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Catherine didn't dream. Ever. Her sleep, for as long as she could remember, were uninterrupted swathes of nothingness. She closed her eyes, and she woke up, and there was absolutely nothing in between.
She knew that wasn't normal – the people in her life spoke about their dreams all the time: the silly ones they'd have that made no sense at all; the dreamy ones when they fell asleep thinking about their crush; the logical ones where they dreamt of whatever they last thought of before they fell asleep.
Catherine couldn't relate. She avoided mentioning her dreamless sleeps, and if it ever did come up, she lied. No one needed to know Catherine didn't have the capability to dream – dreams, she thought, were tangible goals one could achieve in life. Not whatever the mind thought up in sleep.
It was with this conviction that Catherine pulled her tray out of the oven, basking in the delicious warmth and the equally delicious smell that hit her in the face. She placed her tray on the counter before she turned to close the oven, and her chest glowed with pride when she turned back to her absolutely perfect lemon tarts.
These were her best ones yet – no, they were the most perfect ones she'd ever make. It had taken weeks and countless attempts and too many expensive trips to the market, but she knew by just looking at these that she had done it – she had made the perfect lemon tarts.
(What made these so perfect?)
The thought slid in quietly, unnoticed, and Catherine's smile faded as she stared at her four perfect lemon tarts. What did make these – specifically – so perfect? They looked no different than the others. They smelled no different. The ingredients she used were the same. What made them perfect?
A niggling thought, the answer to her question, she thought, was on the cusp of formation when footsteps sounded behind her, breaking her concentration. Catherine turned to the kitchen entrance, feeling her frown lines shift into smile lines as her mother entered the kitchen, holding a tray filled with breakfast food – the castle bakers and the castle cooks had had an amiable agreement for years now: food in return for fresh baking, every morning.
Catherine loved her job.
Taking a seat at a relatively flour-free spot of the counter, Catherine divided the food into three portions while her mother went off to find her father. They ate in silence for a while, because as usual, none of them realised how hungry they were until the food was practically shoved into their faces. Catherine loved her job, but waking before everyone else to start baking for an entire castle – all while forgetting to fill her own stomach – wasn't exactly her favourite part.
“What inspired the tarts today?” her mother asked, eyes falling on the tray cooling to the side.
Catherine followed her gaze. “I'm not sure,” she said, turning back with a shrug. “Just a whim.”
Her mother gave her a small, amused smile. Catherine immediately bristled, recognising that smile for what it was: trouble.
“It wouldn't have anything to do with that knight, perhaps?” her mother said lightly, exchanging a look with her father.
Catherine was well and truly baffled. “What knight?”
Now it was her parents’ turn to look well and truly baffled.
After a considering pause, her mother sighed. “Oh Catherine, you ought to get out of the kitchen every now and then. Every girl your age is talking about the new boy the queen knighted, and you haven't a single clue about it.”
“Why would I worry about a boy when we've got an entire day's baking to do?” Catherine sniffed.
Her mother gave her an amused look. “He was knighted last week.”
Catherine lifted her chin. “My point still stands.”
As with her point, Catherine stood too and began clearing their breakfast dishes. Their baking for the morning was done, but they still had a long day ahead of them. She busied herself around the kitchen, pretending not to notice how slow her parents were to get to doing the same.
She knew her parents wanted her to get out more, to have a life outside of the kitchen, to make more friends, but Catherine couldn't put into words the feeling she had when she was baking. It was a feeling of belonging so encompassing it sometimes overwhelmed her; it was this unfathomable fear that, should she step outside, she may never get a chance to bake again.
It made no sense, so Catherine refrained from mentioning it.
There were many little such oddities in her life that she refrained from mentioning, after all. Adding one more to the list was of no consequence at all.
A knock at the kitchen door had Catherine's head jerking up. She hadn't heard anyone come in, and that could've been chalked up to her being thoroughly invested in her recipe book, if not for the fact that the boy's armour should have made a tremendous amount of noise as he neared the kitchen. She should have heard him a good minute before he arrived, and yet there he was, looking apologetic at having startled her.
“Sorry,” he said, “force of habit.”
He was still talking, but white noise seemed to fill Catherine's ears as her gaze snagged and held on his. Why did those eyes look so familiar? She'd definitely never seen him before. Then she thought –
Her gaze moved to the lemon tarts now packed and waiting at her elbow. Back to the boy. Back to the tarts. They were precisely the same colour.
Perfect. The thought echoed, bringing her back to that morning when she'd removed the tarts from the oven and known, without a doubt, that these were the ones.
She looked at the boy – now silent and wearing a smile that was equal parts polite and equal parts puzzled – and realised he'd stopped talking while she'd stared at him like a complete and utter fool.
Catherine gave him a bashful smile. “Sorry, I just remembered something. What were you saying?”
“Um.” He blinked, then shook his head with a smile. “Nothing of import. I was sent here to collect a package?”
Catherine frowned, her gaze dropping in thought. There was nothing she could think of that a knight would collect from her…except –
She looked at the lemon tarts at her elbow, which had been baked by request of the king. She vaguely remembered him saying something or the other about wanting to offer someone a gift, and “it doesn't matter what you make, my dear, since everything you make is delicious”.
Yes, yes, she remembered that part crystal clear. One couldn't fault her for internalising compliments and forgetting the other important bits. Nonetheless, she couldn't be faulted for not expecting a knight to come collect her baking. Who sent a knight on errands?
Catherine slid off her chair slowly, rounding the counter. “I have these for collection,” she said, gesturing to the tarts, “but I'm not actually sure who they're for. His Majesty never said.”
At this, she winced, realising she hadn't asked the one crucial question she should've and had instead basked in the king's compliments. Ridiculous – the king offered his compliments to any and all, freely and frequently; Catherine was hardly starved of them.
“Besides,” she said, narrowing her eyes and giving voice to her earlier thought, “why is a knight being sent on errands?”
The knight laughed, and Catherine's ridiculous heart stuttered over a beat. Perhaps there was some merit to her mother's words after all…He was fairly handsome, with his black hair curling over his ears and his charmingly crooked smile.
“It's part of getting to know the castle,” he explained. “No better way to learn the ins and outs, apparently. In any case,” he said, producing a slip of parchment from who knew where, “His Majesty did tell me to present you with this, as he also came to the conclusion that he didn't tell you who you were baking for.”
Catherine reached out to take the letter, and the knight offered her a grin as he passed it over. “Your treats must be especially exceptional if people would lie to get a hold of them.”
Catherine glanced up from the letter, a smile tugging at her lips. “I would hope so, otherwise there'd be a new palace baker replacing me in no time.”
His grin turned somewhat conspiratorial. “Then I'm honoured to be gifted with your baking.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, and she shook her head as she turned to retrieve the tarts. “Don't feel too special,” she said as she handed it over. “Everyone gets my baked goods everyday.”
“I'm sure they do,” he replied, “but none get tarts that match their eyes exactly, do they?”
It was said as a joke, and in the moment, Catherine laughed along and said goodbye as he left the way he came. But later, as she lay in bed and closed her eyes, she had the sudden, distinct realisation that it wasn't a joke at all.
Her eyes snapped open.
Catherine stared at the ceiling above her as a vivid snippet of her dream the night before came into sharp focus: a lemon tree, growing inside her bedroom and twining up her elaborate bedposts, breaking through the canopy of her bed. The bed she lay on currently wasn't anywhere near as elaborate as the one in her dream, but in the dream, she'd known without a shadow of a doubt that that was her room, that was her bed, and that was a lemon tree borne from her own dreams.
Catherine sat up, her brow furrowed so forcefully it actually hurt. She had never before had a dream. Why had she had her first one last night, about a lemon tree, which inspired lemon tarts, and matched the lemon-yellow eyes of a boy she'd just met? A boy for whom her heart was skipping beats for, for no good reason?
Again, a thought niggled at the back of her mind, but each time Catherine reached for it, it danced further out of reach. The vivid clarity of the dream was already fading, too, so when Catherine gave up on grasping the memory and returned her attention to the dream, she couldn't quite remember if it was a lemon tree or rose tree, and whether it had grown within her bedroom or outside of it.
Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, and she forgot all about the lemon tree that inspired lemon tarts for the boy with matching eyes.
The next morning, Catherine remembered only that her mother was, unfortunately, right: the girls Catherine's age had reason to be talking about the new knight, and now that Catherine had seen him for herself, her traitorous heart skipped a beat every time she saw him in the distance.
It was bad enough that he occupied her thoughts to the extent where she looked up each time the kitchen door opened, or glanced out the window when she heard the clank of armour, but now she had a silly crush on a boy she didn't even know. She didn't even know his name, for God's sake!
As such, when her parents presented her with tickets to the circus, Catherine was, for once, relieved to get out of the castle kitchen. It felt like a breath of fresh air to see no knights in shining armour, new and unfamiliar faces, and the bright, chaotic scene that was the circus.
Catherine took it all in: the vendors selling popcorn and refreshments; the children in joker's hats or striped shirts or painted faces; the smartly dressed ushers helping patrons to their seats, and beyond the rows of seating, the stage lit up with spotlights.
There was a tightrope spanning the expanse of the tent, a large hoop in the centre with ropes encircling it, and, of course, on the stage itself were the various obstacles and hoops and equipment too heavy to wheel in and out between acts.
Catherine felt twitchy with anticipation as she waited in line beside her parents. Her excitement only grew when the gentleman manning the ticket booth finally tore off their admittance strips and signalled an usher to lead them to their seats. The show started soon enough, but Catherine had become so fidgety she couldn't concentrate. Her gaze kept straying to the single hoop suspended from the rafters.
Eventually, Catherine leaned towards her mother. “I'm going to use the restroom,” she whispered.
Her mother nodded, thoroughly enraptured with the firebreather now on stage. Catherine wished she could have been that invested, too. She had been so excited earlier – what had happened? Her gaze lifted to the hoop as she stood, and as she started along the row of seating towards the end, she thought that maybe she had misread her anticipation for excitement.
The only question that remained now was, what had she been anticipating, if not the show itself?