Put it in the oven and mark it with 'D' and bake that cake for baby and me. The red words were so bright against the eggshell white of the walls that they almost seemed to be shouting. Drusilla had some vague thought that it should be 'B' rather than 'D' but that didn't make any sense at all. Death began with the letter 'D'.
Mark it with 'D'. Drusilla's hands were still red, wet enough to mark the girl, the one who had taught her the rhyme. "Where are you?" Drusilla didn't let on that she knew where the girl was even though she could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a heart pounding on the other side of the closet door: it was fun to play little games with children. Mark it with 'D' and bake that cake. The words seemed to be a command.
Bake that cake. It didn't make any sense. Getting the child into the oven would be very difficult. All the pans would have to be taken out. And afterward the girl wouldn't be edible at all. Bake that cake. The words were quite insistent. Drusilla supposed she'd have to obey. (195)