Hall of Infinite Doors
"Cinnamon," you think to yourself. "I didn't know it could be hard or extra-long, but I guess I still have a lot to learn about spices."
It's not hard for you to find the spice tent. It's centrally located, bright red, and most subtly of all, bears a huge sign reading "SPICES". If only everything in life were this straightforward... But you digress. Marching matter-of-factly into the little tent, you smile at the little gingerbread man standing behind the counter. He is surrounded by thousands of glass jars filled with powders of every color, with leaves and herbs, with strange, wonderful things you've never seen before.
"I would like one hard stick of extra-long cinnamon, if you don't mind," you tell the clerk.
"All right," he says quietly, eyeing you for a moment before reaching behind him onto a high shelf. He pulls out a large jar filled with cinnamon sticks and pulls out the longest one of the lot. He lays it on a small sheet of waxed paper, expertly rolling, sealing and tying the ends with brightly colored ribbon. He smiles briefly at you.
"That will be fourteen sprinkles, please," he says.
"Well, actually," you venture, hoping that this vendor will also allow you credit under Mrs. Gingerbread's name, "I'm doing some shopping for my friend Mrs. Gingerbread, but she didn't give me any sprinkles. I believe she might have a store account?"
The man eyes you with mild suspicion. Not knowing what else to do, you show your shopping list to him. His frown softens, turning gradually into a broad smile. He blushes ever so slightly.
"Indeed, stranger, that is Mrs. Gingerbread's handwriting. It's as familiar to me as my own."
"Oh, good!" you say, very relieved.
"Mrs. Gingerbread has perfect credit in this store," he continues, his smile now reshaping itself into a smirk. "She always pays her bill. Always." His eyes shine lustily as he stares intently at you. "Well, good day to you!" he pipes cheerfully before hurrying distractedly into the back room of the tent. You shake your head a little and step back outside.
With the exception of the chocolate babies, you managed to get everything on Mrs. Gingerbread's shopping list. Your growling tummy quickens your footsteps back up the hill towards the warm little house where your adventures began. As you turn onto Tart Terrace, you notice the same two gingerbread children from earlier in the day hurling snowballs at each other under the tinsel-wrapped streetlamps.
It's not hard for you to find the spice tent. It's centrally located, bright red, and most subtly of all, bears a huge sign reading "SPICES". If only everything in life were this straightforward... But you digress. Marching matter-of-factly into the little tent, you smile at the little gingerbread man standing behind the counter. He is surrounded by thousands of glass jars filled with powders of every color, with leaves and herbs, with strange, wonderful things you've never seen before.
"I would like one hard stick of extra-long cinnamon, if you don't mind," you tell the clerk.
"All right," he says quietly, eyeing you for a moment before reaching behind him onto a high shelf. He pulls out a large jar filled with cinnamon sticks and pulls out the longest one of the lot. He lays it on a small sheet of waxed paper, expertly rolling, sealing and tying the ends with brightly colored ribbon. He smiles briefly at you.
"That will be fourteen sprinkles, please," he says.
"Well, actually," you venture, hoping that this vendor will also allow you credit under Mrs. Gingerbread's name, "I'm doing some shopping for my friend Mrs. Gingerbread, but she didn't give me any sprinkles. I believe she might have a store account?"
The man eyes you with mild suspicion. Not knowing what else to do, you show your shopping list to him. His frown softens, turning gradually into a broad smile. He blushes ever so slightly.
"Indeed, stranger, that is Mrs. Gingerbread's handwriting. It's as familiar to me as my own."
"Oh, good!" you say, very relieved.
"Mrs. Gingerbread has perfect credit in this store," he continues, his smile now reshaping itself into a smirk. "She always pays her bill. Always." His eyes shine lustily as he stares intently at you. "Well, good day to you!" he pipes cheerfully before hurrying distractedly into the back room of the tent. You shake your head a little and step back outside.
With the exception of the chocolate babies, you managed to get everything on Mrs. Gingerbread's shopping list. Your growling tummy quickens your footsteps back up the hill towards the warm little house where your adventures began. As you turn onto Tart Terrace, you notice the same two gingerbread children from earlier in the day hurling snowballs at each other under the tinsel-wrapped streetlamps.