Bee Sting Cake

by Victoria Goddard

  “Water?”

  Hal passed me a big wooden tankard. I gulped the first few mouthfuls, coughed and spluttered some more, and then at length felt sufficiently recovered to sip more decorously.

  Ten yards or so over from where we stood, Tad Finknottle was surrounded by his own little cluster of friends. I looked away, to see that the main body of runners was only now crossing the finish line. The Honourable Rag was nowhere to be seen.

  “Almost,” I said, wishing I dared spit out the glob in my mouth. Hal wordlessly passed me another tankard.

  Mr. Dart said, “You were behind him by three yards after a five-minute delay.”

  I rolled my neck, shoulders, head. “I just didn’t have enough left at the end.” I sighed. “Domina Vlanotris—the cross-country games master—always said to reserve a bit.”

  “Where did you start running from?” Mr. Dart asked, passing me another tankard that someone gave him.

  This one held frothy cool beer. I swallowed a few mouthfuls, wishing for more water. “This morning? Castle Noirell. But I—” I stopped, realizing there were far too many ears close by. “Never mind. Have you seen my uncle today?”

  “He’s been hanging off my brother and the Baron all morning.”

  I looked back at the stand. Sir Vorel was visible now between Master Dart and the Baron, who appeared to be arguing about something. No doubt whether I should be disqualified for joining the race late. I drank some more beer. Hal shifted the honey crock around in his arms.

  “This is heavy,” he said.

  “Carved jade,” I agreed. “Mr. White said that honey doesn’t go off. If we warm the crystallized stuff up, it should be as good as ever.”

  “Mr. Greenwing!” Mrs. Etaris bustled up to me, bonnet askew and wisps of hair escaping from their pins. “Mr. Lingham, Mr. Dart. How was the race?”

  “Second, I’m afraid,” I said glumly, surprised to see her start to smile.

  “That’s excellent, Mr. Greenwing—oh my, yes indeed. Now, gentlemen, it’s time—”

  “For cake!” Hal laughed.

  “And a few revelations,” I murmured, but only Mr. Dart heard.

  I TOLD THEM ABOUT THE ruffians while I started to cream the butter and sugar and Hal magically heated a small pot of milk so we could proof the yeast and a second of water in which we could warm up the honey. He had been responsible for acquiring the rest of the ingredients, which he had done in a haphazard kind of way. We had exactly the correct weight of sugar, a small cake of yeast, two and a half dozen eggs, and enough almonds to supply half the bakers.

  We were the only men in the competition tent. Unlike the other cooking competitions, the cakes—always a highlight of the Fair—were made on the spot, at tables set up under a grand pavilion, then baked in the huge village bread oven. The village baker was always recused from the competition; the judges were the Squire, the Baron, and Old Mrs. Quimby, who had won the prize every time she had entered a cake until finally she had decided to permit others to have a chance.

  “What do you mean, you were supposed to be seen alive at one o’clock?” Mr. Dart said. He was ‘assisting’ by holding our hats and coats. My shirt had more or less dried from the dowsing after the race. I was regretting my cravat’s major disarray.

  “Someone was setting up an alibi,” Mrs. Etaris said thoughtfully. She was theoretically watching to make sure no one cheated. “Now ... what’s happening at one o’clock?”

  “This,” said Hal.

  “The horse pulls,” said Mr. Dart.

  “The archery contest,” I said.

  Mrs. Etaris raised her eyebrows. “There is also the luncheon given the dignitaries.”

  “I am so glad I’m here instead,” Hal said, cracking the eggs into my bowl. “Beat those, Jemis, I’ll start slivering the almonds. This is much more fun than being one of the judges.”

  “Wait till the judging commences,” Mr. Dart said. “Speaking of, here they come.”

  Old Mrs. Quimby was in the lead. She was a small wizened gnome of a woman with iron-grey hair and iron-grey eyes, who always managed to shoehorn the fact that she remembered five Emperors into any conversation. This put her age somewhere on the north side of ninety-five, but that didn’t seem to stop her any.

  She planted herself in front of our table. Master Dart and the Baron stood on her either side. Master Dart was trying to keep a straight face and the Baron looked puzzled.

  “But you’re gentlemen,” he said.

  “I am trying to think,” said Old Mrs. Quimby, “whether we have ever had two young men enter the baking competition before.”

  “They’re gentlemen,” said the Baron, a little more loudly.

  “There was a fancy baker from Yellem who entered, oh, in the third year of Emperor Eritanyr’s reign, but he never came back.”

  Mr. Dart was grinning at his brother, which wasn’t helping. I decided my mixture was sufficiently fluffy, and turned to Hal. “Is the yeast ready?”

  “Just about,” he said, peering into the jug. “Here’s the flour—how much did you want, again?”

  “Two cups, please.”

  “Sifted or un?”

  Old Mrs. Quimby tried to stick her finger into my batter. I batted her hand away, hoping my expression looked mischievous rather than feral.

  “Now let me think back through the five emperors ...”

  “Here’s the flour and the yeast mixture, Jemis.”

  Old Mrs. Quimby watched me beat everything together. She gave a critical sniff when I decided it was sufficiently mixed for our purposes. I glanced at Hal, who was blithely slivering almonds, at Mrs. Etaris, who was still trying to maintain a straight face, and at Mr. Dart, who wasn’t even trying. I fished a clean cloth from Hal’s basket of supplies and covered my batter with it.

  “There we are,” I said, smiling at Old Mrs. Quimby. “Do you need any help, Hal?”

  “Just about done.”

  Old Mrs. Quimby said, “What kind of cake have you entered, young men?”

  I gathered together our dirty utensils. “Bee Sting Cake from the Woods Noirell. It’s one my mother used to make for special occasions ... Where did the crock of honey go, Hal?”

  “It’s under there.” He pointed under the bench with his foot.

  I picked up the crock and set it on the table. “And in case you were worried, it’s true Noirell honey that we shall be using for it.”

  “Planning on drowning the cake, are you?” Old Mrs. Quimby said, cackling. “Carry on, young men. You’re not entering a cake this year, Mrs. Etaris?”

  “Not me,” she said cheerfully. “I’m letting Mr. Greenwing have an open field.”

  “You are gentlemen, aren’t you?” the Baron said.

  Hal smiled brilliantly at him. “I’m the Imperial Duke of Fillering Pool, actually, and of course Jemis’ proper title is the Viscount St-Noire. Is that resting, Jemis? Shall we take a tour while the yeast does its work?”

  The Baron was nodding, and then faltered. “The duke of—duke?”

  Master Dart gave Mr. Dart a quelling glance that did nothing at all to stop his mirth. “Perry! Come, now, Baron, Mrs. Quimby’s already on to Miss Kulfield’s entry, and we don’t want to be remiss, do we?”

  “But a duke? And a viscount? Since when? Why are they making cakes?”

  “Since his mother died, I imagine, and because they went to Morrowlea, I would suppose,” Master Dart said, and tugged the Baron away.

  WE HAD A PLEASANT TEN minutes or so wandering around looking at everyone else’s baking efforts. I kept a close eye on both our batter and the crock of honey, until finally Hal said, “If it’s worrying you that much, we can go back to our table.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Dart, “the people trying to kill you might decide to go after your cake instead.”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” I retorted, looking for Mrs. Etaris. My heart sank as I saw that she had been accosted by my uncle, her husband at his side as usual. “There’s my uncle.” />
  “Are you seriously worried about someone trying to spoil our entry?” Hal asked, looking at all the women—even the audience was almost all women—spread about the tent. They were definitely all keeping a close eye on us.

  “There is some serious wagering going on ...” Mr. Dart said softly. “Especially since you came second in the footrace ...”

  “I hope Mrs. Etaris feels we have done our portion for the Embroidery Circle.”

  Hal whooped. “I think you’ve amply repaid them for their cast-off kitchen utensils, Jemis. Stop fretting so and tell us about the riddle.”

  THE ONLY PROBLEM WITH this particular cake was that, being a yeasted cake, it required proofing times. After an hour we turned the batter into our cake pan, then had another half-hour to wait. Hal went over to the sink set up in a corner of the tent to wash up, becoming cornered by a group of young women as he did so.

  “Does he need rescuing?” Mr. Dart asked dispassionately after a few minutes.

  “I suppose he did tell everyone he was a duke ...”

  But neither of us moved from where we were leaning up against the table.

  The Honourable Rag sauntered over. He examined our neatly arranged table with more interest than I’d expected. “How do,” he said, picking up the off-set spatula. “What’s this for?”

  “Spreading the pasty cream,” I said.

  He picked up the whisk. “And this?”

  “Whisking the pastry cream.”

  “M’father’s wandering around plaintively asking whether you’re really a viscount.”

  “Mm.”

  He picked up the off-set spatula again. “What’s this called?”

  “An off-set spatula. Was there something you wanted?”

  He waved the spatula in the air. I caught a faint whiff of ale. “Oh, depends. You giving odds?”

  I took the spatula back. “I thought I was the subject of the bets?”

  “Today, perhaps. There’s more than one trail laid in the woods.”

  Mr. Dart, perhaps seeing that I was about to say something unconsidered—for I surely didn’t have anything considerate to say—hastily said, “So, Roald, will you be following our Mr. Greenwing’s example and enter your name next year?”

  “Can’t run; can’t cook; what would you like?”

  “Didn’t you learn anything at Tara?”

  He glanced at me, winked. “As if I’d let anyone know! Come, Mr. Dart, or we shall lose all our maidens to the visiting duke.”

  “It’s part of the job,” Mr. Dart replied, leaning back against the table so it took the weight of his stone arm.

  “Better do mine, then,” the Honourable Rag said, giving what I hoped was an exaggerated leer, and went off with loudly expressed and quickly-fulfilled intentions to kiss half-a-dozen Dartington girls to remind them of the attractions and minor harassments of home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Round Two

  “THERE,” SAID HAL, AS the top layer settled gently onto the honeyed pastry cream with a delectable ooze.

  I very carefully removed the cake knife and spatula. The top layer settled down another quarter-inch or so, did not tip over (as far too many early attempts at layered cakes had done), and a perfect, just absolutely perfect, amount of cream billowed out around the sides.

  “That looks splendid,” said Mr. Dart.

  I went to set the utensils down, but there was no room left on our countertop. I lowered them to my sides instead, trying not to hit any item of clothing, and smiled foolishly at our cake.

  “It does,” said Hal after a moment, his voice judicial. “The gold leaf on the praline was a very good idea, if I do say so myself.”

  I went to punch him lightly on the shoulder, remembered in time I was holding a pastry-cream-coated cake knife, and desisted. “I think my mother would be proud.”

  “If you’re quite done admiring your cake, Mr. Greenwing, may I have a peek?”

  I laughed and turned so that Mrs. Etaris could approach the table. She was followed by the Honourable Rag, at just enough of a distance to pretend it was coincidence, not intention, that brought them along at the same time. Mrs. Etaris examined our cake for a long moment before letting out a long soundless whistle. “Well, gentlemen, I must say I am very impressed.”

  “You weren’t expecting us to produce an edible cake?”

  “That has not yet been proven,” she retorted quickly, then caught my eye and laughed merrily. I reflected that this was the first time I’d really felt treated as an equal by the bookmistress, and inwardly rejoiced. Outwardly I produced another extravagant bow.

  “Eh, watch that off-set spatula!” cried the Honourable Rag.

  “Oh, were you listening earlier?” I said, feeling a little giddy. Too little sleep—Mr. White’s superb honey wine—the long run—the ruffians—the race—and, most likely, the little bits of batter and praline and cream I had tasted to make sure the flavours worked.

  The Honourable Rag examined our cake as assiduously as had Mrs. Etaris. I regarded it again: the gilded honey-coated almonds of the praline topping, the perfectly golden-brown crumb of each layer, the ivory pastry cream at just that exact height of bosomy glossiness to support the top layer without any hint of rubberiness.

  “Well!” he said, and took off his gloves.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, puzzled. His garnet ring—the match of mine—flashed a moment in the air, the simple flower still as much of a mystery as the magical properties of mine.

  He reached out to the off-set spatula and running his finger down the edge to the collect the cream. “Not spoiling your cake, so stop fretting, Greenwing.”

  “I wasn’t fretting,” I muttered, daring him to try the same thing with the cake knife, but he merely turned away to greet his father with exaggerated affability.

  The Baron was accompanied by Old Mrs. Quimby and Master Dart. All three of them looked astonished at our cake. I felt exceedingly smug. A glance at Hal suggested that he felt the same; somewhat to my surprise, nearly the same expression was on both Mrs. Etaris’ and the Honourable Rag’s faces. Mr. Dart nodded at Sir Hamish.

  Old Mrs. Quimby somewhat unnecessarily elbowed her way past the Baron, planting her stick firmly in front of our table. The rest of us all backed away a few steps so that she could begin the judging, which she did by sucking on her teeth for a good minute. Master Dart, face suspiciously solemn, made a few notes in the Book of Judgment—an artifact dating back past Old Mrs. Quimby’s memory, as she invariably mentioned at some point during the announcement of the finalists. The Baron merely stared, scowling. I confess his continued perturbation also made me feel somewhat smug.

  Eventually Old Mrs. Quimby nodded. “You may bring it up to be tasted.”

  Master Dart gave her his arm, and the three judges made their way back up to the front of the tent.

  “Did we make it through to the second round, then?” asked Hal, looking at the other competitors. A few were going up empty-handed and sad-demeanoured to look at the cakes that had made it through the round.

  Most of the successful cakes were already at the front display table, where tradition had it they would be accessible to everyone after the judges had tasted them. As a result—and because Old Mrs. Quimby was known to have a somewhat salty manner of expressing her opinions about the cakes—the sides of the pavilion had been rolled up and most of the combined populations of Dartington, Arguty, and Ragnor Bella, along with all the visitors, were crowding as close as possible. For a moment I thought I saw Nibbler the courteous highwayman amongst the throng, but he—if it was he—soon moved out of sight. Dominus Gleason elbowed his way to a prime position at the front, looking so obnoxiously smug I immediately tried to wipe my expression.

  I had just turned to put the cake knife down when I smelled something burning.

  I started immediately to sneeze.

  “Oh, Jemis,” said Hal. I twisted away from our cake, trying not to stab myself or anyone else with the knife, an
d saw that the burning was not from an early bonfire—nor from something left unattended in the village bread-oven—but was rather some canvas near the top of the tent.

  I tried to catch my breath. “Tent!”

  Mr. Dart raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

  I tried again. “Tent! Up there!” I pointed with the cake knife, but by then other people had also noticed.

  No one cried ‘fire’. A cloud had moved away from the sun, and with it cast a shadow sharp as a nightmare across the white canvas.

  An endlessly long tail studded with spikes, its end flattening out into a shape like the ace of spades. Moving shadows across half the tent gave the impression of huge wings. And small at first, then enormous as it approached the canvas, the horn-crowned head.

  Everyone stopped where they were as the little flame-licked patch of blackened canvas spread. The ashes started to drift down, and in the centre of the patch a hole appeared, brilliant in the sunlight. Then the shadow blocked out the sun, and into the relative dimness of the competition tent the dragon slid its jade-green nose.

  At this point I heard the creaking of the tent’s support structure under the creature’s weight. Looked up to see the metal struts bending, bright-gold talons piercing the canvas around the peak pole. By the time I looked back down again the dragon was almost all the way through the rapidly-expanding hole, into an even-more-rapidly expanding space in the centre of the tent. The only person who hadn’t moved was my uncle, who was staring at the dragon with an expression of absolute dread.

  It came to me in a wrench of pity that dragons must have been a special fear of his. Everyone else was afraid, but he was petrified.

  The dragon stepped down and began to draw its tail after it. It didn’t have quite enough room, and moved over slightly. This brought my uncle into its direct line of sight.

  The dragon blinked and started slowly to smile.

  “Well, now,” it said, “here’s a pretty rabbit all ready and waiting.”

  Sir Vorel’s face was white, his skin beaded with sweat. I could feel the fear flooding out of him. The dragon opened its mouth, obviously enjoying the prospect of such an easy target.