clever dress design -- flexed behind her.

She laughed at him -- a warm sound. "Are you afraid of me, Vale Hendrick?" she asked, tilting her head so that her wild red curls danced around her shoulders.

"A little bit, yeah," he said with boyish sheepishness.

"Then I will go," she said, turning to go back to the windowsill. "I will not go where I am not wanted."

"Wait!" he said. She paused, one foot on the bench beneath the windowsill. She looked over her shoulder and again he was fixed on her black eyes as they glittered like dark molasses.

"Waiting," she murmured, her owl's wings fluttering ever-so-slightly.

"Is it... is it true that you were the one that asked for me and not the princess?" he asked.

"Yes. Now I will go," she said, taking another step to leap out of his window.

"That's treason," he said quickly, before she could escape.

She looked over her shoulder again, something else in her eyes: he had surprised her.

"That's treason," he repeated. "Impersonating a member of the royal family is a serious crime. You should stay. We could talk about it; we are both outlaws now. We are better than outlaws, we are co-conspirators."

"You are joking again," she countered. "I have too much work to do. I cannot spare time for jesters."

"I'm not a jester. I'm a baker," Vale said stubbornly, reaching for her hand -- but as he grabbed her hand, she slipped through his grip, dissolving into a laughing flutter of feathers. He was blown backward by a lavender-scented gust of wind as she beat her wings, and then he was watching her crooked outline seep into the darkness, and then she was gone.

Hastily he piled all the lavender he could find in the room and piled it on the windowsill, before holding it in place with a rock. Eventually, exhaustion took him over and he fell into an uneven and tortured sleep.

When Vale awoke, it was bitterly early. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes -- his body ached with desire for the shapeshifter, which both surprised and disturbed him. He wondered if it was just a dream... Without thinking much, he ate the last piece of small black bread that he'd brought in his pack from the bakery and then got up to go to the dressing room.

When he arrived, he found Luca alone, pins in her mouth, in front of a beautiful blue dress adorned with the tiniest golden appliques. The chiffon seemed to foam away from the small waist, and underneath the blue was an undercoat of pink that would shimmer with every step the princess took amongst her glamorous guests.

Vale cleared his throat.

Luca's wings shifted under her cape-like gown but did not look up from her work. "Your designs should go to Chef Poirot and his team. They should have begun baking already. You are late,"

"I have nothing," Vale confessed.

"You mean to say you have not finished your cake?" she asked, still refusing to look at him.

"I mean to say I have not yet begun," he said in woe.

She looked at him and he watched her alarm turn to amusement as she saw the purpling shadows beneath his eyes. She smiled softly and approached him, holding up an owl's feather and tickling it beneath his chin.

"You couldn't sleep last night?" she asked softly, crossing him and walking to his shoulder, letting the feather drift across his lapel.

"No." He tried to fit all his misery into that one syllable.

"I wonder why," she murmured.

"Please, just tell me why you brought me here," he begged, gripping her hand at last and pulling her to his body. She looked up at him, again in surprise. Then, her face cracked into a delighted smile.

"I brought you here to complement my gowns!" she said. "After all, you seemed so-o-o fascinated by my choice in fabrics, in my silhouettes, in the, ah... assets... I chose to accentuate. Your cupcakes are famous the whole kingdom over. A man driven solely by his devotion to design, color, and fashion. I took it as flattery; you should consider yourself lucky I didn't accuse you of stealing, especially when you put up posters around the city advertising your cupcakes."