Chapter Text
To say she didn't know the man standing in front of her would be a lie. Then again, perhaps he would prefer that she lie.
Wedding Cake Cookie had been occupied all morning, tending to the final touches of a garden venue, scheduling consultations, and organizing several dress rehearsals for the following week. She’d returned to Grand Mariage after consoling a client whose plans had fallen through due to an unforeseen weather event: three whole hours of crumpled handkerchiefs, stifled sniffles, and piping hot mugs of chamomile tea.
It had turned out alright, at least in her books, but she arrived thoroughly exhausted and in need of a comfortable, mundane distraction – aimless shop chores and her favorite record in the phonograph. The rest of the day, she’d determined, would be a leisurely one.
Until he showed up. The tinkling bell over her doorway rang along with the ones dangling from his pointed shoes, a simultaneous, hollow sound. She tore herself away from her notes and stood to greet her customer. Only years of honing her poker face as a professional kept her smile from fizzling out when she finally laid eyes on the cookie lingering at her entrance.
Yes, to say she didn’t know the man would be a lie. There was not a soul in the Vanilla Kingdom, she thought, that wasn’t familiar with him by now. Whether it be from the visceral sketch renditions of his face in the newspapers (always thick, smudged lines, like the artist was trying to capture an object in movement and couldn’t quite keep up) or the occasional appearances he made in town, the denizens had grown well accustomed to the creature in their backyard.
Even if you’d never met him face to face, you had certainly seen the product of his work – buildings shifting in size and shape as you walked past, eyes blinking in the streetlamps, bricks going missing from beneath your feet. Harmless enough that all they would garner was an irate scowl or, if one was in the right mood, amusement. And there were other tricks that were less charming, like the jaw of a door biting into your arm, or the feeling that you were being watched by the paintings in your house, or the faucet refusing to turn off even though you’d damn near pried the handle off, the water rising to your chin before the neighbors noticed.
Of course, some of these were only stories, things she’d heard through the grapevine. He hadn’t reduced their kingdom to rubble yet, and he seemed... amiable with Pure Vanilla Cookie, so perhaps he wasn’t so dastardly after all. It was said his highness was a good judge of character. She tried to keep that in mind as Shadow Milk Cookie ambled up to the counter.
He scanned the salon with a slow sweep of his head, smiling blithely as he noted that there were other costumers milling about – a pair of women eying the weft threads on a dress, a stout man flipping through a magazine of suits with his irritable son in the chair next to him.
Once he made his assessment, he faced her. Instantly, she felt as though someone had taken the strings of her corset and tightened them, constricting her lungs and snatching her breath. There was a deep irony to the situation that he would have appreciated - rumors, for once, had not been able to exaggerate his appearance enough.
He levitated inches above the polished laminate floor, towering over her. Diamond appliques danced over the black skin of his harlequin leotard, appearing on his knees, elbows, and chest like a moving bulls-eye. Glossy poulaines rang with the hollow chiming of bells, which also hung from the hat he swung on his disjointed fingers. He clutched a staff in the other hand, its eye watching her amusedly through the murky glass.
All his eyes watched her: the ones nestled in the shadows of his cobalt colored hair and in the crevices of his coattails; the ones planted square in his face, framed by lashes like spider legs and cracked-glass pupils.
His smile was the crowning jewel of this unsettling visage. It didn’t look whole. She was vaguely reminded of a jigsaw puzzle, where you could see the full picture of what it was supposed to be, but the individual pieces were impossible to ignore. Something meant to be broken and rearranged.
“I’d suggest you take a picture,” Shadow Milk said, just as the record in her phonograph began to emit static, “but my face doesn’t show up all too well in those things. Pity, isn’t it?”
Wedding Cake Cookie straightened, blinking rapidly. “I’m - I apologize, Sir. That was terribly rude of me.”
“Oh, no, ogle at your leisure,” he assured, waving a lazy hand. At her flustered expression, he barked out a sharp laugh, startling the other customers. “But not too long, now. I have business here. You are the owner of this establishment, yes?”
She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands on the front of her cream-colored skirt. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Regardless of what she’d heard, Shadow Milk Cookie was a customer, and the customer’s wishes took priority above all else. She had never given anything less than her best effort and she would not start now, even if it meant curbing the instinct to flinch every time he met her gaze. Behind her, the phonograph began to play a jaunty piano tune, the record whirring so fast it began to shoot off sparks.
She swallowed hard and tried to focus, but the music made it difficult for her to compartmentalize. She’d always treasured her ability to multitask, but now the talent proved to be a double-pronged pitchfork. Ah, is that Minuetto alla Tedesca playing? An excellent song, though rather unsuitable for a traditional wedding...focus, Wedding Cake Cookie! You have a Beast for a client. Not a problem, you’ve worked with notorious figures before...
A thought occurred to her then. It seeped into her mind with humiliating slowness: Shadow Milk Cookie was here, visiting a prolific (she liked to think) wedding planner. Which could only mean one thing.
She must have done a poor job hiding her shock, because his smile widened. “Something the matter?” he cooed.
“Ah - no, not at all!” She cleared her throat again, finding her tongue bone-dry. “I apologize for my manners. My name is Wedding Cake Cookie. How may I be of service to you today?”
Normally she would follow up this introduction with ‘how can I make your dream wedding come true?’ or something along those lines, but she couldn’t even bring herself to say it – she was still reeling with information herself. Shadow Milk Cookie was looking to get married? To have a wedding?
In other words - Pure Vanilla Cookie was looking to get married?
Her heart skipped a beat. A royal wedding. She was one bombshell away from fainting.
“Ahem.” Shadow Milk snapped his fingers, his voice dry. “Any day now.”
“Right!” she shouted, a bit too loud. “Um - would you like a tour? I can give you a run-down of all the services I provide, and then we can begin your consultation, discuss your vision, that sort of thing.”
Shadow Milk hummed a discordant note. He maintained a careful, placid mask of neutrality, so she couldn’t discern how satisfied he’d been with her response. “And how long do you suppose all this would take?”
“Oh, are you in a rush? We needn’t hold your consultation today, but-”
“I don’t need a consultation,” he declared, tapping the floor with his scepter. “Don’t flatter yourself! I’m just here for a look-see.”
His head tilted, and this time she was unable to hide her wince at its uncanny angle. His dough’s shape rippled, his torso and extremities stretching like he was freshly caught meat tied to the butcher’s rack. Wherever his drooping limbs would touch was left with a mottled blue stain, like a lipstick kiss, or more fittingly, a bruise.
She’d thought that she would grow comfortable the longer she was at his side, but her heart continued to pump a vicious beat, and she yearned for the moments where the heat of his harsh smile was directed elsewhere.
She took in another breath, nodding. “That’s perfectly well. I’m sure wherever you end up going, your wedding will turn out wonderfully.” A pause. “Forgive me for asking, but you do intend on getting married, right?”
Shadow Milk peered at her with inquisitive eyes. He’d been inspecting a few glass baubles laying as decor on her desk, changing their colors and shapes. “Why not?” One shattered in his hand, scattering glass all over the floor. “Could prove to be a whole lot of fun.”
Clotted Cream Cookie was certain that staying in the Vanilla Kingdom was taking years off his life.
He would admit that this time he’d been a fool. It was a rather humiliating slip-up on his part, agreeing to the council’s plans with such uncharacteristic vigor – he should've known what it would look like. He might as well have volunteered himself for the job with that level of enthusiasm.
An affirmative nod would have effectively conveyed his feelings about the proposal; a low hum would’ve been enough. And now he was here, First Consul to the Creme Republic, wondering how painless suicide by dinner fork would be.
Dramatic, he thought dully, taking small bites of his meal. Still, he wished the elders had had the grace to send him with a proper entourage. He preferred Financier Cookie’s levelheadedness to the pompous preening of the other delegates, but while she was a reliable companion and one of his most trusted allies, there were a few, rare areas where she fell short. One of them being that she was not a conversationalist, leaving him to haul mealtime discussions towards a respectable topic. A difficult task, considering that Shadow Milk Cookie – who sat at the far end of the table with a disturbingly content Pure Vanilla - was always fond of wrenching control from him.
“A delectable meal,” he complimented, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. “My compliments to the chef.”
Shadow Milk grinned. “Why, thank you!”
Financier Cookie paused in the middle of chewing. Clotted Cream stared at his blank plate.
This, this was the problem. He’d been completely supportive when the convocation decided to send an ambassador to monitor the situation (as they put it) between Pure Vanilla Cookie and his supposed ward. The ancient hero had explained their relationship at his last meeting several weeks ago, but his touching little speech did nothing to ease the suspicion of the Creme Republic. No, they could only trust information provided by one of their own, someone of strong, Divine disposition who could confirm their presumptions.
He’d agreed with the plan, truly, but Shadow Milk Cookie was not someone you could spy on, or even examine . For one, he clearly didn’t buy Clotted Cream’s lie about his abrupt arrival merely being a matter of the embassy. He was intent on punishing Clotted Cream for his audacity, and his revenge came in many forms, whether it be through magically misplacing his clothes, poisoning his tea, or cursing him with nightmares that left him unable to sleep a wink. Financier Cookie wasn’t spared, and Clotted Cream suspected she was only being punished by association, which added an additional dose of guilt to his predicament.
Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t even bother covering up his tracks, because who else in the palace was deranged enough to try and nudge him of a balcony? His behavior (attempted murder) had gotten him a solid reprimand from Pure Vanilla, giving Clotted Cream a much needed reprieve from Shadow Milk’s petty tricks. In that time he was able to consider his situation and come to the conclusion that things were far worse than he could have hoped.
Outside of mealtimes, Shadow Milk was a wraith, near-impossible to locate. If Clotted Cream ever came across him in the castle, it was because the Beast wanted him to. He had no decent way to gather intel, and no amount of charisma would offer him the leverage he needed to conduct an actual investigation on Shadow Milk. Failure wasn’t an option, but success wasn’t looking viable from where he currently stood.
Success, he thought as he got ready for bed, snuffing out the candles. What does that entail?
The council believed that Pure Vanilla Cookie was either easily fooled or easily ensorcelled. The most favorable answer was the one that confirmed both, but Clotted Cream could find no evidence to support either. Had he truly been under a spell, why would Shadow Milk (reluctantly) listen to him and cease his harassment?
There was the possibility it could all be an elaborate trick, but even that seemed unlikely. When he wasn’t giving a tongue lashing to the guests daring to occupy his vicinity, Shadow Milk was chattering non-stop with Pure Vanilla – discussing future plans and gossiping about the most menial of rumors. Clotted Cream got the impression that Shadow Milk was not the sort to waste time on anything he found disinteresting, so, at the very least, he found Pure Vanilla interesting .
Compelling was a better word for it. In contrast, the elders would not be in the least bit interested or satisfied if he returned to them with this information. He would either have to find suitable proof that there were strings being pulled beyond his line of sight, or contend with how exactly he was going to tell the convocation that no, Pure Vanilla is not under a spell; Shadow Milk just likes him enough not to murder him, and by extension, everyone else. Isn’t that comforting?
He shifted in bed, dragging the duvet over his head, and resisted a heavy sigh – Shadow Milk would probably hear it, somehow. Then he blinked. By the Divines. His inane pettiness has rubbed off on me.
The sigh crawled out of his throat like a dead animal. Tomorrow was a new day, and he could only hope that Shadow Milk wouldn’t be bored.
“Another one,” Shadow Milk demanded, flaunting her hip in the trifold mirror. “The one with the silk cords, if you will.”
Wedding Cake Cookie nodded. Usually she would refer the brides to nearby tailors and they would select the dress from there, but occasionally a few would return to ask her opinion. Shadow Milk had done just that after buying out every dress available at the neighboring boutique. The floor was smothered in shopping bags overflowing with packing paper, and she – for she had now taken a female form – had declared the salon’s foyer as her domain.
A customer entered and froze, enthralled at the woman laying on the guest sofa. Shadow Milk waved her gloved fingers at the newcomer with a coquettish grin. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she cooed, and the stranger stumbled into the back, mumbling under their breath.
“Must you seduce every one of my clients?” Wedding Cake huffed, handing her the new dress.
She laughed, and Wedding Cake felt like a pincushion being stabbed from all directions. The Beast’s voice was much more shrill in this form. “If you think that’s seduction, you must not get out very much,” Shadow Milk said airily, her chin lifting. “And you ought to be grateful. All this foot traffic is because of me, so don’t get any presumptuous ideas. Now, be a dear and hand me that ribbon.”
Wedding Cake did just that, unable to deny that the crowd she was drawing with her display was substantial. Still, she’d always thought of wedding preparations as private things, between the partners and the planner; a surprise meant to be unveiled on the special day. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t give a damn about conspicuity, openly considering and discarding dresses on the velvet upholstered sofa she was draped upon. Not once had Pure Vanilla shown up to add in his input, and Wedding Cake felt it wasn’t her place to ask, so long as her current client was happy.
“Tell me, how do I look?”
She was radiant in the shoulderless black dress she’d picked out. It was snug as snake-skin, its dark color contrasting against the glowing tint of her skin. A train made of sheer, sparkling fabric trailed behind her, gathering at the edge of the sofa. Strings of luminous pearls roped around her long, graceful neck, hung from her ears, and adorned each ring finger. Her hair cascaded down her back in a curtain of white, half-held up by a strip of old blue ribbon.
“Black isn’t a traditional color for weddings, but you look stunning,” Wedding Cake gushed. Now here was something familiar – a beautiful bride. “Perhaps you would prefer a gothic wedding, then? I know a couple of venues that would work, and a foggy atmosphere might suit them better, unless-”
Suddenly she felt her mouth clam up. Shadow Milk watched her with a bored expression, her lithe fingers outlined in an indigo glow, poised as though she were about to flick away an unsuspecting bug. “My, you’re awfully energetic for so early in the morning,” she mused. “I told you not to worry about any of that. The simplest instructions possible, a newborn cookie could follow them. And yet!”
The spell released its hold, and Wedding Cake wheezed out, “Worrying about details is my job!”
Shadow Milk sighed theatrically. Her long legs crossed over the sofa’s crimson armrests. “Please, darling. Don’t delude yourself now. I’m only paying you for one reason, and it's not so you can do your job.”
“I thought you wanted to get married!”
“Bah! Marriage,” Shadow Milk snapped, tossing her hair over her bare, bony shoulders. “Such a fragile institution, if you ask me. I have something far stronger, far more sacred, than marriage.”
“But you...you said-?”
“Beast of Deceit, my dear. It’s in the name. You’re quite the inattentive student.” She swung herself into standing position, lips parting to reveal an ugly smile. “But all deceit contains a hint of Truth. Don't tell me you haven’t figured it out yet?” That sharp laugh, ricocheting like a bullet. “And here I thought worrying about details was your job.”
Wedding Cake Cookie tried to sort through her thoughts. If Shadow Milk had no plans to get married, then why did she spend hours on end loitering in her salon? Was it simply to cause trouble? She never destroyed any of her property, besides the glass baubles on their first evening together. If some sort of magical spell had been cast upon the salon, Wedding Cake had yet to notice it.
The bell above the door tinkled, signaling the arrival of another cookie. They gaped at Shadow Milk’s form languishing on the sofa, then cleared their throat and scuffled off. At last she noticed the crowd of cookies who had congregated in her salon, all of them watching Shadow Milk under the guise of browsing.
With her reputation as an efficient wedding planner, Wedding Cake’s salon was the most popular (she liked to think) in the kingdom – that meant a constant, steady stream of customers. Customers who would likely put two and two together if they saw Shadow Milk there.
Shadow Milk, who had positioned herself right at the doorway, making sure that anyone and everyone would see where she was and what she was doing.
“You don’t want to get married,” she realized, “You want people to think you’re getting married.”
Shadow Milk clapped her hands with vigor, her expression mocking. “How delightful! You’ve finally caught up to the truth.”
Wedding Cake frowned. “I don’t understand. All this for a rumor?”
“A saleswoman like you should know how just one little lie can make or break a business. But not to worry – this has nothing to do with you. For all your faults you’ve played your part remarkably well.” That serrated smile. “Full marks, my dear!”
Wedding Cake Cookie crossed her arms, frustrated at the waste of time. “If you aren’t doing this for love, what for?”
Shadow Milk eyed her reflection in the mirror, smearing her lipstick with a hard jut of her finger. "Why, the only thing stronger than love. Spite.”
Breakfast was a painful ordeal.
Clotted Cream sat across Pure Vanilla, who lay at the other end of the table. He hummed a peaceful tune, taking small bites out of his toast, blissfully ignorant of the tight, shuttered look on Clotted Cream’s face as he parsed through the newspaper.
Financier Cookie had approached him with it first, telling him that there might be useful information in one of the news stories. Clotted Cream had been skeptical, since even the most reliable gazettes contained misinformed sources and pointless speculation, but her solemn expression urged something deep within him to at least skim.
He lowered the paper when he was finished. Shadow Milk Cookie was watching him with a dainty smile.
Clotted Cream stifled the line of profanity that had emerged like a bullet train in his mind. Surely by now this information had reached the Republic – it was so insidious that he desperately wished he had caught onto it sooner. How was he meant to quell the council’s fears with this pipe bomb thrown into the mix?
Calm down. It may not be true. His gaze flitted to the edge of the table, where Pure Vanilla was swiping crumbs of the Shadow Milk’s cheek. By the Divines.
He cleared his throat. “Pure Vanilla Cookie? Apologies for disrupting your pondering – may I ask a question?”
The king smiled. His presence was immediately soothing, and Clotted Cream wondered if this was a natural effect of the soul jam or simply an innate quality unique to him. “Of course you may. Is something troubling you? Have you found your stay unsatisfactory?”
“Yes, would you like to leave?” Shadow Milk added in the same helpful tone.
“Ah - no. I seek confirmation regarding something I’ve just recently uncovered.” Shadow Milk scoffed at the word uncovered. “I read of it just now, actually.”
“I didn’t know you took such heavy stock in rumors,” Shadow Milk drawled. "They just let anyone be Consul down there, huh?”
Clotted Cream kept his expression cool and focused on Pure Vanilla, whose blank eyes were pointed in his general direction, expectant. He cleared his throat. “As I said, I seek your confirmation on this subject. I wished to know if you might be preparing for a celebration in the incoming future – it seems the townspeople have been speaking of such, and I wondered if there was anything I, and the Creme Republic, could do to assist.”
Pure Vanilla tapped his chin. “A celebration? We have none in the next month or so, to my knowledge.”
“Is that so? Then perhaps I am mistaken.”
“None?” Shadow Milk echoed, addressing Pure Vanilla. “I know you’re well past your meager prime, but don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”
“Oh! Yes, you're right, Shadow Milk. There is something important coming up.”
“And that would be?” Clotted Cream prodded.
Pure Vanilla shot him an apologetic look. “It’s a private affair,” he confessed. “Between myself and Shadow Milk.”
Financier Cookie coughed. A bird chirped outside, its sweet melody displaced in the tight atmosphere of the room. “I see,” Clotted Cream said tonelessly. “Forgive me for imposing, but are you sure we can’t be of any help?”
“I am certain.” He said it so warmly that it didn’t register as rejection. “It is a matter best managed on my own. But we are grateful for your generosity.”
After a moment of silence, Shadow Milk rose from his seat. “Well! This has been a thrilling conversation, but I, for one, have places to be.”
A hum from the king. “Where are you going?”
“Only shopping,” Shadow Milk replied, a glint in his eye. “You already know what for.”
“Oh, yes. Will you be back for lunch?”
“And leave you to these two? Even I’m not so cruel.” Without hesitation, he pressed a swift kiss against Pure Vanilla’s lips. The latter hardly seemed surprised. “Remember to think of me and weep.”
“I will be doing one of those things,” said Pure Vanilla, laughter in his voice. “Have a nice time.”
Shadow Milk smiled again – no matter how many times Clotted Cream saw it, he would never be convinced that the Beast was made to do something like that – and disappeared into the shadows of the dining room curtains. Pure Vanilla finished up his breakfast, only eating about half, then excused himself from the table as well. It was noiseless when they left, save for the scrape of Financier’s fork against her plate.
“Consul?” she tried.
“Yes, Financier Cookie?”
“You seem troubled.”
“Yes, troubled would be the word,” he replied faintly. “Our mission has grown needlessly complex in a matter of moments.”
“Do you think Shadow Milk intends to gain a political advantage through this...marriage?”
“No,” Clotted Cream said, “he has no need. As a Beast, his reputation proceeds him. He already has influence – a political marriage would do nothing for him.” His mind replayed the kiss he had just witnessed. “I’m afraid it’s much worse than that.”
Financier Cookie, bless her heart, caught on without him needing to explain. “Shall I fetch you a glass of wine, Consul?”
“Make it the whole bottle.” Somewhere in the distance, he swore he heard laughter. “Two, if you will.”