The palace kitchens; was there a better place in the known world?
Bart didn't think so! It was a sanctum from all fears and a place where just about anything could be forgotten in the wonderful taste of stolen sweets. It was a place where even nervousness about his impending coronation could be completely forgotten and that was what he truly needed; he just wanted to be Bart for a few more hours before he had to face his kingdom for the first and the last time and there was no better way to do that than to stuff himself with whatever he could find in the usually well-stocked cupboards, much as he had done when he was just a child. Unfortunately, he found his plans for gluttony ruined before they even began and all it took was the sight of the small, familiar figure perched atop the counter closest to the sink.
It took his distracted mind a moment to remember it, but he soon realized that she must have been invited to stay in the palace since she'd have a part in the ceremony tomorrow; there was also the fact that she was the Great Mother and, as such, Margie couldn't be reduced to staying in a common hotel!
Bart smirked at this thought and, realizing that Margie hadn't yet noticed him, he snuck over to her as quietly as he could. Effortlessly, he snatched the small container of iced milk from her hands and, leaning against the bit of counter directly to her left, he ate of it blissfully. It really was the perfect thing for a hot desert night!
"Bart!" The Great Mother squealed as she leveled her best glare on her cousin. It was the same glare she'd used on him ever since they were children causing trouble for anyone around them and it had as much effect on the young prince as ever, namely none at all. "I was eating that! You should learn to have more manners."
"Vu yant um?" Bart asked through a mouth full of iced milk. Since his words weren't entirely clear, he held out the partially cleaned spoon in offering, but this act of generosity was met only with hostility.
Margie let her glare intensify and, voicing the same sort of growl an aggravated kitten would give, she smacked at Bart's hand. This smack wasn't really all that sharp, but Bart's grip on the spoon wasn't all that firm; jostled loose, it skittered across the cold floor and it only came to rest when it lodged itself under a heavy-looking china cabinet. For a moment, Bart just stared after it, but his silence was soon broken by a burst of brightly amused laughter.
"I don't know why you're laughing." Margie commented archly. She was using her best Great Mother tone and her expression told that she was only doing so because she knew that it tended to drive Bart up the wall. Leaning over her knees, she grabbed the container back, but she made no move to find a replacement spoon. "You're just going to get in trouble when they find one of the spoons missing."
"Nah, not going to happen." Bart chuckled. He let her have the iced milk and, crossing his arms over his bare chest, he offered her a sidelong smirk. "I'll just tell them that I saw the Great Mother sneak it under her robes at dinner. You know how those holy women are…"
Margie wouldn't dignify that with an answer. She wouldn't sink to his level, at least not verbally. There were better ways, after all! She leaned in closer to him and, ignoring the odd look he gave her, she upended the container of iced milk so that it would dump all over that beautiful blond hair of which he was so proud. After setting the empty container atop his head like a jaunty cap, she quickly moved to the other side of the kitchen so as to avoid retribution while Bart was still frozen in place.
Bart simply stood in place for quite a few moments. His eye blinked as he felt the sticky tendrils ooze their way down his scalp and, lifting a hand, he wiped at the trail snaking down his cheek. Holding up his hand, he stared at the faintly pink gunk for a moment, and then turned something of a glare to his cousin who was now leaning against the wall on the other side of the room.
"Hey, you look good in pink." Margie giggled. It seemed that any control she might have had on her mirth was utterly abandoned and her small frame now shook with the force of her amusement. "Besides, it's about time you cut your hair. How long has it been?"
"It hasn't been that long," Bart lied outright. He knew quite well that he hadn't cut his hair since his father was assassinated, but saying that aloud always seemed a bit silly; what kind of sentimental fool did something like that, anyway? "and I like it this way. This is going to take hours to get clean!"
"Well, the easiest route would just to be to cut off the braid." Margie observed. She stepped away from the counter and, as she walked over to him, Bart observed that she had her hands hidden behind her back. That just could not be good. "It'll make you look more regal, anyway."
"Marguerite," Bart began in his best imitation of Sigurd's no nonsense tone. He even tried to glare at his cousin, but he wasn't sure it'd be so effective for the pink gunk now masking his face. "I'm not cutting my hair and, thanks to you, I'm gonna have to take another bath before bed."
"C'mon, don't be a wuss, Bartholomew." Margie responded as she came to stop a few steps in front of her cousin. Moving her hands from behind her back, she revealed a rather impressive pair of kitchen shears. "You know you should and I promise I'll make you look better than you ever have!"