The Royal Cook's Confusion

The Royal Cook, a woman whose apron was perpetually dusted with flour and whose hair was often adorned with a stray sprig of parsley, wrung her hands. Her usually rosy cheeks were a shade paler than usual, a hue that clashed rather spectacularly with the vibrant red of her chef's hat. King Rufus, a whirlwind of agitated velvet and flapping royal robes, paced before her, his golden crown wobbling precariously with each frantic step.

"You must have seen it, Cook!" he spluttered, his voice cracking like a dry twig. "My precious gold! My beautiful, shiny, clinking gold!"

The Royal Cook, whose name was Brenda, blinked up at him, her eyes wide and a little watery. "Your Majesty," she began, her voice a soft murmur against the clatter of pots and pans from her bustling kitchen, "I assure you, I've seen nothing but flour, sugar, and the occasional rogue pea for the past week. My hands are far too busy kneading dough to be pilfering royal treasure, if you'll pardon my frankness."