Princesses Don't Get Fat

by Aya Ling

  Only Nadine showed her some decency.

  “You need to keep your wrist straight but not rigid,” Nadine said, when Valeria was kept in class to practice on her archery. “When you draw back the arrow, you should maintain the positioning at your cheek every time.”

  Valeria tried to follow her instructions, but most arrows hit far from the mark. She was too exhausted from an entire day of training, not to mention her stomach was protesting. She simply could not perform well on an empty stomach.

  Perhaps her mother would get her wish sooner than expected—at this level of training, it would be a miracle if she could remain plump and heavy. Not to mention that there was nothing appetizing about Rivieran food.

  Fortunately, the students had a day off at the end of every month.

  Valeria decided to seek refuge at the palace kitchens. First, Winifred and Effie were assigned to work at the kitchens—a logical choice due to her maid and nanny being trained to carry trays of food at lightning speed to accommodate Valeria’s whims. Second, she was in a rather morose mood and needed some food to cheer her up. A mug of hot chocolate, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, topped with heavy whipped cream and chopped nuts, preferably. And a plate of freshly-baked cranberry and orange scones, sprinkled with fine sugar.

  Valeria asked Henrietta for the directions to the kitchens and set off. Both Nadine and Lydia had gone to the markets, the former intending to purchase a new dagger, the latter declaring that she needed more red dye for her hair. While it was not the norm for Academy students to care about their appearances, there was an unspoken trend for the female students to have red hair, the brighter the better. All famous women warriors had fiery hair, a trait that implied a fiery spirit.

  When she entered the kitchens, Valeria knew that she had come to the right place.

  The palace kitchens were huge. There was a pantry, a buttery, a sauce room, and the animal pen was stocked with cattle, sheep, goats, chickens, and other livestock imaginable. There was even a pond that kept fish and a bountiful garden that grew herb, vegetables, and fruit.

  The main kitchen itself was enormous. The stone fireplace could roast entire oxen. There was an entire cupboard filled with jars of spices. The staff hurried around, and there was an incessant clatter of spoons, forks, knives, and dishes.

  Valeria was fascinated. Back in Amaranta, she had slipped into the kitchens many times, often for a hot cake that would have cooled down by the time it was carried to her chambers. She usually just slipped in through the back door to the pantry, where Luigi would take care of her orders. She had never seen so much space required for the royal meals.

  A surly-looking cook, holding a huge wooden spatula, passed by and gave her a hard look.

  “Who’re you? What business do you have here?”

  Valeria blinked. In her plain, gray everyday gown, she probably looked like a servant.

  “Your Highness!” Effie rushed up to her. “Oh my goodness, how have you been doing? Winifred and I were worried sick about you, but we didn’t dare visit the Academy because we aren’t allowed there and the head cook says that—”

  “I need some food,” Valeria interrupted. “Have you any hot chocolate? And some dessert?”

  “Perhaps some apple cider?” Winifred appeared, carrying a jug. She swiftly appraised Valeria’s figure, which was now only twice as plump as an average Rivieran girl and nodded in approval. Clearly, the vigorous Academy training had taken effect.

  Valeria shook her head. She was in the mood for chocolate, and nothing, whether it may be apple cider, raspberry cordial, or black vanilla tea, would suffice.

  Winifred sighed and went off.

  While Effie fussed over Valeria, like dusting a spare table and setting napkin and fork in front of the princess, the kitchen staff started to point and whisper.

  “Is that really the princess from Amaranta? The one who failed to get a husband?”

  “Hush! She’ll hear you!”

  “Well, she isn’t ugly, that’s for sure. But I’m not surprised that those suitors were competing to lose her hand. Those are some thick arms you can see. ”

  “No wonder she failed to get a husband, even though they’re saying fewer and fewer princesses are available.”

  Valeria did catch bits and pieces of the staff’s whispering, but she ignored them. All she cared about was getting her snack and drink.

  She settled on a long bench. Even with her still ample, if somewhat reduced, bottom, Valeria winced when she sat down. The training made her muscles sore and aching.

  Effie brought her a mug of hot chocolate and a piece of apple pie. Valeria took a sip and grimaced.

  “Too much milk.” It was hot chocolate, for goodness sake. Not chocolate milk.

  Then she forked a piece of apple pie and swallowed.

  No.

  NO.

  Was this thing what they called apple pie? The crust was too soggy, the filling was too sweet, and no cinnamon or nutmeg or cloves were added to the apples. What had the Rivieran bakers been doing? If any Amarantan baker produced such crap, he would have been banished from the kitchen immediately.

  Usually, Valeria shrugged off anything that went wrong, but when it came to the subject of food, she could not be lax. An apple pie baked like this was unpardonable.

  “Who made this?” she inquired.

  The baker, Pat, was summoned. His shoulders drooped as he walked, and he barely looked at Valeria in the eye when he stood before her. One look at him, and one could see easily why the apple pie was so dismal; his mood was reflected in his baking. Not to mention that Rivieran desserts were already notorious to begin with.

  Valeria sighed. She beckoned to him, pointed at the pie, and listed all the shortcomings. Then she directed him to make a new one. Though, considering the time required for an entire pie, she decided to let him do a simpler version instead. She knew the directions by heart; Luigi had taught her a couple recipes when she was a child.

  “Here’s an apple pie recipe we use in Amaranta,” she said. “Slice the apples thinly and line them on the bottom of the pan. Brush the apples with a pat of butter and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over them. Then make a mixture of flour, butter, milk, and eggs. Pour this mixture over the apples, and bake until the top is golden brown.”

  Pat nodded and slouched off. Valeria, fearing disastrous results, settled on a stool near his table and made sure he followed her instructions completely.

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Effie whispered, when Pat went to put the pie in the oven. “I’ve heard that his childhood sweetheart just deserted him for a merchant’s son.”

  When the pie was in the oven, a delicious smell of butter and apples wafted through the kitchen. Kitchen helpers who were washing dishes, maids churning butter, assistant cooks slicing ham, and even a big orange tabby cat perching on top of the broom cupboard, lifted their heads and sniffed.

  “Take the pie out of the oven,” Valeria said. Years of dessert-eating had made her sense of smell particularly acute, and she knew well when a dessert was ready.

  The apple pie was beautiful. The butter was still bubbling on the golden top, and the smell of cinnamon and apples permeated the kitchen like a magic spell.

  A scuffle broke out as the staff members tried to fight for a piece.

  Valeria, however, was not fully satisfied.

  “There should be more butter to balance out the apples,” she said, putting down her fork. “But I suppose this can be remedied with some vanilla ice cream. Is there any ice cream?”

  By now, the staff was ready to do anything the princess dictated. A tub of ice cream was unearthed from the kitchen’s own underground icehouse and brought to the table. Under Valeria’s instructions, Effie doled out a small scoop of ice cream for each slice of apple pie.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” a voice suddenly boomed. “Why haven’t you started preparations for lunch? Do you want to keep His Majesty waiting?”

  It was the head cook, Ferdinand. He was a l
arge, bulky man with a large, bushy mustache, and a fierce expression that personified a volcano. No one ever did a job right under his eyes.

  Valeria, however, was not the least perturbed. He looked rather similar to the cantankerous Amaranta head cook anyway, whom she had plenty of experience dealing with.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said, offering the plate to him. “I am Princess Valeria of Amaranta. I just arrived last week and was so hungry for my country’s cuisine that I took the liberty of borrowing the kitchens to bake a dessert. I hope you don’t mind, and please accept this small sample as an apology.”

  Valeria was no beauty, but she did have a nice smile that made her eyes crinkle. And her voice was warm, disarming, and inviting.

  “What is this?” Ferdinand said gruffly, still eyeing the plate with suspicion.

  “An Amaranta version of apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Please try it, sir.”

  Reluctantly, Ferdinand dug a generous spoonful and chewed slowly. The rest of the staff waited with bated breath. Ferdinand seldom ate dessert—like most Rivieran men, he deemed confectionery as silly whims that only made men appear weak and feminine.

  A most peculiar expression spread over his face.

  Valeria began to think that the pie was wasted. A pity, because she was sure she could have finished the entire plate.

  “Remarkable,” Ferdinand said, wonderment settling over his face and voice. “Pure genius! Never thought that ice cream, cold as it is, can be eaten with a pie fresh from the oven. Pat, Adam, get to work and bake another! We shall prepare this for the king and queen tonight!” Turning to Valeria, he bowed deeply. “Thank you, Princess, for your excellent contribution.”

  Pat’s jaw dropped, and so did the rest of the staff.

  “Did you ever see him bow to anyone?” a kitchen maid whispered.

  “Only to the royals, and that’s only because of the rules,” another maid whispered back. “But to bow to someone ‘cause he thinks she’s good, I say that’s a miracle.”

  Valeria smiled. “I take it that you will allow us bake more of Amaranta’s desserts?”

  “Certainly! Whenever you like, whatever you want! Just say the word, and all my staff is at your command.”

  Valeria was delighted. Now life at the Academy seemed more tolerable.

  Only Winifred was concerned. It was all very well that the princess had gained favor with the head cook, but if she continued to raid the kitchens, would she able to keep her figure?

  Four

  Her visit to the palace kitchens proved to be such a boon to the soul that Valeria made it a regular routine. Once everyone retired to their rooms or went to continue practicing exercises after dinner, Valeria would sneak away for an evening snack, giving orders for cakes, scones, biscuits, or whatever mood she was in for each day. Since she was able to improve upon almost every dessert Pat prepared, her presence was warmly welcomed. The kitchen staff would fight over the desserts she demanded and explained. One evening Effie informed her that even Queen Eleanor took second helpings of the vanilla pudding Valeria had suggested, and the queen never went for seconds if she could help it. Valeria had to repress a smile.

  One evening, as she crossed the hedges in direction of the kitchens, a dark shape loomed up at her.

  “Where are you going?”

  Valeria almost jumped. In the darkness, she squinted and saw that it was His Royal Highness Ralph Leventhorpe.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Valeria said. “I thought that you were the troll that they were talking about bringing in the Academy.”

  Ralph raised his eyebrows. “A troll?”

  “Uh—” Valeria grinned sheepishly. “Well, Nadine had been complaining of the lack of practical experience, so she said she’d ask Lord Darwar if he could procure a real troll instead of the dummy we practice with.”

  “Hmm.” He seemed to contemplate the matter for a while, and then said, “What are you doing here? Are you trying to escape?”

  Valeria thought it wasn’t a bad idea, but of course she couldn’t say that. “Goodness, no. I wouldn’t dare to do that, and even if I did, I am too visible. And I don’t think I’d be able to climb over a fence, much less the palace wall.”

  “Then where are you going, if you are not running away?”

  Valeria’s stomach rumbled, and she blushed. Fortunately, it would be difficult to make out the color of her face in the dark.

  “As you can see—I mean, hear, I am starving.” She gave him a brief account of her kitchen excursions, figuring that she might as well tell the truth. They were bound to find out some day. “So you see,” she concluded, “it is imperative that I gain more nutrition, or I’d never survive the training. My body needs more food to sustain it.”

  “Is not the food we have every day enough?” Ralph asked, genuinely bemused. “Karl of Dervon consumes three loaves of bread and five pounds of cheese every day. I doubt that you can surpass him.”

  “The amount isn’t the problem," Valeria told him earnestly. “The quality of the Academy food—if it can be called food—is simply unpalatable. The bread is tough enough to endanger your teeth, the soup is so thin that you can drink it like water, and the meat is as tasteless as parchment. Moreover, there is no dessert.” The tone of her voice implied that a meal without dessert was a profound sin.

  “Dessert?” Ralph frowned. “This is a training facility for warriors. Lord Darwar stipulated that nothing frivolous should be allowed.”

  Valeria was indignant. “Even the knights at Amaranta are given a chocolate bar before they duel. It gives them strength. On no account should you dismiss the power of sweets.”

  “Chocolate?” He said the word as though it were foreign. Well, on second thought, the word was foreign in the Riviera language. Chocolate was not produced natively in Riviera, due to the inability of cocoa beans to grow in the cool, foggy climate.

  “I’ll show you,” Valeria said, getting impatient. “Come with me to the kitchens.”

  He hesitated. Clearly, the decorous, well-behaved crown prince had never entertained such a deviant notion.

  “Oh well, if you’d like to see me faint in classes due to lack of sugar, then by all means, stop me. Though it won’t be easy; I can be quite ferocious when I am denied my desserts.”

  Another rumble echoed from her stomach, as though lending support to her words.

  Ralph consented.

  When they arrived at the palace kitchens, Valeria went straight to the back door, which was half covered with ivy, as though she were the one who grew up at the Rivera palace, not Ralph.

  “You know your way well,” Ralph commented, a slight frown on his face.

  Valeria grinned. “Even if I don’t, can one not find the way through the smell?”

  Ralph’s eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing. Silently, he opened the door and waited for her to pass through.

  Surprised faces greeted them. Effie, who bustled over once Valeria appeared, nearly rammed into a table.

  “Who is he?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “Prince Ralph,” Valeria said calmly, as though she made it a habit to bring princes to the kitchens. “Effie, is there any more of the chocolate cake we had yesterday? I’ve been thinking that a layer of hazelnut frosting would improve it.”

  At the mention of the crown prince, Effie promptly dropped the dusting cloth on the floor.

  “I'll get it,” Winifred said, since it was obvious that Effie was too stunned to react.

  Ralph sat down beside Valeria on the long bench. There was a frenzy among the servants at sight of the crown prince. Several of the kitchen maids were fighting with spatulas for the honor of serving their table.

  “Your Highness!” Ferdinand rushed up, a large soup ladle in hand. “Is there something wrong?”

  Ralph assured him that everything was fine. “Just an evening stroll.”

  Soon Winifred arrived, bearing two silver plates. The chocolate cake—which Valeria had Pat bake several times before deeming i
t decent—sat on the plate with a generous topping of hazelnut frosting. Valeria had remembered how the Amarantan cooks made the frosting, and though Pat could not exactly duplicate the flavor, the result was close enough for the princess’s demanding palate.

  Ralph stared at the plate as though he had never seen cake before. Valeria didn’t bother; she simply forked a good chunk and popped it into her mouth.

  “Ooh.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, savoring the flavor as the chocolate melted in her mouth. “Don’t you love hazelnut cream? It goes so well with chocolate, and it enhances the smell for a cake that is no longer fresh from the oven.”

  Ralph took a tentative bite. Instantly, rich, dark chocolate flavor flooded his senses, making him feel as though he had entered a warm room with a blazing fire from a snowstorm. Since he was young, he had rarely eaten sweets. There were hard-boiled candies and white cakes during his birthdays, but those soon disappeared when he reached beyond ten. It just didn’t make sense for a man to be eating desserts. At least, that was the unspoken rule at court. A man eating a chocolate truffle, as though he were a dainty lady enjoying afternoon tea, was unthinkable.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Valeria said, smiling at him.

  She looked completely different than during the morning runs, when she was yawning and sometimes even dozing. Now she was looking at him with a radiant expression and shining eyes, as though she was sharing the most delightful secret with him and him only. There were still smudges of chocolate on her face and teeth, but it did nothing to mar her bright smile.

  Ralph suddenly felt his throat was too dry. He reached for some water and in his haste to drink, choked and coughed.

  “Easy, there,” Valeria said, slightly alarmed. “There’s no need to rush.” Perhaps the Rivieran taste buds differed.

  Apart from Ralph’s choking, the rest of the evening went well. Ferdinand had procured a sack of pistachios imported from Makani, and the cooks debated on which dessert to make first: pistachio ice cream, baklava, or soufflé?