andhiswife | (Reply)

"You should see some of the other shows people are airing," she says wryly, before taking a sip of her soup and humming in appreciation. She knows her sense of taste isn't what it ought to be, but even dulled as it is, she can tell he's done a fine job. The basil is a nice touch, too.

She hitches a shoulder at his question. "I'm not sure." She hasn't been watching long enough to know what any of them actually do for a living. There's a bit more nerves than she'd expect from a group of professional bakers, but that might just be because they're so worried about impressing the judges. "I think so. Either that, or the judges are brutal."

She hasn't actually seen them, yet; apparently they've been ushered out of the tent for this portion of the contest. But after a minute or two of watching the assorted bakers scramble to put their dishes together, the scene cuts to a man and a woman sitting at a table with a finished product between them. The man is elderly and rather sweet-looking as he expounds on the virtues of a perfectly baked whatever-it-is.

The woman sitting across from him looks exactly like the Witch.

Greta coughs once, just out of surprise, which of course leads to half a dozen more. None of that stops her from scrambling off the couch and dropping to her knees a foot or so from the television, her eyes fixed incredulously on the woman the captions have labeled 'Paula Hollywood.' It's not a perfect match -- her hair isn't blue, and she's dressed to fit the modern age -- but her face, and that knowing glint in her eye, are unmistakable.

It can't be. Greta's fingertips rest against the television screen, unable to tear her eyes away even as she coughs into her sleeve. It can't be her.