Far Far Away Read Free Page A

was something else that Jeremy had heard about thePrince Cakes from his mother, and as they walked toward the bakery, he said, “Have you ever heard of a kind of enchantment that can go with the cake?”
    They had not, but they were interested, Ginger especially.
    “Tell,” she said, and he did.
    Over the years, certain villagers—his mother, for example—had grown to believe that whatever living thing was looked upon during the first bite of
Prinsesstårta
would steal one’s heart. It was said that this enchantment was so steadfast, it could be reversed only by the touch of a salted tear upon the parted lips of the spellbound.
    “God
,
”
Maddy Saxon said. “What if the first thing you saw was a donkey?”
    “Or Mr. Finnifrock,” the other girlfriend said.
    Mr. Finnifrock was a very nice but very large man, without many teeth.
    Ginger seemed to be thinking about the story. “I like that salted-tear-upon-the-parted-lips-of-the-spellbound detail.” She looked at Jeremy. “So do you think it’s true?”
    He avoided her gaze. “Depends who you ask.”
    This was true as true can be. I did not believe the Legend of the First Bite, but, as in all such matters of the heart, there were wishful souls who did. And then there was the strange but true story of Jeremy’s mother herself.… But that tale must wait, for tendrilous aromas from the bakery had reached out to the group and were pulling them forward with a quickened pace.
    A handsome old delivery truck stood parked in the street, and served as a billboard for the bakery. Its paint was a deep gleaming green, and on the side, scrolling over a painting ofa circular brick oven, were the words GREEN OVEN BAKERY in gilded letters.
    A small overhead bell tinkled cheerily as the girls pushed open the door, and the town baker emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron.
    Sten Blix was a round man with doughy-soft features, but his face had a robust reddish glow, and with his full white beard and arctic-blue eyes, he was often asked to portray
Weihnachtsmann
—Father Christmas—during the holiday season.
    “Ah,” he said, grinning merrily. “
Hallå! Hallå!
Is it not a great day to be alive?”
    “If you say so,” Ginger said genially, letting her amber eyes fall on the baker. “So,” she said, “how’s life in Blixville?”
    “Yes, yes, all is well in Blixville,” said the baker, who seemed amused not just by the question but by all things, and why not? He was beloved in the town, and his shop was a pocket of warm benignity, as Jeremy could now see for himself. The glass-and-cherrywood cases were filled with a beautiful variety of breads and cakes, two small tables were brightened by vases of flowers, and the rich scents of baked dough, sugar, coffee, and chocolate made me yearn for my mortal sense of taste.
    “And,” he said, turning his jovial face to Jeremy, “is this not Jeremy Johnson Johnson?”
    Jeremy nodded, and color rose in his cheeks.
    The baker’s face brimmed with pleasure. “You used to come in frequently. Do you remember it?”
    Surprise rose in Jeremy’s eyes, then confusion. “Not really,” he replied.
    “Yes! Your dear mother used to bring you into the bakery alltucked away in your little carriage. You were a great burrower! Sometimes she had to dig through the covers to find you.”
    Ginger turned her eyes to Jeremy and said in a crooning voice, “I’ll bet you were just the cutest little mole-creature,” which only enriched the blush in Jeremy’s cheeks.
    But the baker came to his rescue by turning to the real business at hand: “So, my dear children, how may I help you?”
    “Well, that’s the problem,” Ginger said as she scanned the gleaming cases. “I don’t see any
Prinsesstårta
.”
    A laugh rumbled up from the baker’s belly. “No, you don’t,” he said. “Because by nine o’clock this morning the
Prinsesstårta
were all sold out.”
    To my surprise, Ginger’s expression brightened at this