Kay Nielsen, The Twelve Dancing Princesses, illustration from, In Powder and Crinoline: Old Fairy Tales, retold by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, pub.1913.
Don't drink! cried out the little Princess, springing to her feet; "I would rather marry a gardener!"
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Bricks of gingerbread were laid with layers of icing for mortar. Caramel coloured light gleamed through sugar glass windows.
The gingerbread… things stumbled through the kitchen on legs unused to walking. They leaned on each other, gingerbread hands on gingerbread shoulders, each about the height of a child.
Ethel Muckwillow, witch, stared at them in unmasked horror.
Agnes Blacktreacle said: “-And there I found them in the woods, starved to death, dead as a doornail. Well, I couldn’t leave that alone, otherwise people in the village would accuse me of something!”
She poured a spoonful of sugar into her tea and carefully lifted her cup when one of the things stumbled and slammed its gingerbread head into the table with a thunk and a sticky groan. “And I thought, I have all these baking supplies from when I made the house, so why not make some replacements?” she said, pouring another spoonful of sugar. “I whipped them up in about a day – once they figure out walking, I’ll send them back home, and nobody will be none the wiser.”
The gingerbread boy – or at least, the gingerbread thing decorated with icing to look like boy’s clothes and a glob of buttercream teased into a vaguely masculine hairstyle – held its head and groaned. The gingerbread thing with long, dark, marzipan hair twisted the hem of its gingerbread skirt nervously. It looked up at Agnes and opened its mouth to reveal a tongue made of a glacé cherry.
It said: “Aaaghlaglaglagglegglgl.”
Agnes clucked her tongue and got up to fuss over the gingerbread boy. She was wearing a frilly apron on top of the standard witching uniform. It didn't go well with the look at all.
Ethel Muckwillow stared at her fellow witch. Agnes had a tendency to go too far with these kinds of things, and it was just possible that this may have been too far even for her.
“Gingerbread changelings,” she said.
Agnes looked up from pressing a marshmallow bandage to the gingerbread boy’s forehead and beamed. “Gingelings, if you will,” she said.
“I won’t,” Ethel said. “They were sent into the woods because they and their parents were starving, and you will be sending them back a pair of giant gingerbread changelings.”
“Yes?”
Ethel waited for the penny to drop. It didn’t.
“Aggie,” she said. “They’re going to eat them.”
Agnes gasped and clasped her hands over the gingerbread things’ ears. “They wouldn’t!”
“They’re starving peasants and you’re going to deliver them a walking, talking Christmas dessert.”
Agnes looked at Ethel. She looked at the gingerbread things. She sagged. “Damn,” she muttered.
“Sorry.”
“What if — what if I made a fondant? I could try to hide the gingerbread with a fondant.”
Ethel looked at the gingerbread things. They stared back with gleaming, beady, currant eyes. The gingerbread girl had started to chew on its marzipan hair.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think that would help.”
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I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.
C.S. Lewis, from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”
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