It was an automaton made of icing! Fiendish is design, it was operated by a clockwork mechanism and could only be the work of Faberge. It was an almost exact replica of the late Tsar Nicholas, except for the beard which was made of liquorice straws. It clicked its heels together, gave the ladies a brief bow, turned around and walked into the cake palace .
They followed silently in awe of the interior; the chandeliers and gilt framed mirrors were made of spun sugar, the woodwork of caramel and the floors of marshmallow.
Bunty’s excitement was reaching fever pitch, Lola was emitting a low growl as she followed the creaking automaton into the drawing room.
The company gasped in amazement as assembled before them were the simulacrum of the entire Romanov royal family,etched in icing.
Deep in the woods, Sparky had discovered a rural Bolshevik cell and was giving them a lesson in capitalism by means of 100% proof vodka and a hastily convened game of Russian Roulette, which was helping him line his pockets with roubles a plenty.
The wolves had formed a trade union, and were in the process of arbitration, but hadn’t dismissed the option of conciliation or even collective bargaining with the local cossacks over their rights to free savaging and howling at the moon every alternative Wednesday, unless there was a new moon.
The Romanov “girls” were sitting around a table playing cards and didn’t stop when the women entered but went on in a jerky fashion dealing from their frangipane deck. The bleeding boy huddled in a corner with a craftily designed Russian sailor with a suspicious moustache.
Lola’s eyebrow started to twitch uncontrollably, which it always did in the presence of royalty-or at least fake royalty because everyone knows that the real crowned heads of Europe are to be found in the midst of the ancient and terrible undead.
“One of them is not made of icing!” rasped Lola, pointing at one one of the “princesses” who undeniably blushed.
“Then you mean it’s true? One of them survived? Could this be Anastasia?” gasped Bunty.
“No,” said Lola, “I think you’ll find it’s the one that no-one knew about that they called Anesthesia, because of a strange hereditary condition which made everyone fall asleep when she opened her mouth. A bit like Narcolepsy in reverse.”
The girl, for that is what she was, gave Lola a pointed look, which she countered with the equivalent of a volley of sharpened knives, causing the princess to whimper and hide under the fudge table.
“You see Bunty, my spies have told me for a long time of the stories of the lost princess and the bleeding boy, all rumours started by Miss knockout drops here who ran off with all the Faberge eggs, before the Bolshies nationalised the company and brought in the means of mass production. She then went underground, signed herself up for confectionary college and shacked up with a CLOCK MAKER! Seems she missed the family she sold to the revolutionaries and found that she missed the palatial life style and could only recreate it in cake hidden away in the forest.”