CHAPTER 23
Calla’s bedroom is nothing like the rat-infested closet where I slept as a child or the servants’ quarters where I kept Snow White. It’s fit for a princess with a whimsical hand-painted mural filled with fairies and flowers, a velvety pink rug, and a shelf full of children’s books and stuffed animals. Curled up on her lacy canopy bed, she cuddles her new doll.
“It’s a gift from Marcella,” I say.
Calla gazes at me sheepishly.
“What are you going to name her?”
“She’s so pretty and nice.” She pauses to hug the doll. “Lady Jane!”
I’m touched. She knows the truth. This little girl’s even smarter than I thought.
“Let’s get you ready for dinner,” I say. Grabbing a silver comb from her night table, I sit down next to her and run it through her long golden locks. As I admire her beauty, the memory of that other beautiful little girl unexpectedly flashes through my mind. Snow White. And then I flash forward to the poisoned comb I sold her. The image of Snow White collapsing makes me shudder. Calla’s comb slips out of my trembling hand and onto the bed.
“Can Lady Jane come to dinner? Please, pretty please with a cherry on top?” begs Calla, unaware of my inner state.
Marcella bursts into the room and snaps me back to reality.
“Jane,” she says in a panicked voice, “the cook and his staff have just quit so I need you to get downstairs and prepare dinner. Now!”
Okay, so now in addition to being Marcella’s personal slave, I’m also the family cook.
“And FYI, I’m on a major diet. I want to look fabulous in my new ball gown!”
“What’s a diet?” asks Calla, innocently as she retrieves the comb.
“Something you’ll never have to worry about.” I quickly finish combing her hair.
The castle kitchen is enormous. Way more elaborate than the one at Faraway. There’s a giant built-in hearth, a huge iron cauldron, hundreds of meticulously arranged pots hanging from the ceiling, and a gazillion utensils lining shelves—most of which I’ve never seen before. Large wooden tubs, clustered on the paved stone floor, overflow with flour, grains, assorted fruits and vegetables, and fresh eggs. Chopping blocks, workstations, and storage closets are scattered everywhere.
Meals at Faraway, along with Fanta’s cooking class, were based on the principles of rustic cooking. Simple, good, old-fashioned home cooking. While I mastered basic culinary skills there, I’m not prepared to cook a meal fit for royalty. I have no clue where to begin.
Okay, think. Think! I know. I need a cookbook. I’ll find an easy recipe, the kind that you can whip up in no time. You don’t have to be a culinary genius to follow directions.
I search the shelves for a cookbook. Nothing. There’s got to be one somewhere. I open a storage closet. Aagh! Two large gutted animals dangle before me. Maybe, they were going to be tonight’s main dinner attraction. Not anymore! I slam the door shut.
After several more dead ends, I finally find a cookbook in a workstation drawer: The Joy of Royal Cooking. I open to the first page and begin to read.
INTRODUCTION
Blood, choler, phlegm, and melancholy, the elements found in all living things, and their corresponding natures—hot, dry, wet, cold—must be considered by the cook whenever making any royal recipe. BEWARE! Food not prepared with its humors in mind is unhealthy and can cause death to the person who consumes it.
Blood! Choler! Phlegm! Who wrote this cookbook? They sound like ingredients for an evil potion. I randomly flip to one of the recipes—Page 172, Roasted Tail of Boar with Jellied Eels. Eww! That’s it. I’ve read enough of this royal crap and toss the book in the garbage. Where it belongs.
Outside the large kitchen window, the sun is setting. I feel the onset of panic. Help! What am I going to do?
Think, Jane, think! Suddenly, I know. I’ll do what I know how to do. I’ll make The Prince and his family (hmm…I’m not sure if Marcella counts) some “rustic” dishes I learned how to prepare at Faraway. A hearty soup, a fresh salad, and a crusty loaf of bread. And maybe a simple dessert.
My spirits perk up. Singing “lalalala,” I prance around the kitchen in search of anything I can throw into the giant bubbling cauldron. And what riches I find! Tons of fresh vegetables, grains, and herbs. With a long wooden spoon, I stir the ingredients. In no time, the broth starts to smell delicious. You simply can’t go wrong with soup.
While the soup simmers, I start on the bread. A quick rising one. I find all the ingredients I need and mix them together. The dough is perfect—soft but not too sticky. Now, on to my favorite part—kneading. For three delicious, stress-releasing minutes, I massage the dough, pressing and pulling it in different directions. How good it feels to plunge my fingers into the warm, stretchy mixture. I flashback to the first time I made bread with Winnie and remember I should be thinking about someone I hate. Marcella! Dough, it’s time for you to feel some pain. I tug wickedly at the dough, enjoying every minute.
After letting it rest for a few minutes, I shape the dough into a round loaf, slash the top with a sharp knife—did you feel that, Marcella?—and place it into the hearth.
While the bread bakes, I quickly pull together a salad in a large ceramic bowl. I throw in a bunch of assorted fresh greens and then top them off with a dash of oil and vinegar. I take a taste…not bad. Marcella will appreciate it. Salad, the sustenance of Sasperilla. The perfect diet food.
Okay. Now for dessert. Hmm. What can I make? The desserts we prepared at Faraway were limited and usually made from the fresh fruit we picked. Searching through the myriad of barrels, I stumble upon a mountain of apples. Beautiful, rosy red apples.
An evil thought lurks in my head. Maybe, I should poison one of them and give it to Marcella. My mind is racing. Yes! I’ll concoct an evil potion using a recipe from that bogus cookbook and dip one of the apples into it. Then, at dinner, I’ll convince Her Royal Skankiness to eat the poisonous fruit by telling her that apples are good for your health. They can even help you lose weight!
“Stop it!” shouts a voice inside my head. “STOP IT!!” the voice says again louder. Okay, I hear you! Enough! Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stay focused on making dessert.
I know. I can bake an apple pie. I made one once with Winnie at Faraway. Okay. Confession. Winnie did most of the work. I merely cut up the apples and swished them around in the sugary mixture. But I think I can handle it. I mean, how hard can it be to add a little crust? If my calculations are correct, it’ll take me twenty minutes to make the pie and an hour to bake it. My dessert will be ready just when The Prince, Calla, and that woman finish the soup and salad. Warm apple pie! Won’t they be impressed!
I gather up the ingredients Winnie used and then quickly peel the apples. As I cut them into thin slices, Shrink’s theory of good vs. evil pops into my head. On an apple scale of one to ten, Marcella’s definitely a one—rotten to the core. Calla, on the other hand, is a ten—unblemished. God’s perfect fruit. I’m not so sure where The Prince fits in. And come to think about it, nor where do I. Maybe, like Snow White, the human hand poisoned me. My mother’s. Trembling, I almost cut myself with the knife.
Jane, get a grip! Focus! Stop thinking about all this nasty stuff! Cooking’s supposed to be fun and get your mind off things. I take another deep breath and scoop the slices into a bowl. I add the other ingredients, except for the flour and the butter. Swish. Swish. I pop one of the sugarcoated slices into my mouth. Yum! So far, so good!
On to the piecrusts. Winnie told me a proper apple pie needs two crusts—one on the bottom to cradle the apples and one on the top to blanket them. “The apples are like the baby,” she said.
Using a well-floured rolling pin, I roll out two crusts. I don’t get it. Why won’t the dough roll out into perfect circles like Winnie’s? Mine are ugly, jagged blobs. Oh, well. They look enough like piecrusts.
I transfer one of the crusts to a deep round earthenware dish, pressing it firmly into the bottom and over edges of the rim. Easy enough. I load the apples onto the crust, piling them high in the center, precisely the way Winnie did. And now the tricky part…placing the second crust over the heap of apples. Carefully, I lift up the limp dough and edge it over the top of the pie. But then it happens. The dough breaks apart. I manage to glue the two pieces together, but I can’t make the patched-up crust cover the filling no matter how much I stretch it. Losing my patience, I tug harder and harder. The dough, now as thin as parchment, breaks into a dozen jagged pieces. I have no clue how to splice them together, and there’s no time to make a new crust. I want to cry.
Putting the sad-looking pie aside, I run over to the cauldron to taste my soup. I’m instantly cheered up. The ingredients have blended to perfection. I dash over to the hearth to check on my bread. The crust is golden brown, and it smells scrumptious. Time to take it out and put in the wannabe pie.
Dinner, my friends, is about to be served.
The Prince, Calla, and Marcella are seated around a long formally set, candle-lit table in the dining hall. The Prince, dressed in a billowy white linen shirt and royal blue velvet vest, is on one end; Marcella, wearing a tacky, low-cut hot pink gown, is on the other, and Calla’s in the middle. Right beside her is Lady Jane, propped up on pillows in her own chair. A carafe of red wine graces the table.
“Marcella, thank you for my dolly!” exclaims Calla with a big fake smile. She’s good!
The PIW glowers at her. “Child, what on earth are you talking about?”
Calla rolls her eyes, then exchanges a wink with me.
Chuckling inside, I have to steady the heavy silver tray that’s holding my three-course dinner. I plunk it down on the table, nearly spilling the tureen of soup on Marcella.
“Jane, I want my dinner served on the table, not my lap,” she sneers.
Duh! I serve the salad first. I hold my breath as everyone takes their first bite.
Bad news. Her Royal Skankiness spits it out and screams. “There’s dressing on this salad! I told you I was on a diet!” She shoves the plate away.
“Yum!” says Calla. “Can I please have more?” I serve her a second helping. She alternates between gobbling the salad and pretend-feeding some to her new doll. “Lady Jane loves it too!”
The Prince’s face brightens. “It has always been a struggle to get Calla to eat her greens.” I take his words as a compliment.
I clear the salad plates, then serve the hot soup and bread. The Prince dips his spoon into his steaming bowl and lifts it to his lips. I hold my breath again.
“Mmm! What do you call this?”
Crap! I have no idea what this concoction of vegetables is called. Think! Think of something quick! “Um, uh Potage de Meeshmash,” I stutter.
“Ah, it’s French.” He scoops up another spoonful. “Where did you learn how to cook like this, Jane?”
Rehab. No, wait! I can’t tell him that. “I went to cooking school in France,” I stammer.
“Vraiment?” comments Marcella, her tone snippy.
Whatever. I smile at Calla who’s giving little “tastes” to Lady Jane.
Marcella hasn’t touched a thing. She’s practically frothing at the mouth, watching Calla and The Prince wipe their bowls clean with the crusty bread. Finally, she can no longer take it. In one swift swoop, she grabs her bowl of soup and scoffs it down. Then she snatches the bread and bites off one chunk after another. Sheesh! How much can she stuff into her mouth?
“Marcella, you hogged the rest of the bread!” sulks Calla. “Not fair!”
The PIW’s eyes narrow; her lips pucker, and her fists clench. “Jane, why did you let me eat all that bread!” she yells as if I’m responsible for her lack of will power. “You’ve made me fat!”
Rescue me! She’s way worse than Sasperilla! The skinny bitch, at least, had self-control and didn’t blame others for her shortcomings. The smell of something burning cuts my thoughts short. The apple pie! It’s still in the oven—probably burnt to a crisp!
I hurry back to the kitchen to check on the pie. The good news is…only the edges of the crust have burnt. The bad news is…the filling is now the consistency of applesauce. And it’s starting to bubble like molten lava.
Panicky, I jerk it out from the hearth and yelp. I’ve burnt my hand on the red-hot dish. To my horror, my flesh is glued to the rim. I peel it off. Ow! Why am I such a doof in the kitchen? I flashback to my finger-cutting incident at Faraway, then flash forward to my reunion tomorrow night. I can’t wait to see Elz and Winnie. It gets my mind off the pain.
Using my good hand and a large potholder, I bring the once-upon-a-time pie to the table. “My pièce de résistance,” I say in my best French accent.
I have to admit the aroma is tantalizing and wonder if it will taste as good as it smells. I slice a generous piece for everyone. What I really need is a ladle.
“Pass!” grunts Marcella, raising her hand like a stop sign and turning her head.
“Jane, this is simply wonderful!” says The Prince after his first bite. Taking another forkful, he savors my apple mush as if it’s his last morsel of food.
Calla’s equally ecstatic. “Super duper yummy!” she squeals. “Papa, may Lady Jane and I have another piece? Please? Pretty please?” she implores with the coquettish charm that only a little girl can get away with.
The Prince cannot say no to his little princess. I serve Calla and Lady Jane their second helping. There’s only one piece left.
Marcella stares at it, her mouth watering. I’m enjoying every minute. Suffer, you wannabe skinny bitch!
“Jane, I shall have the last piece,” says The Prince. “This splendid pie should not go to waste.”
As I serve The Prince, he notices the burn on my hand; it’s now a big red ugly welt.
“What happened to your hand?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I reply. “Un petit cooking faux pas.” Am I kidding myself? My hand is killing me!
“Let me take care of it before it gets infected.” He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a white monogrammed silk handkerchief. He gently wraps it around the burn. My hand trembles and my heart pounds. I’m weak. It must be a more serious wound than I thought.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Marcella rolling her eyes in utter disgust.
“That’s much better.” Proud of his makeshift bandage, The Prince holds my hand in his. I keep it there longer than I need to, then hastily pull away.
“Thank you, My Lord.” I quiver. “I mean, Gallant.” Our eyes meet briefly. My heart races; my body tingles. I don’t know why I feel so weird and wonderful.
What I do know is that I’ve learned a valuable lesson: When life gives you apples, make apple pie.
After dinner, The Prince sends Calla up to her room; she’s had a big day and needs some sleep. The little girl protests but finally acquiesces.
“I love you, Papa.” She gives her father a big hug.
“I love you, too, My Little Princess,” says The Prince, holding her tightly.
Their embrace gives me the chills. Maybe, it has something to do with never having a father to kiss me good night. Knowing my mother’s taste in men, it’s just as well I didn’t.
“Good night, Marcella,” says Calla coldly before heading upstairs.
Marcella pays no attention to the child and dismisses herself from the table.
“My love, I need my beauty sleep with the ball so close.” She blows The Prince a kiss, then slinks off.
Ball. Shmall. Personally, I think Her Royal Skankiness wants nothing to do with clean-up. To tell the truth, neither do I. I don’t want to think about how much there is to scrub.
And then I have one of my brainstorms. When they’re all upstairs asleep, I’ll toss all the plates. Tomorrow, I’ll tell The Prince I accidentally broke them and blame it on my burnt hand. That’s sure to get his sympathy. And, come on, he can easily afford a few new dishes. In fact, I bet he and the PIW will get an entire set of new china for a wedding present.
I’m such a creative genius. Okay, so not all my plans work—the poison apple scheme bombed as did my escape from Faraway—but this one’s a sure-fire no-brainer.
Singing “lalala” to myself, I start hauling plates and serving pieces into the kitchen. The Prince orders me to stop.
“Please share some wine with me,” he says.
“I have to clear the dishes,” I reply, slightly taken aback. Seriously, I wish he’d go upstairs. I want to get going on my kickass toss-and-clean plan.
“There is no need,” says The Prince, already pouring two goblets of the red wine. “The cook and his staff shall be here in the morning. Trust me, they must have had another spat with Marcella. They always quit and come back the next day.”
Holding the wine, The Prince escorts me through double doors that open to a small but beautiful garden. It’s filled with hundreds of lilies and roses, in varying shades of white. Fireflies, a holdover from the summer, dance around the blooms like sprinkles of fairy dust. The Prince leads me to a stone bench, where we sit and sip the wine.
I inhale the sweet scent of the flowers and the fresh night air. The wine, the first I’ve had in ages, is soothing and as smooth as velvet. It goes down easily (perhaps too easily) and makes me relaxed.
“What a lovely garden,” I say. On second thought, maybe I should have said, “What lovely wine.” I’m not thinking one hundred percent straight.
The Prince’s expression turns wistful as he refills my goblet. “My late wife designed this garden herself. Lilies and roses were her favorite flowers. She named our daughter, Calla Rose, after them. After she died, I scattered her ashes here.”
Eww! I’ve been walking on the remains of some dead person. I want to dust off my shoes. “How long has it been?” I ask, careful not to show my disgust.
“A little over five years.” There’s sadness in his voice.
The power of the wine enables me to prod further. “How did she die?”
“A snake bit her. Right here in this garden.”
I nervously survey the grounds to make sure no snakes are nearby. Phew! Not one in sight.
The Prince pauses; his eyes grow hooded. “I could not save her,” he says at last.
Not knowing quite how to respond, I ask, “Does Calla remember her?”
He sighs. “No. She was too young.”
“Perhaps, it’s for the best.”
The Prince creases his brows. “What makes you say that?”
Because my mother was a witch! She used and abused me. I wish I could erase every memory of her! I wish she never existed! That’s what I want to say, but instead I settle for some clichéd comfort.
“It’ll be easier for her to move on. To accept a new mother.”
“I hope you are right.” He sips his wine. “She is having difficulty warming up to Marcella.”
Marcella. The mere mention of her name makes my stomach churn. Maybe, now’s a good time to tell him how Calla really feels about her prospective new mother.
“She’ll adjust,” I say instead. “She’s an amazing girl.”
“She is indeed. I cannot thank you enough for saving her life today.”
A smile flashes across The Prince’s face. Dimpled like Calla’s, it’s dazzling. I can’t get my eyes off him.
He plucks a perfectly formed lily from the earth. “This is for you.”
I hold the flower to my nose and inhale its intoxicating scent. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I gaze up at The Prince’s chiseled face, but words get stuck in my throat. I can’t even squeak out a simple “Thank you.” My head is swirling, and little explosions rock my body inside. It’s got be the wine. It’s got to be!
“My daughter seems to have a special affection toward you,” says The Prince. “Perhaps, you can help me out with something.”
Anything you want. Anything, Gallant! My Lord! My Master! What is wrong with me?
“Calla’s seventh birthday is in three days. I would like to throw her a surprise party. Originally, I asked Marcella to plan the event, but with all the arrangements for the ball, she has had no time to handle it. So, I am hoping you will take over.”
I feel like I’ve been hit over the head by a brick. A birthday party!? He wants me to put together a birthday party? Does he have any idea of how big my workload is? And he actually thinks Marcella is handling the details of the ball? Between ball preparations and Marcella’s other ridiculous requests, I barely have time to breathe. Or pee.
“No problem.” I must be out of my mind.
I chug the rest of my wine. On second thought: When life gives you apples, dip them in poison. All of them!