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“What would the people of Storybrooke say if they could see you now?” Belle asked, creeping up behind her husband as he bent over the stove and coming up on her tiptoes to hook her chin over his left shoulder. “Cooking…what is that? It smells wonderful.”
Rumplestiltskin twisted to look at her, smirking slightly. “Chicken masala, though this is only the mushrooms.”
“Can I help?”
“Probably not the best idea, sweetheart,” he replied, giving her a knowing look. “You can hand me the wine, if you want, though. And not prance around Storybrooke telling tales of the Dark One cooking. Not if you want to eat, anyway.”
Snickering, Belle grabbed the marsala wine off of the opposite counter and brought it over to him. For a man whose home and shop could easily be described as organized chaos, Rumplestiltskin’s cooking certainly was precise. Perhaps he looked at cooking as akin to making magical potions. “You know your secret is safe with me. Unless that doesn’t taste as good as it smells, of course,” she teased him, reaching over to turn on the radio as she walked by it. “Because can you imagine the way this would ruin your reputation? The terrible, fearsome Dark One, slaving over the stove while his wife watches and giggles?”
“Oh, just give me the wine,” he grumbled, just as the song We Didn’t Start the Fire started to play.
Belle stopped cold, almost dropping the bottle. Over at the stove, Rumplestiltskin paused in his meticulous sautéing of the mushrooms to look at her, and they both burst out laughing.
“Well, I didn’t start it, anyway,” Rumplestiltskin said demurely, and Belle smacked him on the shoulder. Hard.
Belle had been in the Dark Castle for almost two weeks when her scaly and somewhat odd employer looked at her and asked: “You can cook, can’t you, dearie?”
Startled, she looked up from the floor she was scrubbing on her hands and knees. On her first day, when Rumplestiltskin had defined her duties, he’d said nothing about cooking. Only cleaning, dusting, laundry, and serving his meals. Oh, and skinning children, which was apparently a quip. The Dark One was certainly a strange man, but he’d said nothing about cooking when he’d taken her on as his caretaker. And if he wanted a good maid, he shouldn’t have demanded a knight’s daughter, Belle thought to herself, but she managed not to say that to her employer.
“Um, of course I can?” she squeaked, trying not to stare. Even after two weeks, she still found his appearance a little unsettling; those reptilian eyes seemed to dig right into her soul, and much to Belle’s surprise, she found she didn’t mind. Rumplestiltskin was unnerving but also fascinating, and she watched him every chance she got. How did he get those eyes?
He didn’t seem to hear the question in her voice when she answered his query, however, and he certainly didn’t seem to notice the speculative look she was giving him. Rumplestiltskin just twirled a hand airily, and suddenly her rags, bucket, and cleaning supplies vanished. Belle yelped, but her employer just shrugged.
“Good. Then go cook...something or another. I have visitors coming.”
Glaring, Belle picked herself up off of the floor and looked down at her formerly beautiful golden dress with a sigh. “It would help if I had something more suitable to wear,” she pointed out. “Unless you want dirty rags in your stew.”
She could make a stew, couldn’t she? That sounded easy.
“What?” Rumplestiltskin had already turned away, and probably was halfway to forgetting about her. Again. What did he do with all of his time when he wasn’t spinning? “Why would you need…oh.”
Finally, he seemed to notice her torn and ragged dress. Belle had done her best to wash it in the kitchen a few times, but ornate ball gowns were not meant to be washed. Or cleaned in, for that matter. Still, Belle had been raised a lady, and she was doing her best to look presentable. Not that she was managing so well on that front. The hem of her gown was torn, the laces in the back were tangled and frayed, and the shoulder strap on the left side was hanging on by a thread. She knew that she looked like a mess, but apparently she could have pranced about in her petticoats for all Rumplestiltskin would have noticed.
She just gave him a look, daring him to tell her that her dress was just fine.
“Ah…” Her employer gestured vaguely at a set of nearby stairs that Belle could have sworn was not so close at hand five minutes earlier. “Up two flights, second door to the right. Mind the biting stairs.” Rumplestiltskin tittered. “Wouldn’t want your legs bitten off, would you? Then I’d need a new maid.”
“Of course not.” Belle rolled her eyes, and then crossed her arms when he failed to explain further. “Is there a reason I’m going to this room, Rumplestiltskin?”
“Because it’s yours?” Was his laugh nervous, now? Belle almost thought the befuddled look on his face was adorable. “You’ll probably cook better when you’re clean. And wearing something less…well, that.”
That made her blink. “You’re giving me a room that isn’t a dungeon?”
“Cook when you’re clean, dearie,” was all he said, vanishing into a cloud of yellow smoke.
Sometimes, Belle swore that he varied the color just to confuse her.
An hour later, clean and clad in a comfortable blue and white dress (which laced in the front, thank goodness!), Belle surveyed the kitchen with a critical eye. There weren’t any cookbooks, but the larder contained a healthy array of vegetables, some chicken, and some liquid she assumed belonged in Rumplestiltskin’s potions collection. It was golden in color, but very thin, almost see-through. She had no idea what it was, and chose to ignore it, even though the liquid smelled vaguely like chicken. The smell was probably meant as a trick, anyway.
Dutifully, she chopped vegetables, figuring out which knives to use by trial and error. She thought that the cooks in her father’s castle might have peeled the carrots somehow, but she had no idea how they’d managed that, so she just put them in the big pot as they were. She had to guess at what size she should make the chicken pieces, but she was pretty sure that she hadn’t missed any bones, and at least she wasn’t expected to pluck feathers. That had already been done by someone else, though who she didn’t know. In fact, Belle had no idea who had cooked any of the meals she’d eaten since her arrival. The food always just showed up, freshly cooked and piping hot. Though it did always have a strange, almost metallic taste to it. Perhaps Rumplestiltskin had cooked by magic?
If he had, she could do better than that! Satisfied with her very full pot—it was almost overflowing—Belle stuffed a bunch of wood into the stove and fetched a candle to light it with. That took her a few tries, but she managed, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. In doing so, she noticed a book tucked onto the shelf above where she’d found the candles, and Belle hurried over to investigate it. After all, she would have to stay in the kitchen while the stew cooked, so it was best that she find a way to occupy herself. Soon enough, she was absorbed in The Book of the City of Ladies , and had completely forgotten about the stew. But it just had to sit and well, stew , didn’t it?
Unfortunately for Belle, she’d put too much wood in the fire and no broth in the stewpot. So, the pot heated up extremely quickly, then its contents started to burn. But the real problem arrived when Belle ducked out into the kitchen garden to find some better lighting to read by, promising herself that she’d be back in no time. A dozen chapters later, a voice echoed in through the open door between the gardens and the kitchen:
“What…what is this?” a voice echoed in through the open door between the gardens and the kitchen. “Belle! Belle!”
“What is it?” she asked, rushing inside with her book in hand. Rumplestiltskin actually sounded worried—
The kitchen was on fire.
The stove was, anyway, and the stewpot was spewing rather large flames, too.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, dropping the book in surprise and feeling her face go bright red. “I’m so sorry. I was—”
“You were reading?” her employer demanded, eyeing the book on the floor as if he was shocked to have seen her with it.
“Um. Yes?”
“Whatever would you do that for?”
Belle glared. “I like to read!”
“You like to light my castle on fire, more like!” the Dark One snarled, back, waving his hands—and with a puff of smoke, the fire vanished, leaving behind a charred stove and slightly melted stewpot.
“Well, you shouldn’t have demanded a lady if you wanted a cook!” she shot back, and Rumplestiltskin looked at her like she was insane.
Three months later, as Belle lay sick as a dog in bed with a cold that was strangely resistant to magical cures, her employer crept nervously into her (rather grand) bedroom and extended a bowl of stew to her.
“What’s this?” she asked between sneezes.
“Stew.”
“Obviously.” Rolling her eyes made her head hurt.
“Magically made food doesn’t go well with being sick,” Rumplestiltskin said, but the words came out so quickly that it sounded more like magmadefoodoesn’tgowellwuthsick. Belle had accepted the bowl—which smelled delicious—automatically, and by the time she finished figuring out what he’d said, Rumplestiltskin had already fled towards the door.
“Did you cook this?” she asked, but he vanished instead of answering.
“You left that book there on purpose, didn’t you?” Belle asked her husband, watching him carefully place the chicken back in the skillet.
“Of course I did. I wanted to know about you,” he answered with a shrug.
“You could have just asked.”
Rumplestiltskin gave her a look that said she was silly to even contemplate that.
“Or I could tell all of Storybrooke what a marvelous cook you are,” she threatened with a grin. Rumplestiltskin glared.
“I’d rather wear a frilly golden apron,” he groused.
Belle just grinned. “Make it a frilly pink apron, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”