Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  “Eh, it is barely dawn, Your Majesty. I’ve yet to set the ovens to task. But never fear, never fear! The princess shall be most pleased with her birthday surprise!”

  King Igdeon laughed, a sound booming despite the shuffled footsteps of his soldiers, the crackling of wood in the stove. “I am most excited, perhaps more so than my daughter herself!” He closed his eyes, inhaled. “Cinnamon, without a doubt, but what else is that lingering in the air?”

  Unsted cleared his throat, and Rol refused to look up at the frustrated sound. “Ginger, My King. It is a foreign affair, far below what I would serve at your table.”

  “Nonsense! It is divine!”

  Rol flinched at the praise, knowing that Unsted would not take kindly to being outmaneuvered, even unknowingly, by another in his bakery.

  “It is from your lands, boy?”

  Rollu stared at his hands, white covered knuckles, the red stain of cardamom that had died the tips of his fingers to match.

  He didn’t see the foot that connected with his shin, had been content to go unnoticed in light of his other missteps of the day.

  He hissed in his breath, tried to hide his anger at the mistreatment as his head rose to meet his master’s gaze, the harsh expression in the coal dark eyes staring down at him.

  “The King has asked you a question.”

  He had?

  But Rol was just…

  The moment was awkward as Rol knelt in silence and the soldiers and baker and royal lord waited for his response.

  What had the king asked? From his lands?

  “Yes, Sire. Ginger, Your Majesty. A root plant, that has many qualities. My father used to make a tea from it to calm a sore throat, cookies and bread when we had enough in stock in his shop.”

  “You come from a family of bakers then?”

  He had to lean on his knee to stare around Master Unsted’s body and nod, so the king could see, the royal beard as bushy as Rol’d thought all trolls were meant to be, portly and regal, and somehow encouraging as bright silver eyes met Rol’s gaze. “Yes, Sire.”

  “And where do you hail from?”

  “Spinick, Your Majesty.”

  “I have not been there in many years. Many-times-many years. It is good to see one of your people travelling abroad. Too long we were ill at ease with each other. I am excited to try one of your ginger treats if you would make the same for my daughter’s celebration!”

  Rol swallowed, the pit in his stomach hardening into dread when he looked at his master’s face and the usually rosy skin was red with anger.

  He flinched away, mumbled a noncommittal reply and that he would be pleased to bake whatever at the king’s command.

  That Unsted sent him from the room in the aftermath was little blessing.

  And Rol stood in the stairwell to the rooms up above and tried to catch his breath, wondering what he had gotten himself into, and where he could go to next when Unsted forced him from the shoppe for his interference with the king.

  Chapter Four

  You want t o use ginger, then I wash my hands of you!

  And Unsted had.

  It wasn’t that the baker had kicked him from the shop, but Rol was not invited to help with the princess’ preparations, nor sign his name to the card which denoted the bakery that made the sweet treat.

  He stood in the corner of the kitchen and watched the master and his retinue of sous chefs scurry about making this and that while he languished, useless, uncertain of what was expected of him now that he had been cast aside.

  And the king awaiting ginger to taste at his daughter’s celebration.

  The ovens were banked, and the sous made their exhausted departure from the kitchen, a mess of pans and utensils in the sink, unwashed and untended in the aftermath of their baking frenzy.

  Rol stared at the five-story cake that Unsted had constructed, lemon scented, and lemon zested, and the entire affair decked out in yellow and green decorated flowers, the princess’ favorites, all said and done.

  The master stopped before Rol, the anger of earlier that day forgotten in his triumph of having completed his masterpiece. “What good are ginger cookies to a princess who has never tasted the same?”

  He laughed as he left the kitchen, his footsteps heavy upon the stairs.

  He called back when Rol would have followed him to bed. “Clean the mess, boy. That’s all you’re good for!”

  His fingertips wer e shriveled by the time he finished the last dish and emptied the dirty water in the basin. He’d left the lot to air dry, but if Master Unsted came down the next morning and the same were not neatly placed and stored, what hell Rol had already paid would be doubled.

  He sighed.

  His back hurt from being on his feet all day. There was a pounding in his temple from the headache that wouldn’t depart. And his stomach was in stitches when, after drying the last dish, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, afternoon, or evening, sustained only on the scents lingering in the shop rather than actual food.

  The growl that came from his belly echoed in the cavernous kitchen.

  He groaned, not wanting to cook a meal for himself, loathe to go to sleep half-starved.

  Begrudgingly, each step slow and resentful, Rol added fresh logs to the stove, used the bellow to fan the embers back to flame.

  There were always eggs in the larder.

  He would have preferred bacon, but he’d suffer without.

  He trudged down the steps into the basement of the bakery were stores were kept, the lantern in his hand guttering in the dank and chill of the cold room.

  One egg was all he needed.

  Something quick and easy and then off to bed.

  One egg…was all it took to make a batch of cookies.

  One egg and some molasses. Cinnamon. Sugar. Flour and shortening.

  A tablespoon of dried ginger, ground smooth to taste.

  He thought about the cake waiting patiently on the counter, its layers so crisply decorated, the frosting pristine.

  How many cakes would the princess taste on the morrow?

  However would she choose which one she favored most?

  He picked up an egg from the carton before him.

  Unsted was not wrong in saying that cookies did not lend themselves well to awe and majesty when viewed by a patron.

  The tiers and the icing were what drew the eye—

  Rollu waited unti l Unsted and his cadre of apprentices had left for the castle before he hurried from his room and crossed the street to the tavern.

  He caught the barkeep’s gaze and begged a moment to speak with the portly woman, a small favor, nothing more. He didn’t need much, just a few strong hands and only for a moment or two, and use of her cart, not the one with the horse, just the hand cart, that he could tug with him to the castle gate.

  Matihilda smiled at him, only too happy to supply what he needed, even offered to beg leave herself if she was needed, which he adamantly refused.

  That didn’t stop her from following him across the road to see what he’d created.

  Nor the line of bar patrons who came in after her to see his masterpiece in turn.

  He was lucky that she kept a close eye on the clock, and though no one wished to let him leave, they understood the significance of such a feat, and were happy enough to offer him whatever luck they could and send him off to the castle for the princess’ festival, foreigner or not, master baker or not, his treat was astounding.

  That the guards didn’t let him through the gates wasn’t surprising.

  He was not the head of his bakery, nor registered as one of Unsted’s apprentices for the party.

  But they didn’t deny his entry, and though he could not see it placed or received in the grand room for the celebration, Rollu walked away from the castle with his head high and returned to the shop to pack his bags for when Unsted really did pitch him from the kitchen after his dessert was revealed at the ball.

  Chapter Five

&
nbsp; “ Her Royal Highnes s , Princess Tasiya!”

  She plastered a smile on her face when the herald announced her to the court and the grand ballroom doors were thrown open for her entrance.

  As expected, the room was packed with every noble who lived within Travow proper, and the surrounding cities, so many trolls that the single aisle that she walked through was all the open space she could view when she entered the room.

  Even the table with its attendant feast was hidden by the sheer mass of humanity crowding the area.

  And if not for the man at her side, dragging her forward, she would have fled it all.

  He tightened his grip on her arm, pulled her into his side as though there was anywhere she could have run.

  Bajin was ever terrified that she’d find a way free of him.

  She hadn’t managed the feat yet, and their engagement had been announced over a year ago.

  “Find a suitable replacement, my darling, and I will put Bajin aside as your affianced. But he is of noble lineage and already a peer of the realm. It would be good to garner his support as Lord of the Hunt, and he will be a strong husband for when you take the throne.”

  The king’s words rang round and round in her head in ever sickening repetition.

  Bajin might well have made a good husband, but it wasn’t her hand he wanted, rather the title that went with her marriage.

  For centuries, her people had born no female upon the throne.

  And despite her father’s assurance that she would not face the same threat, she knew that his choice of husbands was made to assuage the nobility and not for her benefit alone.

  “Smile, my beloved. This is your birthday, after all.”

  Yes, her natal celebration, overshadowed by the knowledge that it would also serve as her engagement party.

  Her father would announce her wedding at the first snow.

  She swallowed against the panic rising in her breast with the thought.

  Her father stood on the dais before his throne, and Bajin led her to where he waited, his bushy beard split wide with his grin, arms extended to accept her hug, allow her a moment’s respite from her fiancé’s embrace.

  She took comfort in it, ignoring his speech about how he was glad everyone could attend and the welfare of the kingdom and how happy he was to announce…

  Standing upon the dais, Tasiya looked out over the heads of the crowd, noted the faces that were bored and uncaring at her father’s words, those who focused on Bajin with smiles on their faces in his support, those who stood mute with consternation, anger etched across their lips to have the man given the role of prince and future king.

  She memorized those faces, the ones who would support her and not her future husband.

  That they outnumbered the opposition was encouraging, and that many of the faces were men in positions of power even more so.

  She had done well, sitting on the council as an advisor to her father. Tasiya knew her land and her people, their trades and their needs. There was not a subject she was not well-educated on, higher, to some extents, than even the king’s knowledge regarding industry and the growing of it.

  Always there was something to prove, and she’d fought hard to ensure she was as worthy an heir as Igdeon would ever need.

  “And for this most joyous of occasions, a special surprise!”

  Tasiya pulled her attention back to the present, straightened her shoulders, for while she fully expected to be awed by the treats created by her countrymen, the overwhelming scent of lemon in the air did not hold the same appeal as it usually did.

  Her father dropped his arm from about her shoulder, winked at the crowd, always a spectacle, and raised his hands in the air to give a mighty clap.

  The torches and candles in the ballroom stuttered out until only those illuminating the far wall remained lit.

  A rod of gauzy curtains had been erected before the display.

  Each of the pastries hidden away until the moment of their reveal.

  Igdeon linked his arm with hers and the crowd parted for father and daughter, king and princess, to advance to the presentation and be the first to view all that had yet to be revealed.

  The crowd hushed.

  The curtains parted.

  In the stunned silence that followed, Tasiya pulled her hand from her father and moved so she could touch the castle growing out of a sea of desserts before her.

  Her lips parted on a shocked breath.

  Oh, there were cakes and tiers of pastries, a display of merengues in every color tumbling from their pedestal in a rainbow of sweets.

  But somehow, one of the bakers had crafted an exact replica of her father’s castle, nearly four feet tall, if she had to guess, the turrets and the towers as near to the clouds as her own bedchamber came. White frosting had been used in meticulous lines to create the molding between the bricks of cookies, drawn sugar in precisely colored detail the stained glass of the windows lining the fortress’ halls. Candied fruits had been placed along the ramparts in place of guardsmen in their red and gold uniforms; licorice the lattice that formed the front gates to the citadel.

  She leaned closer to the structure, closed her eyes and breathed in.

  The molasses drowned out all hint of lemon from the cakes around her.

  Something else, spicy and intriguing, layered over the sweet.

  Enter here.

  The sign, pinned in the dark chocolate pathway to the palace, a piece of fondant penned with a flourish of edible ink, waved at her to open the front doors of the masterpiece.

  She smiled and reached out.

  The crowd gasped in unison with her, stepped back as she jumped away, the castle falling apart in orderly disarray with a spill of cookies, each a tender morsel, no bigger than a bite, bedecked in sparkles and shimmers of sprinkles, arranged before a miniature replica of a throne room.

  “How delightful!” “What ingenious!” “The scent is divine!”

  Tasiya turned to her father, held the miniature caricature of a cookie princess in her hand. “Do you know what it is made from, Pappi?”

  The king closed his eyes on a heavy inhale. “Ginger, my darling. Master Unsted has crafted you a gingerbread castle, filled with ginger snap nobles. Marvelous!”

  She turned with her father to stare beyond the display to the line of bakers and their assistants along the back wall.

  Master Unsted bowed deeply, his face glowing with pride.

  She took a bite of her cookie, let the taste linger on her tongue, harkened back to when she was a child and sat upon her father’s lap before the fire, the winter snows ghosting the windows, a cuppa tea in her hand. The breath she released brought with it the scent of a fall road, leaves drifting down from the branches, tangling in her hair, a wild dance of reds and yellows and greens.

  Tasiya opened her eyes and met the older man’s stare with a smile. “Thank you, Master Baker, for a truly unique treat. Never have I seen or tasted the like before. Gratitude.”

  Chapter Six

  Rol nearly screame d when he was rudely woken from his sleep by a slap to his cheek.

  He hadn’t gotten nearly enough rest, having spent the night before baking, and risen with the sun to see to his own chores and that of the shop, even if the master was not in attendance for sales that day.

  Better if the master had remained overnight at the castle.

  He sucked in a harsh breath and met the old man’s eyes.

  If he’d thought the baker angry at his suggestion the day before, that was nothing compared to what he faced now, and this response expected, after his stunt with the party.

  “Tomorrow morning you will pack your belongings and leave my shoppe.”

  Rol swallowed, having suspected as much, packed for the same the night before. “She did not like it then?”

  “Mention your ginger or your cookies or that farce of a pageant again, and I will see you beaten before you are displaced. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master Unst
ed.”

  He supposed he should be grateful that the old man was letting him sleep out the night.

  But, truly, he’d thought the princess would be intrigued by his treat, and perhaps it would spare him his master’s wrath if he won the coveted title of King’s Baker for the shoppe.

  He sighed. Guess he was wrong.

  He slept lat e the next morning, undisturbed by the banging of pots and pans, the kitchen below stairs strangely quiet as he finally roused himself and swung his legs off the side of the bed.

  Rol ran a hand through his hair.

  It was shaggier than he preferred. He hadn’t cut it in, well, honestly, he hadn’t cut it since he got to Travow, and the last time before that had been when Amarice…

  He shook his head.

  Funny, he hadn’t thought of her in a long while. The ache wasn’t as bad anymore, though his heart still hurt to think that she was gone.

  He stretched his arms over his head, shook out his aching back before he rose, half-crouched in the angled room meant for a man half Rol’s height. His father’s money, untouched all these years, was already packed in his bag, his clothes and the meager earnings that Unsted had paid him ferreted away for when he left.

  He opened the door and paused on the landing at the top of the steps, voices drifting up to him in the silence of the house.

  “But you could see it done, no?”

  “Or course, but the deed would be realized soon enough—”

  “Then find a patsy to lay the blame upon! I don’t care, Unsted. I will not be sidelined to that bitch.”

  “My lord, she is the—”

  Rol slipped, having taken the first step to grow closer to the conversation and misjudged the placement of his foot below.

  It was not a great slip, and he covered it well enough, continued his path down the stairs as though nothing was amiss, and he had not overheard conversations about plots and things he could guess at that he would be better off not knowing.

  Only Unsted waited in the hallway. He glared up at Rollu and Rol squared his shoulders to take yet another beratement from the master of the bakery.