Free A Tale Without a Name by Penelope S. Delta Page A

scorching midday heat; when they arrived, they saw Little Irene, who was beckoning to them to come closer.
    “The meal is ready,” she said joyfully. “Do tell me whether or not I got the stew just right!”
    The King stopped short.
    “You are the one who cooked?” he asked sullenly. “We will be in a fine mess when the Queen finds out.”
    Little Irene’s happiness vanished instantly and completely. Crestfallen, she followed her father.
    The table was laid, the stew was served, the glasses and plates were at each person’s appointed place.
    The equerry Polycarpus put the fruit in a serving bowl, and placed it before the Queen.
    “Oh! What beautiful blackberries and strawberries!” Queen Barmy said delightedly. “What King or glittering magnate could have sent these to us, I wonder?”
    “You dream of nothing but Kings and rich magnates,” said the King peevishly, for he was himself thinking about his ships and about the King his Royal Uncle, and Faintheart’s letter—and was therefore in a most foul mood. “The great donor and benefactor is dead, my fine lady, and his son will give out no more gifts.”
    The Queen pulled a long face. She pushed her plate away from her and leant back on her chair with majestic disdain.
    All of a sudden, however, she smelt the stew, and her appetite was rekindled.
    “Game fowl! Game fowl with wilted lettuce!” she exclaimed, forgetting all her sulking and petty antics. “My favourite food! Ah,
well done
to the cook for remembering! Summon him, quick. I shall appoint him… what should I appoint him, my king?”
    “It is perfectly useless to seek out titles,” said the King curtly. “The cook did not prepare the food, indeed we do not have a cook at all any more, or so it would seem. It is Little Irene who got the idea in her head to replace him.”
    The Queen let out a scream of sheer horror: “My own daughter! My own daughter a cook!”
    Her nerves failed her yet again; she rose from the table and ran to her room.
    Little Irene glanced at her brother, and met his own saddened gaze. She wiped away a tear in secret, and sat at the table with a deep sigh.
    There was a sudden ringing of bells a few moments later, which deafened them all.
    “Run,” said the King to the maids-in-waiting, “quick, the Queen sends for you.”
    They both rose sulkily, casting greedy glances at the stew.
    “Little Irene,” said the dark-haired one with sweet flattery, “do save me some, joy be to your bright little eyes!”
    “For me too,” echoed the blonde one.
    Yet she was too bored to add anything more. She went as far as the door, let the other one go through first, then turned the other way, and sat again sluggishly at her place.
    The first maid-in-waiting was back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
    “The Queen demands stew and watercress,” she said, winking meaningfully at Spitefulnia. “We are not, she says, to forget the strawberries, because she craves them most awfully.”
    “The Queen’s nerves cannot long resist the mighty temptation of food,” said Spitefulnia sarcastically.
    “In that, she resembles your own royal ladyship…” replied Jealousia.
    Before she could finish her sentence, Spitefulnia’s glass was flying across the table, striking her on the forehead.
    “You witch!” screamed Jealousia.
    In an instant, the table had become a riotous mess, plates and glasses were being hurled across the room, and the few remaining ones would have been smashed then too, if the Prince had not had the time to push Jealousia into her room and lock the door. He then took hold of the raging Spitefulnia and locked her in a second room.
    The King, his fork uplifted in his hand, was observing the entire scene with utter complacency.
    Once the two doors were shut, and the room had regained its tranquillity once again, he took a second bird onto his plate, and began to eat it.
    “You are not having anything?” he asked his son, who was staring pensively at the donkey’s head