A butter-cold dread gripped Deli as she stared at the display case and the glass shards scattered around it like dusted sugar. No doubt about it, she was face to face with a quadruple decker, frosting-covered nightmare. I’m dead. I’m so dead. Jams is gonna kill me dead.
Glisten Glittercakes’ champion, a four-tiered, ombre damask-stenciled, buttercream-smooth wedding cake with cascades of hand-sculpted sugar roses, drapes of fondant ribbons, and a soaring swan cake topper, was gone.
Anyone half-paying attention would’ve assumed someone with an eye for competitive sabotage had broken in and stolen the cake, but Deli had watched one too many crime dramas over leftovers of potato salad and luncheon meat.
The glass shards were on the outside of the case. The cake had escaped.
Groaning, she turned back to the rest of the bakery. A chocolate birthday cake decorated with marzipan frogs and cheerful sugar balloons wiggled in its case, looking for attention. Deli sighed and ran a couple fingers across the glass, distracting it. I never should’ve gotten out of the sandwich business, she thought, These are freakin’ prize showcakes, not your average enchanted hoagie! Sandwiches don’t just decide to take a stroll.
The front door’s happy jingle froze Deli in place as Jams strode in like she was about to be crowned Queen of All Cakes in Perpetuity. “No time to slouch around, we’ve got a full day today. We got an order from the mayor and—” Jams stopped, sensing all wasn’t well in her realm. It took her two seconds to survey the scene and put the pieces together. Her mirror glaze veneer cracked. “What. In the world,” she said. “What happened to Petunia-Samsonite?”
Deli’s mind flailed for a decent excuse–bandits, plague, overenthusiastic fans–but they all withered under Jams’s scrutinizing gaze. “Got out,” she admitted. “I don’t know how.”
The scowl on Jams’s face deepened. “Nonsense. Cakes don’t just wander off. Did you lock all the cases before you left last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you set the lights to ‘serenity and mindfulness’?”
“Of course.”
“You re-frosted Petunia just how she likes it, right?”
Deli fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d reapplied frosting so many times now she could do it in her sleep. “Exactly like always.”
The toe of Jams’s high heel crunched glass shards as she surveyed the case. “Then there’s only one explanation. It has to be those damned cupcakers on 53rd! They’ve been jealous of Petunia ever since she made the cover of Glamcake.”
“That seems a little extreme. They’re not even in the same business.” In a fit of self-preservation, she didn’t add that she rather liked cupcakes.
Jams scoffed. “Cupcakers are all obnoxious upstarts. They think they’re so great with their little bouncy cakes with all those swirly whirly frosting tops. They think they can miniaturize anything and expect to compete in the big arenas. Anyone can slap batter into a muffin tin. They don’t know the sort of trouble we go through. I’ll bet they stole Petunia so they could strip her for parts. Think it’ll somehow make their cupcakes more chic. Like they can expect to be true artists.” She thrust a finger at Deli. “You know where the cupcakers are, right?”
“…on 53rd?”
“Damned right they are! Now go and get our dear Petunia back unless you want to go back to flipping grilled cheeses.”
“But the shop—”
“I can manage things here. I will not have this cakery’s reputation sullied by a bunch of smallcake enthusiasts.” She pulled out her phone. “Now get going. I need to join a call with the Bake Network. They want to feature us on ‘Let’s Make a Showstopper’. We can’t have our star showcake missing.”
Deli wanted to argue. She wanted to point out the glass on the floor and that customers would be arriving soon and that the cakes were all agitated, bouncing and pacing like little pastel colored tigers. Besides, she couldn’t remember Jams ever working the front of the store. Still, Jams had that look in her eye, the one she got when she was being particular about the specific shade of the cake batter (“I said celadon green, not celery green!”), and that meant Deli would get better cooperation from a chocolate block. She hoped the cakes wouldn’t be too cross with her when she got back.
Deli came from a sandwich family, with a sandwich upbringing. She could sling together a Reuben that would kindle love. Her crisp-fried Monte Cristos would give you the fortitude to face down any challenge. In Deli’s hands, even a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich would improve your day. Deli’s family already had a reputation among the enchanted food crafters, but Deli’s sandwiches were downright magical.
That was the problem. Deli knew sandwiches up and down, and making them had become less an act of creation and more a tired program. Bread. Sauce. Filling. Done.
Meanwhile, between orders there were shows like ‘World’s Best Glamcakes’ and ‘Showcake Rodeo’ on the old TV in her family’s shop, where she could watch master showcakers sculpt flour and sugar into ethereal works of art so full of magic that they walked on their own, or lit up a room, or danced, or even sang. That was the world she wanted to be a part of. That was the world she struck out to find, and a chance sandwich delivery to Glisten Glittercakes ended up cracking the door into the world of buttercream and glacé icing. Her penchant for smoothing stubborn sandwich spreads turned out to translate into calming down an anxious carrot cake that had hopped out of its case. The next thing she knew she was the shop’s newest cake wrangler, fresh and sprinkle-eyed.
Turned out TV made it look easy.
She didn’t realize it would be hours upon hours of piping frosting, wrangling wriggling cake layers into place, and breathing in so much shimmer dust her sneezes sparkled. Then of course there was all the training to get the cakes to glow the right shade of blue, or to sing the latest pop song, or to sparkle when the birthday girl walked into the room. These weren’t cakes for eating. They were cakes for showing off how much money you had.
They were cakes that had to be perfect, if not by Jams’s standards, then the customers’, who demanded cakes matching their dress or cakes that carried perfect pitch. Sometimes customers expected the utterly impossible, like cakes that floated above the table, and Deli would spend the better part of an hour explaining why the shop couldn’t fulfill their every whim while tasks piled up behind her. More than once she caught her thoughts drifting back to the old familiarity of the sandwich shop. Was it really as boring as she remembered? She missed the hum of the rotary meat slicer, the chatter of regulars.
What she missed most were the smiles.
Wherever Petunia was going, it definitely wasn’t 53rd. Deli followed a trail of sugar shards and buttercream dollops down city streets and past pâtisseries and panaderías, a mosaic of magical and not, promising unusual flavor combinations and expert skill. Deli sidestepped to avoid a woman strutting out of a confectionary, dressed like a runway escapee and oblivious to all but the call on her candy-colored phone. Even with her flour-stained apron tossed over a chair back at the shop, the onslaught of name brands and high-end smartphones made Deli feel like a prewrapped snack cake tossed onto a platter of custom macarons.
The feeling wasn’t anything new.
The trail of frothy pink cake accoutrements led Deli away from the high-end bakery district and into the city proper, where the bakeries shifted into what Jams termed “laypersons’ shops”, complete with a sniff and a scoff. They were places where you might pick up bread or a quick treat on your way home from work (like maybe a cupcake–Deli always made sure to hide the box when she bought one, in the off chance she might meet Jams on the street and would have to explain herself like an unfaithful lover caught cheating). The air didn’t quite sing with sugar, but Deli could catch a whiff of enchantment coming off some of the storefronts, familiar in their quiet energy.
She followed Petunia’s trail down an alleyway, past faded back doors and torn signage and … ham and cheese, that was a shred of fondant ribbon hanging out of a dumpster. Did Petunia go through a dumpster? Jams would throw a five-star fit, and Deli would have to spend the better part of the day getting the smell out whenever she found their wayward cake.
“Great, just what I need, a showcake with a hankering for garbage,” Deli mumbled. She let out a slow sigh, traveling through the five stages of “do I really have to do this?” and reaching the “acceptance” part in record time.
Deli found what looked like a half-secure foothold and hoisted herself up. “Petunia?” she called out, gazing into the dank, fly-ridden depths while trying not to breathe too much. “’Tunie, come on.” She leaned further, seeking flashes of pink in the dim light among humps of garbage bags. Were those cake crumbles or a lump of rags? “What’s gotten into you? Jams is worried about you. You could get hurt pulling a stunt like this.”
“You’re right.”
Deli yelped in surprise. Only an abundance of muscles honed through lifting bags of flour kept her from pitching herself in headfirst at the unexpected voice. After a few moments of frantic leg flailing and internal Oh no no no there’s fish in there I smell rotten fish I’ll never get the smell out I’d rather break my neck on asphalt, she managed to swing herself out and onto solid ground. “Geez, thanks for the scare!” she gasped. “You make it a habit of ambushing people in awkward positions?”
The man standing in the front of the dumpster wore a pocket-bedecked, batter-stained apron, his expression uncertain if it wanted to land on remorseful or bemused or chiding. “Sorry. This is the second time today I’ve had to deal with somebody in my dumpster. I’d love to know why it’s gotten so popular. You okay there?”
Deli finished her self-check. “Yeah, I will be. Just to be clear, I don’t make a hobby out of dumpster diving for cake. We lost our showcake.” She pointed to the pink ribbon shred still dangling from the dumpster wall. “I thought maybe—”
“Oh, so it’s your cake then? I thought maybe she was too pretty to be abandoned.”
“You’ve seen Petunia?” Deli exclaimed, “She’s a wedding cake, about this high—”
“With ombre damask-stenciling, cascades of sugar roses, and a soaring swan cake topper?” the man completed with a smile. “Come on in.” He gestured to a back door nearby.
The air conditioning snapped against Deli’s skin as she entered, followed by the scents of coffee, fried dough, and powdered sugar. They wrapped her up, shooing away the memory of the dumpster. She breathed deep as he led her through the kitchen and into the front. The shop was spotless cream, accented with glossy red tables and booths. Inside brightly lit cases sat rows of doughnuts, glistening with frosting and glaze, decorated with every topping imaginable, from sprinkles to crushed candies to breakfast cereal she hadn’t eaten since she was a kid. Enchantment seeped through the glass like the scent of vanilla, a soft promise to improve your day just a little.
Near the front window, a doughnut tree lumbered about in a display case, its doughnuts decorated with blue and green frosting. Deli thought it could have used a few more doughnuts, but maybe that was just the design. Even as a novice showcaker, she could see its decorations were at least a year or two out of date (if she was in a polite mood, Jams might’ve called it ‘classic’). Jams wouldn’t ever let such a display anywhere near her shop, as if the dated flourishes might infect her cakes. Every once in a while it would press up close to the glass where Petunia stood, leaning inward.
“’Tunie! There you are, you damned delinquent pastry!” The wedding cake turned and hopped a little at Deli’s approach, knocking her soaring swan cake topper askew. Deli knelt before her, and breathed a sigh of relief as she looked Petunia over for frosting gouges or off-kilter layers. Despite the dirt, the trailing decorations, and the lingering hint of dumpster, she seemed none the worse for wear. Maybe the cleanup job wouldn’t be so bad after all. “I was looking all over the city for you! I don’t know how you got out but we’re gonna have to get bulletproof glass for your case if you plan to make a habit of this. Do you have any idea how many ways you could’ve gotten hurt? At least twelve!”
Petunia sagged a little under her scolding. Deli groaned. Nothing like a deflated cake to melt away her annoyance. She straightened Petunia’s topper. “Well, at least you’re safe. Guess I’ll be making you a whole new batch of sugar roses tomorrow to replace the ones you strew all over the sidewalk, you little monster.”
The man shoved his hands into a couple of his many pockets as a mollified Petunia returned to the case with the doughnut tree. “I’m glad … Petunia, was it? I’m glad Petunia has a home to go to. Thought I’d have to call a rescue. She and George seem real interested in each other, though. This is the most active I’ve seen him in weeks. I figured I’d wait until she aired out a bit before I let them play. I’m Pockets, by the way.”
“Deli. Thanks for finding her,” Deli replied. “Jams would’ve blown a frosting bag if something happened to her, and I can’t say I’d want to deal with that fallout.”
Pockets raised his eyebrows. “Jams Marjoram? Owner of Glisten Glittercakes?”
“Yeah?”
Pockets gazed at Petunia and George, though he seemed to be focused beyond them into some distance Deli couldn’t see. “I thought that showcake looked familiar. It’s been a while. How is Jams? She still having trouble getting her French buttercream to glow?”
It was Deli’s turn to be surprised. “You know her?”
Pockets shrugged. “I was her apprentice a while back. Still not sure how that happened. I guess she liked how I handled frosting. Turned out we didn’t see eye to eye, though. She was always pushing the envelope, trying to make the cakes taller, bigger, thinner, more decorated, more fancy. Don’t get me wrong, I like a challenge, but the intensity got to me. The drama, the judging—I wanted to make people happy with my creations, not earn points. George was the first showcake I ever made all on my own. I put my heart and soul into him. I was awful proud of him. Jams called him a simplistic waste of flour. Then she went on about how doughnuts don’t belong in high class competitions and how I was ‘sullying the art’. That’s when I realized we weren’t exactly meant for each other. Eventually I got out and started this shop.”
Petunia shuffled around to the side of the case, leaving frosting prints against the glass. George matched her press for press, like two lovers mirroring their hands against a window. Deli jabbed a thumb in their direction. “Then how do they know each other?”
Pockets smiled sheepishly. “I entered George in last year’s Uptown Cake Show. Didn’t think I’d be winning any trophies, but I thought it’d be good publicity for the shop. We should’ve been classified in the Home Party category, but I guess my registration still listed me as part of Jams’s outfit. You should’ve seen the look on her face when we showed up. Jams raised holy hell to get us moved but I guess they were out of room. She spent the whole show trying to ignore us. Looks like Petunia and George didn’t have the same problem.”
“They do look happy together.” Deli had never seen Petunia so animated. Despite the weight of her decorations, she bounced to and fro as she and George followed each other in a sort of cake chase. Such a different demeanor than when Jams fussed over her, making her stand perfectly still as Jams sculpted roses and sprayed coloring. As George did a quick turn to feint Petunia, Deli noticed the spareness of the doughnuts seemed more random than regular. “Is George alright?” she asked. “If you don’t mind me saying so, he looks a bit… patchy.”
Pockets sighed. “Yeah, George has been dropping doughnuts lately. I can’t explain it. Other showcakers I’ve talked to think it’s a nerves thing, but I can’t figure out what’s stressing him out. I’ve been able to reattach some, but not all of them stick. I’ve had to trash those.”
Deli blinked. “Oh. That’s what Petunia was doing in the dumpster. She smelled George. Or sensed. Or something. How do they know what’s going on around them anyway?”
“Dunno. I never got to the ‘deep secrets of showcakes’ stage of my training.”
Thoughts in Deli’s head blended and turned. “What’s George made out of?”
“I went pretty traditional under the frosting. Most of George is the basic recipe for my glazed doughnuts, but I did put some raspberry filled ones around his base.”
Old recipes, smothered under layers of Jams’s rules, admonishments, and instructions, bubbled up. Deli rifled through them until she found just the right one. “Okay, I have an idea. It’s a little unorthodox, but it might help. Do you mind if I borrow your kitchen?”
“If it’ll help George, be my guest.”
Once Pockets got the ingredients she needed, it didn’t take her long. She mixed honey and cream cheese, adding sprinkles of seasoning, whipping with practiced ease until she had a silky spread the color of pale buttercream. Pockets pulled George out of his case and set him on the counter, Petunia hopping about the floor in agitation.
“Don’t worry, ‘Tunie, he’ll be back before you can say ‘pumpernickel’.” Deli turned to George, who shifted, uncertain. “It’s alright, buddy, I’m a professional.”
With Pockets watching over her shoulder, she swiped the spread onto George’s bare spots with the ease of a practiced sandwich maker, her knife deft as she got into all the nooks and crannies. As she worked, George’s stiffness sighed into a relaxed posture.
Pockets rubbed at his face. “Well, how about that. What did you give him?”
“It’s a honey cinnamon cream cheese spread I used to make to go with grilled Nutella sandwiches. It helps you calm down, and I bet it would make reattaching doughnuts easier too.”
Pockets considered it as he returned George to his case and to a relieved Petunia. “That’s not a bad idea. You might be on to something.”
“I’ll give you the recipe. And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got a recipe for a banana peanut butter spread that’s a good general mood booster. I can show you how to apply them.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Pockets said with a smile. “Jams didn’t teach you that did she?”
Deli shook her head, self-consciousness creeping around her edges. “No, I used to do sandwiches. Jams would rather toss herself into the mixer than let sandwich spreads anywhere near her cakes.”
“Her loss, then. You got both sandwiches and cakes under your belt? There’s all sorts of ideas in that. George and I appreciate it, if nothing else.”
Delight flushed through her, caramel-warm. “Just doing my best to help.” Blissed out on cream cheese, George leaned against the glass where a now-pacified Petunia stood. “Although George seems pretty happy right now, sandwich spread aside.”
“Yeah, they both do,” Pockets agreed. “It’s nice.” They exchanged glances. “Oh crumbs. You’re not thinking what I’m thinking, are you?”
Deli shook her head. “Oh no. No way. If George was upset because of—and Petunia was looking—We can’t kidnap Petunia! Jams wants her to be in a show spot. She’d tear the city apart if I didn’t bring her back.”
Pockets laughed. “No, I’m not suggesting that, but I wonder if maybe we could arrange a covert playdate or two. It’ll be good for George, and Petunia needs a break just like anyone else. Besides, then maybe she’ll be less likely to go on walkabout on her own and send you on dumpster dives across the city.”
Admittedly, Deli wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of cleaning Petunia after her city-wide excursion, let alone the explanation she’d have to give Jams as to why Petunia smelled like week-old garbage. Bringing Petunia on proper visits meant Deli would spend more time in Pockets’s shop, where customers bought doughnuts for their coworkers and chatted over coffee. Where maybe she could try new ideas without being shot down, with someone who seemed willing to experiment. Ideas for flavored fillings and unusual doughnut toppings floated in her mind. Something with just a touch of sparkle, not drenched in glitter. “I guess we could try it. If we get caught, though, I’m telling Jams it was your idea.”
“Fair enough, although technically I think it’s Petunia’s. She started it.”
Petunia moved back and forth in front of George, all but vibrating with delight. Sure, she was the darling of Glisten Glittercakes now, but fashions changed. Deli had seen Jams’s sketches for a new cake, covered with butterflies and rainbows that would wow judges and viewers alike. Jams Marjoram did it once again, they’d sing. Eventually Petunia would be relegated to the regular cake cases, where she might be bought by someone out to brag they had a showcake champion in their dining room. Or she might languish, forgotten. Where would that leave Petunia then?
On the other hand, then maybe Jams would be more willing to part with her. In the right hands, Petunia could hang up her soaring swan cake topper for good.
The smell of chocolate and fried dough brought her out of her reverie. Pockets handed her a purple-frosted doughnut, wrapped up in paper. “Here, in appreciation of helping George. Besides, if you have to face Jams with a smelly Petunia, you could use a little fried courage.”
The sugar glaze crackled in her mouth, and the filling carried a hint of lavender that seeped into her and smoothed over the cracks of anxiety as thoroughly as the cheese in a toasted sandwich. “So if I’m gonna be teaching you sandwich spreads,” she ventured, “think you would mind walking me through doughnuts?” Fried courage indeed.
Pockets put a hand to his chest in mock distress. “A showcaker, deigning to stoop to common pastries? Whatever would the boss-lady think?”
Deli laughed. When was the last time she really laughed in a bakery? “Hey now, I started in sandwiches. I think I can handle it.” She would have to have a conversation with Jams eventually about this, not an enticing prospect. On the other hand, it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be scores of showcake aspirants banging down her door the moment they heard about a vacancy.
Pockets considered a moment. “Well, I could use another pair of hands for decorating. Bring Petunia by next Monday after I close, and we’ll see how you glaze.”
Deli saluted the agreement with her half-eaten doughnut. She took another bite, her mind swirling with ideas for frosting doughnut patterns. Or, with the cream cheese spread, maybe she could do something entirely different, like doughnut sandwiches. Or cupcake sandwiches even. Maybe one day, she’d open her own shop in the city, someplace where the pastries didn’t sing or twirl, but carried little bits of happiness, confidence, contentment, something to put a smile on your face. And they wouldn’t have a hint of shimmer dust.
Well. Maybe a little.
Amanda Saville lives in North Carolina with her partner, a small herd of plants, and her yarn stash. Her fiction has appeared in Mermaids Monthly and Unidentified Funny Objects Vol. 9. Find her on Bluesky and Mastodon @acsaville.
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