Queen Pirouette leaned over the bowl and gave the shiny, lumpy substance a hearty whiff. It didn’t have much of an aroma. When she touched it with the tip of her index finger, she drew it back quickly, unprepared for the strange, cold sensation as she was. “Lady Throckmorton!” She said to her lady-in-waiting. “What manner of dessert is this?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Your Majesty,” she replied. “Shall I inquire of the kitchen?”
“Yes,” replied the Queen. “Please do so.” This caused a chain-reaction of whispered questions that traveled from the Queen’s dining room down to the kitchens of the palace. Once the question found purchase there, another chain reaction of answers followed in the reverse direction. A valet whispered the answer into Lady Throckmorton’s ear. She, in turn, whispered into the Queen’s ear.
“Ice cream, Your Majesty. It’s called ice cream.”