Clarabelle sings lightly to herself as she puts the finishing touches on her cake. It is, quite honestly, more fruit than cake, but she doesn't really care, and no one is exactly going to argue with her. If it's sweet and it doesn't fall apart, then that's kind of a miracle all on its own, considering the kind of history Clarabelle has with bakery. She enjoys it, and it hates her.
When she is sure that it is shaped and centered and nicely arranged and not crumbling into a pile of fruit-mix, she grins and she picks up the heavy glass bottle filled with booze. Gently, she starts soaking the cake, stopping every now and then to make sure that it's still reasonably intact. It is, though this is just another miracle. That is a lot of alcohol for one tiny little fruitcake.
When she is done, and it is sopping wet and drooping slightly. She surveys it with a certain amount of delight, glee playing around the corner of her lips and in the glint of her eyes. She rummages around in a drawer for a while, and she turns back to her cake and sets it on fire.
A/N: Just some pyromaniacal fluff.
~Mademise Morte, December 18