THE YEARS ROLLED BY. Princess Peony and her six sisters grew older and taller, and some grew more beautiful and others did not, which made them very spiteful.
Peony wasn’t bothered about such things. Her sisters took no notice of her; she was the youngest, after all, and she had her library book for company. She spent her spare time in the palace kitchen trying different recipes for pies, puddings and pastries, until one day her father, making an unexpected visit to check on his cook, found her wearing an apron and covered in flour.
“When will you learn to behave like a princess?” he roared. “The kitchen is for servants!”
“But I like cooking,” Peony said. “And actually, Father, it was me who made the cherry pie for your birthday lunch. You said it was absolutely delicious and the best cherry pie you’d ever eaten.” She giggled. “You gave Cook a silver sixpence. She wanted to give it to me, but I said she could keep it.”
Her father went purple with rage. “YOU? You’ve been making PIES?”
Peony nodded. “Cherry pies are my best. It’s lucky we’ve got an orchard with such nice cherries. My pastries aren’t so successful, but Geoffrey says I’ll get better with practice.”
“Geoffrey? Prince Geoffrey of Newbiggin?” A faint hope could be heard in the king’s voice.
“No, Father! Goodness – he couldn’t tell a grape from a gooseberry. Geoffrey the cook’s boy, of course.”
For a long moment King Thoroughgood was speechless. It was bad enough that his daughter had been spending time in the kitchen, but to be on friendly terms with a cook’s boy … that was too much. Much too much. Geoffrey and the cook were only saved from instant dismissal by Peony’s promise that she would never, ever set foot in the palace kitchen again.
From then on all Princess Peony could do was wander round the palace grounds, or sit in the musicians’ gallery above the royal banqueting hall watching the kitchen staff bringing pies, puddings and pastries to the royal table. She noticed that there were never any cherry pies, and she sighed. Father must have forbidden them, she thought. And I know they’re his favourite! But I suppose they’d remind him of me.
As the months went on, Peony found it too depressing to sit in the gallery. She made a chart for herself, and worked out exactly how many hours it was until her thirteenth birthday. Every time she crossed off another twenty-four hours, her spirits lifted a little. When the princesses reached thirteen years of age they were allowed to leave the palace on Monday afternoons for educational purposes … and Princess Peony had a very clear idea about what might constitute an educational purpose. She was going to go back to the library, and she was going to borrow another book.
