Kaylee Galindo
“Let them eat cake…” I mused, peering at my reflection in the looming, gilded, warped mirror in my vast chambers. “Peasants invent the oddest phrases.”
In the glass I saw the large, sun-colored, sugar candy butterfly on top of my hair was tilting to the left a bit. I adjusted it quickly, my cheeks flushed with warmth, and ran my finger along the edge of my hairline, gathering a large dollop of buttercream onto the tip of my index. I sucked the icing off, frowning when the nail went as well. I liked my nails—they were made of hard caramel. Now I’d have plain, boring nails like every other unroyal, un-special aristocrat attending this evening’s festivities.
“Servant!” I called over a pale, lemon-cake shoulder, eyeing the disturbingly frail woman standing by the door to my room. “Fetch me a glass of champagne.”
When she did so, I noticed her hands shook. They were thin hands—bony hands. In fact, when I looked, really looked, which I seldom did because like, who cares about Servants, she appeared to be a walking, breathing skeleton. Her veiny skin stretched taut over knobby knuckles, knees, shoulder blades. Her hair was thin on her head, but thick on her arms. I grimaced, revolted at the sight.
“Don’t you eat, servant?” I inquired, taking a lengthy sip of my bubbles. Her eyes tracked the movement, her tongue slipping out to lick cracked lips. Wide eyes, like an anemic owl that hadn’t had a mouse in ages.
“I don’t—" she started, but I quickly waved her off. That voice. Horrible, like hearing two rocks being ground together. Like talking to a cheese grater. Yuck!
“Goodness!” I gasped, my hand flying to my pink, yellow, and blue bodice. My fingers touched my candy pearl necklace, smooth and as opaline as the real stones. “Literally, don’t ever speak again. You can leave, now. Mon Dieu.”
I flounced from the room, checking again to make sure my gown, layers and layers of bright fondue and swirls of pink frosting, candied pearls, and candy floss bows, was pristine, my lemon-drop heels clicking brightly and joyously against the marble floors of Versailles. I smelled like a birthday cake. I was a birthday cake. Every inch of me, every cell, every organ, every muscle, every bone, every teensy tiny drop of blood—cake. I was a masterpiece! An absolute, confectionary masterpiece!
As I walked, a Servant passing with a tray of food dropped his platter with a yelp, eyeing me in blatant horror. I beamed. The staff were all so funny, watching as I headed towards the ballroom, an array of comical reactions popping up and around like kernels of corn in a pot. Popcorn covered in caramel and chocolate chips. I reached down and yanked off my pinkie, popping the lemon-cake concoction into my mouth. I chewed, moaning in delight. A maid screamed; a butler fainted. I smiled and shook my head. So, so, silly.
“Your Majesty.” I turned, head tilting as I took in the sight of the luxuriously fat Count du Ponte, striding purposely in my direction as fast as his legs could move. “You look ravishing this evening.”
“Merci, Monsieur du Ponte.”
“May I ask—is that…frosting?”
“You’ll never believe it.” I gasped, taking his arm when he proffered it to me. “When I was dressing, I was a normal girl. And then—oh goodness.” I paused when I noticed the Count ogling my buttercream coiffure, his short, thick, fingers so much like sausage reaching up to swipe a greedy dollop.
“You don’t have to talk, Your Majesty.” He pulled a croissant out of his trouser pocket and dipped it into the chocolate frosting lining the edge of my bustier.
“You’re right.” I agreed, smiling, and continued the route towards the party. I was so, so happy that I had such kind friends.
The ballroom was swarming with hundreds of nobles, so many rats in a nest, when I made my way inside, already delighting in the sights and smells and the colors. Pink, yellow, blue. I could see the banquet table from here: glasses of iced lemonade, macaroons, pastries, cupcakes, tarts, truffles, marzipan, chocolate, sugary dipped fruits, and candies. At the head of the stairs, the announcer blew half-heartedly on his trumpet, his bony hands trembling so badly he could hardly bear the instrument.
“Her—Her M-Majesty, Queen Marie—”
“Oh, shut it, Servant.” Count du Ponte spoke for me, shoving past the twig-like entity with a rough shoulder. A guard standing near us swooned when we passed him on the stairs, his broadsword clanking onto the floor like a shower of rough stones.
“Your Majesty!”
“Your Majesty, such color!”
“Your Majesty, is that…fondant?”
“Doesn’t Her Majesty know lemon cake is a peasant flavor?”
“I hope Her Majesty isn’t planning on wearing her hair like that.”
“Marie.” A startled feminine voice, and then a hand on my arm. The woman let out a tiny yelp and ripped her frosting coated fingers away, her cheeks flushed red with blood like maraschino cherries, her hair dark chocolate piled high on her head.
I groaned in displeasure, eyeing the King’s dreadful whore with distaste.
“Du Barry.” I grumbled.
“Your Majesty you—you’re not yourself.”
“Madame Mistress.” Count du Ponte cut in icily, eyes narrowed into snake slits, forked tongue slipping out between his teeth with each word. “Run along and play with the Servants.”
“They are starving, Your Majesty,” she pressed on, eyes wide, like huge balls of hard candy. “we must—”
“We mustn’t do anything.” I argued, disturbed at her blatant treason and favoritism towards poor, broke, trollops. I was appalled—surely, she’d had far too much champagne.
“Your Majesty!” Madame du Barry’s voice was lost in the crowd as we pushed onward into the throng, the dancing captivating with so many dresses and pretty people.
As I danced with the Count, spin after spin, I felt an odd, airy sensation in my shoulder. I looked at it, surprised to note a large bite had been taken from the flesh. I dismissed it—how glad I was to be so loved by my friends. One by one, I switched partners, dancing with my subjects, my friends, my lovers, my family. One by one, they tasted me, a finger, an elbow, the tip of my nose, my left ear. So, so, so lovely to have friends! I was surrounded by them, swollen, pink flesh, cheeks flushed in an alcohol enhanced haze, their mouths sticky with frosting and sugar. Their fingers hungry, grabbing for more, covered in pink, yellow, blue.
“Wife,” Louis called, grabbing my hand so hard it came off. Unphased, he simply grabbed my other hand, tossing my right one into the crowd of ravenous wolves. They clambered over one another for a bite, teeth gnashing, eyes wild. “You are delicious.”
“My husband!” I cheered, and then stumbled. A young aristocrat was gnawing on my sugary slipper, teeth chomping through crystal, fondant, and lemon. “Oh!”
There was a dizzying, whirling sensation, and then I was falling, collapsing to the ballroom floor. Icing smeared; candied pearls went flying. My sugar butterfly hairpiece was lost in the chaos and, I saw to my abrupt disappointment, Madame du Barry fleeing the party on the stairs, her face marred with tears of hysteria. Two Servants escorted her, their gaunt faces, so much like skeletons, gaping at the sight before them.
My legs, my arms, my hair, my fingers, my face. Even my precious fingernails, such good candy, such good taste. All of it was eaten, the aristocrats and the royals and the duchesses and dukes and counts and lords and ladies and all, descending upon me like rats, noses wiggling, squeaking, claws out, eyes red.
Pink, yellow, blue.
Let them eat cake!
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