Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Universe. I own a twisted imagination.
Chapter 4
Isabella slept quite comfortably in a small copse of trees just in sight of the castle's curtain wall. She was near enough to the gatehouse where the prospective workers entered that she could enter the castle ground as early as possible. She hoped that she could lend a hand in the preparation of breakfast to show how well she could cook.
Dawn broke in with bright sunshine and warm breezes. Isabella woke with a smile on her face ready to start the next part of her adventure. She smoothed her dress, applied the lotion, and gathered her things. It was still quite early when she made her way to the gatehouse. She rang the bell and waited for the gatekeeper to answer, hoping that her early arrival would not anger him and he might, therefore, deny her entry.
After a lengthy delay the gatekeeper appeared. He was, without a doubt, the biggest, strongest, giant of a man Isabella had ever seen. What is next in this Kingdom of Witches and Giants, she wondered to herself. Could there be trolls and fairies as well?
Isabella backed away from the gate a few steps and craned her neck back to look at the man. He stood, his eyes almost able to peer over the gate, and stared at her for a moment.
"Please, sir," she squeaked in a very small voice, "I am here to apply for work in the kitchens."
His face broke into a grin, with massive dimples that just begged for the insertion of the tip of ones finger, and asked, what was to him, a very pertinent question.
"Can you make Marzipan? I adore Marzipan. Especially the little tiny fruit ones for Christmas. I'm not fond of the piggies, it makes me too sad to eat them, with their cute little faces. Their eyes just seem to stare into your soul and beg not to be eaten." He looked ever so much like a small boy in a giant man's body that Isabella could not help but laugh at him. She laughed kindly, of course, for she still had to gain access to the palace grounds.
"Yes, I can make Marzipan. I don't like to eat it, though, perhaps you could be my taste tester whenever I make a new batch."
"Wonderful, just wonderful." The giant swung open the gate and waited for Isabella to enter.
"My name is Emmett, I am the keeper of this gate." He bowed low to her.
"I am Isabella. I hope to cook in the castle." She curtsied back to him.
"Well, Isabella, just travel down this path here and it will lead you to the kitchen doors. Just give a nod to my lovely lady wife at the cottage down the road if you see her." Emmett pointed Isabella to the right path and watched her walk away while dreaming of little Marzipan apples.
A fair piece down the road Isabella came upon a lovely cottage about twice the size of Alice's. A massive vegetable garden was in front of it, with a few fat hens peeking around. By the door, a very heavily pregnant woman sat on a small stool. All around her were what seemed like dozens of children of various sizes. Isabella blinked rapidly to clear her eyes and tried to count the children again. She knew, having come from a family of seven girls that large families were common but the shear amount stunned her. There were many children, in fact, a perfect baker's dozen. Boys and girls, big and small, and dressed and undressed. Isabella shook her head in dismay, more at the undressed rather than the number, and stopped at the garden gate.
"Hello, good lady. The gatekeeper bade me give you a nod as I passed by."
The very tired, very pregnant lady smiled and held her arms out. Two of the bigger children grabbed a hold of her arms and helped her to her feet. She waddled over to the gate and stood in front of an astonished Isabella. The woman was beautiful. Her eyes were a shocking shade of blue, pale with a darker ring on the outside of the iris. She was very tall, standing at least a full head above Isabella. Her gown was a rich plum colour that set off the unusual colour of her eyes.
"Hello Miss. I'd thank you for the nod but, unfortunately, every time my husband gives me a nod I end up with child and I'm not quite finished with this one yet." She giggled and rubbed her belly.
"And if you were to give me a nod I'm not quite sure what would happen so let us just shake hands and say 'how do'. My name is Rosalie." Rosalie held out her right hand.
Isabella beamed at her. It was not her custom to shake hands but she tried it anyway.
"How do, Rosalie. I am Isabella. I've come to see about working in the castle kitchens."
"What did my fool husband make you promise to cook for him? He sits in the gatehouse every day just thinking about food. He eats as much as half the children together."
"Marzipan. Fruit shapes, not pigs because they make him feel guilty."
"Well, that's a new one. I swear that man has more cravings than I do." Rosalie laughed so hard her stomach was bouncing and Isabella was afraid that the action would topple Rosalie or dislodge the baby.
Several small voices started calling for Mama. Rosalie looked over her shoulder and then turned back to Isabella.
"Best of luck to you. I hope you get the job. If you do, please come to visit once in a while. I am in desperate need of adult conversation."
"T'would be my honour, Rosalie, to visit with you. Thank you for the luck. If you do not see me back along this road in a few hours, you'll know I was successful." Isabella waved her goodbye and continued down the path.
A good few minutes later she came upon another cottage nestled in the woods, just off the path. She could see the inner castle wall just ahead. As she neared the house she could hear the sound of someone chopping wood. It was on the far side of the cottage that she first saw him.
There, in the small side yard of the cottage, was a man. No, not just a man, the only man ever to catch Isabella's eye. He was responsible for the sounds that she had heard. He was perched atop a large log, furiously chopping it in half. There were small bits of wood clinging to his broad naked shoulders. Isabella could see his shirt draped over a near-by fence post. He was clad only in his breeches, stockings and boots. His hair was a tangled mess upon his head and flopped about with every stoke of his axe. The colour reminded Isabella of autumn. She could not see his face properly but knew, instinctively, that he was most handsome.
She stood for a few minutes watching him, wondering who he was, and glorifying in the display of masculine beauty in front of her. She had a very difficult time telling her feet that she had to keep moving. If she had her druthers she would stay and watch for the rest of time. Very, very reluctantly she made her self carry on to the kitchen in the castle.
The man took no notice of her what so ever.
AN: Thank you for reading. So, I did a little more research into the original fairy tale on which I am basing this little opus. Schnikies, it is gross. The King decides that he has to marry his own daughter and she runs away. In one version she doesn't run but dies in childbirth. There's not a chance in hell I'm using that story line, no matter how yummy Billy Burke might be.