Chapter 2 Aqua-What?
Aqua-What?
SYLVIE STARED AT THE SHIMMERING APPLE. “WHO ARE YOU? Why does this have my name on it?”
A gust of cold air suddenly filled the diner.
Two large men dressed in canvas aprons stepped inside.
Tiny pins, just like the one her mom was wearing, were hooked onto the neck straps, marking them with a spot of gold.
To most, they probably looked like a couple of line cooks getting ready to start the dinner shift.
But Sylvie recognized those pins. CCS agents!
These were the aggressive watchdogs of the council.
Panic washed over her like a chilling spray of water. It would be a disaster if the agents caught her with this guy.
The man tucked the lunch box below the table and crouched down. “Watch your back at Brindille and keep your knife sharp. You may need it in more ways than you think.”
“But I don’t have a knife … at least not yet.” Sylvie looked up, expecting a response. But like an ember floating into the night, the man had vanished.
Sylvie’s palms turned sweaty. Her chest tightened. Disappearing strangers. Symbols of battle. This was the sort of thing Sylvie expected to find in a nightmare, the kind she usually had after eating too much pizza. But this wasn’t a bad dream. It was real.
Sylvie stared across the table. A name was now scribbled onto the napkin where the man had been sitting. She pulled it close.
Escoffier!
Escoffier? Sylvie knew the name. Once upon a time, he’d been a famous French chef. But didn’t he die, like, a hundred years ago?
Her mom slipped back into the booth. “Sorry. That took longer than expected.” She lowered her voice. “A bunch of CCS agents just showed up and took priority. I’m not sure what’s going on, but they’ve been searching the kitchen. It must be something important.”
Sylvie stuffed the napkin into her pocket. Part of her wanted to tell her mom the truth. The other part was afraid it would only make things worse. If Mom thinks I’m in danger, she might cancel everything. Sylvie wasn’t going to give up on her dreams that easily. Better to say nothing.
The kitchen doors swung open. A waitress hustled out, hairclips stuck to her beehive hairdo like ornaments on a Christmas tree. An enormous stack of plates teetered precariously on her tray.
“Banana cream.” The waitress set down a plate.
“But I didn’t—”
“Your mom ordered it. Sorry about the wait.” The woman adjusted the lopsided tortilla chip pin on her uniform, twisting it so that the words JEAN HOLIDAY, NACHO AVERAGE EMPLOYEE stood upright.
Sylvie scooped up a bite.
Jean turned to Sylvie’s mom. “I’ve got the rest of your order to-go. If you’ll follow me into the back, we can help you take it to the car.”
Abby gave an understanding nod and grabbed her purse. “Come on, Sylvie.”
Sylvie shoveled the pie into her mouth and glanced one last time around the room. Four men in canvas aprons were now seated at a table, speaking intently as they scanned the perimeter.
They’re looking for him. Sylvie grabbed her backpack, not knowing who the stranger was, or if he could even be trusted.
She tried her best to push the man and his warning from her thoughts.
She was on her way to Brindille, moving one step closer to her dreams. Prove you deserve to be there.
Finish top of the class. Forget the rest.
Jean ushered them into a small and cluttered office behind the kitchen.
Sylvie looked around, trying to spot a sign saying this way to the magical cooking school or something else reassuring.
A large mahogany desk cluttered with papers stretched across the room like a giant tuna muscled into a sardine can.
The paperweight resting on top caught her eye: a brass bundle of black currant sticks. Brindille’s school symbol!
A single twig could break, but a bundle was strong. The symbol was meant to remind every student: Greatness can’t be achieved without teamwork.
Jean gestured toward two foldable chairs. “Sorry again about the delay.”
Abby smiled. “It’s fine.”
“Agents have been crawling around here for the past hour, searching for something … or someone. I’m not sure,” said Jean. “They’ve all been rather tight-lipped about it.”
“Did they find anything? I mean, not that there is anything to find.” Sylvie sat down and tried her best to sound casual. “I was just wondering.”
Jean shook her head, making the clips in her hair rattle like little bells.
“I told them it’s been business as usual.
Of course, they wouldn’t take my word for it.
I just hope they don’t ransack my dry storage.
We just got in a shipment of torpedo onions for the chicken pot pie.
That reminds me.” Jean pulled a plate out of one of the desk drawers.
A golden wedge with a dollop of cream materialized on it.
“Lemon buttermilk pie … I assume it’s still your favorite? ”
Abby smiled. “Yes … I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“You two know each other?” Sylvie asked.
Abby nodded. “I used to come here a lot when I was a student at Brindille.”
Jean slid the plate across the desk. “You were always so talented. I never believed the … rumors.”
Sylvie couldn’t help but notice the pause, as if Jean was avoiding the uncomfortable word: cheating.
“Though, I suppose if you’re here, the stories they’re printing this time are true.
Bass is using his new policies to make an example out of your family.
” Jean eyed Sylvie like a melon that wasn’t quite ripe.
“Your daughter has to take the preparatory program and finish top of her class, or she’ll be permanently banned? ”
Abby paused, her forkful of pie dangling in the air. “Yes. It’s true.”
Jean shook her head, pointing to the small bronze dot she’d concealed beneath the collar on her uniform.
“I knew his policies would cause trouble. First, ranking pins: gold, silver, bronze, and carnelian, as if some Sages are better than others. Now, guilty until proven innocent. It’s not right!
” Jean lowered her voice. “Bass may not realize it yet, but there are Sages who share my opinion—lots of them. They’re starting to talk. ”
“A lot has changed under Bass,” said Abby. “In fact, that’s why we’re here. We need to get into the school. But since Pips aren’t allowed to travel by rumbledethumps anymore, we need another way inside.”
Jean nodded. “Too many injuries going into the oven. We’ve got a secret door the kids use now. Though, I’m not sure it builds as much character as a young Pip burning themselves up every time the preparatory program starts.”
This time, Sylvie agreed with the CCS. She’d singed her hand once on a sheet pan. It left her with oozing blisters. Definitely not a character-building moment!
Jean tapped a red nail against the tortilla chip pin on her uniform. The glittering nacho cheese melted away, revealing the word CONDUCTOR.
“I’ve led all sorts through these doors, toward their destiny.
Arrogant kids that think they know it all.
Nervous ones, jumpy as jackrabbits. As long as they could cook, the rest didn’t matter.
But now”—Jean pointed at Sylvie—“you’re the first Pip whose destiny may be determined by the CCS rather than the results of your test.”
Pip. Of course Sylvie knew the term. Her mom had been using it to describe Sylvie for years: a seed full of potential that hasn’t yet been planted. That was what they called all kids like Sylvie, those who displayed the talent but hadn’t taken the Sage test—or worse, who’d failed.
Jean’s words pressed against Sylvie like weight on a bruise.
The test was a special recipe that was supposed to decide her fate.
Every Pip took the same test at the end of the preparatory program.
If your spell produced a Blade—your special knife—you passed and enrolled at a magical cooking school.
But if you failed to produce a Blade, you were done.
It didn’t matter which family you came from. The rule was universal.
But not anymore. Now, the CCS is deciding. Sylvie’s mind replayed what the man had said. Watch your back at Brindille. Sylvie hadn’t had time to really process the meaning, but now… . Finishing first in my class will be tough, but what if the system is rigged? Her palms turned sweaty.
Sylvie watched as Jean reached into a desk drawer and pulled out her special knife, a turquoise handle with a dark, hand-forged blade. Small flecks glistened on the steel like snowflakes resting on a stone.
Sylvie tried to shake away thoughts of the mysterious man, the CCS’s new policies, and the weight of everything riding on what happened next.
Jean brushed her fingers against the handle.
It quivered, then nestled itself into the crook of her hand.
She glanced over at Abby. “Pips still have to cook up their entrance ticket. I’d let her through without the quickfire if I could.
But I’m afraid there are enchantments in place.
Gotta keep Scullery from accidentally wandering in. ”
Abby nodded. “Of course.”
Sylvie took a deep breath. She ran through the list of possibilities for the quickfire in her head.
A Blade wasn’t just a special knife. Once you manifested yours, it was connected to you.
It understood your needs. Softer steel for butchery.
Serrated steel for chocolate. It knew every spell you’d ever prepared.
Because she didn’t have hers yet, a quickfire that required knife skills was out of the question. That leaves cakes, breads, drop cookies.
Jean turned to Sylvie. “You ready?”
Sylvie rolled up her sleeves. “Yes.”
Jean’s Blade glinted as she cut into the brass paperweight, slicing it clean in half. Sparks erupted as twigs rolled across her desk like tumbleweeds.
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. Not metal … modeling chocolate, painted with gold cocoa butter.