The Adventures of Caterwaul the Cat Read Online Free PDF Page A

never last long. Some sign of happiness from the villagers below or a bit of news from some far off corner of the kingdom would bring back her bitterness.
    This time, it was a wedding announcement that knocked her out of balance. It was brought to her by royal courier one cold Thursday afternoon. It was no more than a few lines on a bit of parchment. It seemed one of her former courtiers, Count Mikhail Freeholder, was getting married in three days’ time. This bit of news should not have surprised her, for the count had been one of her more enthusiastic pursuers, but he was also one of the most worthless.
    Count Mikhail Freeholder was looking to catch himself a wealthy wife. Though he was an aristocrat by birth, he didn’t have two coins to rub together, and the queen knew it. In fact, her pet name for him was “Count Freeloader.” She was never remotely interested in him, other than as the butt of a joke.
    But that was before the suitors disappeared. It had been years since any man had called on her, and now, even this Freeloader’s attentions would be welcome.
    â€œSo the count is getting married,” she said aloud to herself. Not if Druciah could help it!
    â€œWarwick!” she shouted to the commander of her secret police. “I have a job for you.”
    Warwick Vane Bezel III snapped to attention. “What is it you want me to do, your majesty?”
    â€œCount Freeholder thinks he is getting married next week. I want you to find out who is providing the nuptial feast. Tell him that he will no longer be needed, because Queen Druciah wants to provide the catering for the whole affair.” She laughed evilly. “It is, after all, the least I can do for my old friend, Freeloader.”
    She tossed him a pouch of coins. “Give the caterer this for his troubles, then find out whoever is making the bride’s dress, and tell him that we won’t be needing him either.” She spun around laughing, impressed with her genius. She handed him a piece of paper with instructions on it. “Make sure that you drop this off with our royal seamstress. Tell her that it’s a gift for our future countess. I want it made to those measurements exactly and those exact color specifications. And she needs to be quick about it. Time is of the essence. I will need it in two days.”
    â€œOh, and Warwick,” she added, “on your way out, tell Orris, my chef, that I need to see him now.” She smiled and giggled with evil delight. “As I recall, the count is deathly allergic to eggs.”

    Orris, the royal chef, had been in the queen’s service for many years. Talented and devoted, he was the creative force behind the queen’s Great Feasts and was unmatched in his skillful use of cutlery and seasonings. There wasn’t a dish you could name that Orris had not perfected. If it swam in the sea, flew through the air, grew or grazed in the field, the queen’s man knew how to prepare it.
    Like most men of considerable ability, Orris had a rather large ego. Nothing got the fires going in him like the challenge of putting together a great feast. He likened himself to a great composer, only rather than musical notes, his medium was food. He and his dozen or so assistants would regularly prepare masterpieces of delectability, and the kitchen would resound with the aromas of his savory symphonies.
    Breads and pastries were his personal favorites to work with. He was a genius when it came to creating new recipes for cakes and pies. And if you were among those lucky enough to have sampled his mouthwatering lemon almond soufflé, you could expect to die a happy man. He used to boast that he could bake anything blindfolded and with one arm tied behind his back. Unfortunately in recent years, he’d had dwindling opportunities to practice his craft. There had not been a Grand Ball or a Great Feast in a very long time.
    Still like most performers, Orris needed to