I spent the next half hour enjoying the charms of a fine slice of apple pie. I of course enjoyed it with a slice of fine yellow cheese because as is common knowledge, “an apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze.” To say the pie was delicious would not be doing it justice, but there are scarce few words that mean delicious but have more strength. It was more than mouthwatering, but perhaps not quite so good as ambrosial. It was scrumptious. I enjoyed it more than most, but not all, of the women I’ve met. A few of those women I enjoyed enough to have married them, if they had not been subsequently killed, previously married, really a man, or magically turned into a beaver, and in one case all four. I suppose I did care enough for that slice of apple pie to have married it, if that had been possible.
If I had married that apple pie though, I would certainly have kept the slice of blueberry pie as my mistress. When I tasted the blueberry pie, I decided that it was altogether more enticing than the apple, though apple pie is the more wholesome pie—the kind of pie you would take home to your grandparents. On the other hand, just about anyone can make a passably decent apple pie. Blueberry pies are a slightly more advanced proposition. Not so much as a rhubarb pie, mind you. But I had not had a blueberry pie this good since I left home. It was a cheeky little pie, with just the right amount of suggestiveness, which is to say that it was a sweet but tangy pie.
My mother made a most excellent blueberry pie—she called it a Blueberry Excellence Pie. Why, the last time that I saw her, she promised me such a blueberry pie upon my return.
“I shall give you a Blueberry Excellence Pie upon your return,” said she.
“This is a most excellent blueberry pie,” said I, returning to the present. “Are you the piesmith?”
“I did indeed bake that pie,” said the licorice-haired minx. “I can’t take credit for the recipe though. It is my partner’s.”
“I would like to meet this partner,” said I.
“Whether you would like to or not is irrelevant,” said she, “for she is coming in the door right now.”
The day was looking up, which is to say that I was looking forward more to the rest of the day. If there is anything better than one plump baker with creamy skin, chocolate eyes, cherry lips, licorice hair, and overflowing bosoms, it is two of them. I turned to watch an attractive woman a few years younger than me step in through the open doorway. Notice, I say doorway, because in fact, despite what my licorice-haired beauty had said, she came through a doorway and not through a door, which is an entirely different thing. This new young woman was at least as fetching as the first, with creamy skin, chocolate eyes, cherry lips, and heaving bosoms threatening to burst from her rather skimpy blouse. Notwithstanding all this, I did not find her attractive in the least. Not in that way. I couldn’t.
“Put some clothes on, you hussy!” said I.
“Eaglethorpe!” she squealed, running to me and enveloping me in her arms, which is to say hugging me. “When did you get into town?”
“Tuki? What are you doing here?”
It was none other than Tuki, my cousin, former Onion Queen three years running, a first rate kickball player, an accomplished piesmith, more than accomplished if the present blueberry pie was any indication, and the second best kisser that I have ever encountered.
“This is my bakery,” said she.
“This is our bakery,” said the licorice-haired vixen.
“I see you have met my partner Accordia,” said Tuki.
“Accordia,” mused I. “What a musical name.”
“Anyone can squeeze me and get a sound,” said Accordia, “but only someone with talent can make music with me.”
“I would love to show you my melodic capabilities, which is to say my music making skills,” said I. “At this exact moment though, which is to say now, I need to find out how Tuki escaped the vampires.”
“What vampires?” asked Tuki.
“You and the rest of my family were taken by vampires.”
“No we weren’t.”
“Werewolves?”
“No.”
“Goblins?”
“No.”
“A drunken bugbear?”
“No, of course not.” Tuki frowned, making her face look very cute, not that I noticed, because she’s my cousin. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“I returned home to find you all gone. There was a knife stuck in Gervil’s bed. There were drops of purple liquid leading out the back door. And someone had hung bunches of onions from the rafters of the dining room. Most mysterious of all was the fact that the tracks led away from the house only fifty feet and then disappeared entirely, even though it was morning and the tracks should still have been there.”
“We moved,” said Tuki. “Your parents moved to a little house in Dewberry Hills. The rest of us moved here and there. Gervil and Mother moved there and I moved here. You would know this if you came home more often.”
“And the knife?”
“Gervil was always leaving his knife somewhere. He still does, except that now it’s a new knife.”
“But the tracks…”
“There were seven of us living there, Eaglethorpe. There were tracks everywhere. The ground was so worn that the grass wouldn’t grow.”
“How do you explain the onions?” I asked, sticking up my finger and striking a triumphant pose.
“We were onion farmers,” said Toki, as if that explained everything. “That explains everything.”
“Forsooth,” said I, shaking my head sadly. “The dastardly vampires will pay for what they’ve done.”
“What vampires?” asked Tuki.
“The vampires who will have killed you by the time I finish the second draft of this story,” said I.