from… the JOURNALS of EDWIN BELCHER

MAY 12-15, 1890

I dreamt of it again last night—the cake, I mean. In my dream, it was simultaneously white as fresh snow and dark as midnight oil, impossibly both, and it sang to me with the voice of my long-dead mother. I awoke weeping, my pillowcase soaked through with all the fluids I have. This is the third such dream this week. The Gazette forced me out after my questions made them shift in their seats out of fear. No one wants to find out the truth of the cake.

Why? WHY?!
_________________________

The polished brass bell above the door of Kitcheners' Confectionary on Maple Street will ring for the final time this Saturday, marking the end of nearly three decades of business in our fair city. Following two consecutive years of what many have delicately termed "diminishing returns" after the Garden Hall Spring Celebrations of 1888 and 1889, patriarch Willem Kitchener has announced the family's intention to relocate their business to Washington, D.C.

I watched him yesterday afternoon as he supervised the crating of imported baking molds, his hands trembling slightly—though whether from age or agitation, I cannot say. There was something in his eyes I recognized all too well: the haunted look that has become increasingly common in certain circles of Maunton society.

"There is nothing left for us here," he stated, his gaze darting periodically to the back room where, I am told, dozens of experimental recipes have accumulated over the past two years. "Twenty-seven years of service to this community, and for what?"

When questioned about the sharp decline in patronage, his expression twisted into something between rage and fear. "These Virginians," he muttered, following with "stomme dorpelingen" under his breath, and then, more curiously: "They blame us, as if we could ever recreate... as if we even know what we..." He trailed off, staring at his flour-dusted hands as though they belonged to someone else.

"I will not lower my prices," Willem continued after a long pause, his voice regaining some strength. "My work is art, not mere sustenance. In the capital, perhaps, there are patriots who understand the difference. Those who will not be driven to..." He glanced anxiously toward the street, where Judge Montgomery has been observed standing motionless for hours at a time, staring through the confectionary windows.

The decline of the Kitcheners' establishment presents a curious study in collective obsession, though I didn’t dare alert them about my own invasive thoughts. Their business began to falter precisely after their commission for the 1889 Garden Hall celebration—the very creation that has become both blessing and curse to our community.

"I taste it still," confessed Mrs. Eleanor Harrington during our interview at her home, where the curtains have remained drawn since February. Her normally immaculate parlor was in disarray, with half-eaten pastries from various establishments stacked and scattered on the leather chairs and stools.

"Every morning upon waking, for just a moment, the flavor is there on my tongue, perfect and complete. Then it fades, and I—" She broke off, seizing my wrist with alarming strength. "You remember it too, don't you, Edwin? Tell me I'm not alone in this torment."

I assured her she was not.

Judge Montgomery, once the very model of judicial temperament, was found last week attempting to gain entry to the Garden Hall at three o'clock in the morning, insisting that "the celebration is tonight, I can hear the music already." When I spoke with him yesterday in his chambers, where case files lay untouched beneath a layer of dust, he leaned close to whisper: "I've remembered something new. There were flowers in it—or perhaps of it. The petals opened and closed like they were breathing. You saw it too, didn't you?"

I did not correct him, though I distinctly recall—or believe I recall—that the cake shimmered with a light that cast no shadows.

Miss Amelia Thornton, whose engagement to the son of a prominent Richmond family was recently and unexpectedly broken, offered perhaps the most disturbing testimony. "I cannot marry," she declared, her fingers compulsively sketching mismatched patterns on paper—abstract swirls that she insists are accurate renderings of the cake's decorative elements. I can’t discern anything more than renditions of flower bulbs. "How could any mortal union compare to what we all experienced that night? I have been touched by something utterly divine, Mr. Belcher. Everything else is ash and dust."

Her former fiancé, when contacted, would say only that she had become "unhealthily fixated on a dessert, of all things," and that he feared for her reason.

Mr. Mason Hayes, whose decision to commission the Kitcheners for three consecutive Spring Celebrations ultimately proved controversial, was found last month meticulously recreating the exact arrangement of the Garden Hall as it had been on that fateful evening in 1889. When asked why, he responded with words that have haunted me since: "If we can reassemble all the pieces exactly as they were—the music, the flowers, the guests—perhaps it will come back. Not just the cake, but the feeling. The perfect moment when everything made sense."

I confess I have attempted similar reconstructions in the privacy of my study, using dolls borrowed from my niece and dismantled bookshelves to complete the furniture arrangement. My wife does not understand. How could she? She was in Richmond that weekend. And at the end of it all, I am alone.

Dr. Harrison has taken to referring to our collective condition as The Maunton Affliction. During his recent lecture series, he has formed a hypothesis that we are “in the midst of a mass shared delusion, centered around a powerful sensory experience that has been elevated to mythological status." Six attendees walked out in protest. Two others wept openly.

The peculiar incident last month when Mr. Lawrence Pemberton reportedly offered the Kitchener family one hundred dollars for the original recipe ended not with Willem's bitter laughter, as was publicly reported, but with Pemberton falling to his knees and reciting what he claimed was "the prayer the cake whispered to me." He has since taken leave of the city to recover at his sister's home in Pennsylvania.

Young Thomas Kitchener, now sixteen, spoke to me with the weary wisdom of someone much older. "Pa destroyed the original notes," he confided as we stood among the packing crates. "He says it was an accident, but I saw him burning papers in the night. He was crying, Mr. Belcher. I've never seen him cry before."

The boy leaned closer. "Sometimes I think we created something we shouldn't have. Something that wasn't meant to be tasted."

Willem overheard this last comment and struck his son sharply across the face—the only time I ever witnessed such behavior from the normally composed baker. "Say nothing more," he hissed, his face sullen with black bags under the eyes. "There are consequences to speaking of such things."

The family will depart for Washington at month's end, having secured premises near Dupont Circle. Their property on Maple Street has been purchased by Mr. Finchley, though there are whispers that he plans not to expand his haberdashery but to convert the space into a shrine of sorts.

As for the Garden Hall Spring Celebration, the Cultural Society has announced its indefinite postponement. "Perhaps some traditions are best laid to rest. Recent events have made it clear that a period of reflection is necessary." stated Mrs. Lowsley, her hand trembling as she adjusted her hat for the fifth time during our brief interview.

Yet I observed no fewer than twelve of our citizens gathered on the Garden Hall steps at dusk yesterday, quietly conversing with their faces upturned toward the marble pillars, silent and expectant, as though awaiting a revelation.

I fear all hope is lost. Last night I dreamt I was the cake, being devoured by wide-eyed revelers at the Garden Hall. It was April again. The Hall was packed with fresh flowers and well-groomed ladies and gentlemen. And they ate without silverware, using their cold hands like plows. I felt myself diminishing with each chunk ripped away, yet somehow growing more powerful as I was consumed. I awoke with the taste of my own blood in my mouth, having bitten my tongue in my sleep. The taste was familiar in a way I dare not contemplate further.

Perhaps I never left that night. Maybe I’m still there, waiting to wake up…

  — E. B.