Chapter 8 Salt in the Devil’s Eye
Salt in the Devil’s Eye
SYLVIE READ THE NOTICE, LETTING IT ALL SINK IN.
THE CCS INTERRUPTS YOUR NORMALLY SCHEDULED NEWS TO brING YOU THIS IMPORTANT BULLETIN.
AUGUST STRANGE HAS STOLEN A VALUABLE CCS ARTIFACT. HE IS CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS. A REWARD OF TEN GALLONS LIQUID GOLD IS BEING OFFERED.
HE IS WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE!
Sylvie’s hands turned icy. Her chest tightened. Sometimes, truth was hard to spot. Then there were times, like now, when it smacked you right between the eyes.
The CCS was going to a lot of trouble to track down August Strange. The reward was beyond generous. But that wasn’t the only thing bothering her. There’d been no mention of the Apple of Discord. He was right. They don’t want anyone to know about it.
LIES! LIES!
New words lashed across the scroll, covering the CCS’s message like angry puncture marks.
GIVE PEOPLE THE FULL STORY. OR WE’LL DO IT FOR YOU!
Red ink shot across the scroll, covering it in what looked like a spray of blood.
Bang!
Flora dropped the pumpkin-shaped book. Pepitas scattered across the floor, but her eyes stayed focused on the splotch of ink.
“Did the scroll just get hijacked?” Adara asked.
“It’s hacked,” said Big Shawn, “and yes. I think it did.”
Sylvie eyed the screen as it went dark. Someone else must know there’s more to Strange’s story. But who? Her thought was cut off.
“All instructors, please report to Madame Godard’s office for an urgent faculty meeting,” said a voice over the loudspeaker. “Students and Pips will return to their dorm rooms until further notice.”
A group of instructors rushed past, huddled in discussion.
Sylvie turned back to Ms. Honeycut, who still had Escoffier’s book clutched in her hands. She seemed to snap back to attention. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She gave the book a curious glance. “You can’t check this out.”
“But—”
“You heard the announcement,” said Ms. Honeycut. “All Pips and students must return to their dorms at once. You can get it after the Commis Contest. It’s only a few days away.” She tossed the book into the restack bin.
There was no use arguing. Sylvie could feel the spell already dissolving inside her. She stole a final glance. The book slipped down into the bin, like a key drifting toward the bottom of a lake.
The rest of the morning went by in a bit of a haze. Classes were canceled. This was no surprise to Sylvie. As soon as the wanted poster flashed across the library’s scroll, she’d noticed instructors rushing through the halls. The messages had obviously rattled them too.
But they weren’t the only ones with mysteries to solve. Sylvie had to find a way to get the book back … immediately.
“Please collect your chocolate peppermints,” said Kitty, holding out a silver bowl.
Sylvie was now standing near the school steps with the other Pips. It was just after lunch, and they were finally heading to Madame Pelletier to collect their tool kits and aprons.
“Sorry I’m late, Kitty,” said Flora breathlessly.
“Ah! Good you’re here. You can hand out mints.” Kitty turned and stared inquisitively at her. “Is everything all right, dear?”
Sylvie was wondering the same thing. Flora’s chef’s coat, which had been freshly pressed this morning, was now smudged with chocolate. Bits of flour were clinging to her hair.
That’s odd, considering classes were canceled, thought Sylvie.
“I’m fine,” said Flora, grabbing the bowl of mints. “I was … err … just working on some spells in my room and lost track of time.”
Kitty brushed a hand across the chocolate on Flora’s coat, rubbing the remnants between her fingers. “Pure criollo. I thought only Chef Devon had a stash of this.” She raised a brow. “That’s some recipe you were working on.”
Flora averted her eyes. “Umm … yeah, it was a special order … from Godard.”
Kitty’s hand slipped back down to her side. “I see.”
You do? Sylvie grabbed a handful of mints and tried to make sense of it. Maybe it’s about her recipe for the Commis Contest?
“Excuse me.” Georgia shuffled past Sylvie and scooped up several peppermints.
Sylvie tried to make eye contact, but Georgia was busy staring at her fingernails.
Sylvie couldn’t help but notice them too.
Yesterday, they’d been perfectly round and polished.
But now, the paint was chipped, and the nails uneven.
It looked as if a chipmunk had given her a manicure.
Before Sylvie could contemplate it further, Darius stepped forward.
“The school better give us a makeup day for this mess.” He snatched peppermints out of the bowl. “My parents paid for a full six-week program. We didn’t manage to cook one dish today … not one!”
Kitty’s lips tightened. “The day isn’t over, but I am aware of the change in schedule, Mr. Maxwell. However, certain measures were required to secure the grounds, and all instructors were needed for that task. But your complaint is noted.”
“Secure the grounds?” Darius’s eyes grew wide. “You think that nut Strange might show up here?”
“No. I don’t,” said Kitty. “And he’s not a nut. Although, I can’t for the life of me understand why he’d steal from the CCS. But that’s beside the point. Security spells aren’t just for keeping people out.”
Kitty’s words hit Sylvie. If you weren’t keeping people out, were you trying to keep them in?
Darius kicked his shoe against a step. It exposed its granite teeth and let out a growl.
“Stupid thing.” He hurled a mint at it. “Well, nuts or not, I still say this is what you get when you let people with the wrong sort of background in.”
Flora gripped the bowl tightly. “If you pass the test, you belong. Magic doesn’t care about pedigree, only talent.”
Darius’s eyes lingered on Sylvie. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
“Mr. Maxwell!” Kitty fixed him with a dangerous stare. “Wait for me at the top of the stairs!”
“Fine.” Darius turned and marched up.
“Hey! You all right?” Adara sidled up to Georgia, who was now chewing on a nail.
Her blue eyes glistened. “Fine. Come on.”
Sylvie watched as the two girls scattered their mints and climbed toward the open doors. Maybe it was Sylvie’s imagination, or perhaps she selfishly didn’t want to be the only Pip with troubles. But suddenly, Georgia didn’t seem fine.
Inside, the school was now eerily quiet. The footsteps, clanging pots, and whirring mixers she’d heard this morning were all noticeably missing. Sylvie looked around, hoping to spot an instructor in a tall toque, but the classrooms all stood empty.
“Where is everyone?” Big Shawn asked.
“It’ll all be back to normal in the morning,” said Kitty, not really answering the question. “That’s why we need to get you geared up and fitted. This way.”
They followed Kitty down a hall lined with ornate cakes in display cases.
There was a peacock cake with a tail made of dragée candies that looked like colorful pearls.
It reminded Sylvie of Darius, as it fanned its tail in a vibrant display.
Farther down, Sylvie spotted a cake draped in fondant.
It was shaped like a teapot and continuously whistled as steam poured from the top.
“Here we are. Everyone inside.” Kitty ushered them into a large room stacked with shelves of cooking tools and giant rolls of fabrics.
“Bonjour,” said a thickset woman. Her gray hair was done up in an extravagant pouf of ringlets.
Her lips were full and perfectly matched the pink of her billowing skirt.
She pulled a long measuring tape from the folds of fabric and pulled Georgia toward her.
“I am Madame Pelletier. I’ll be fitting you for your aprons. We’ll start with you.”
She stretched the measuring tape and wrapped it around Georgia. “Medium bust.”
Georgia’s cheeks flushed, but Madame Pelletier didn’t seem to notice. She lifted Georgia’s arms and climbed over her, like the ladies in Los Angeles did when they were dressing mannequins in the fancy window displays.
“Now for the outseam.” Madame Pelletier ran the tape down from Georgia’s waist to her ankle. “I’ll shorten the side ties, hem above the ankle … cotton twill fabric with an adjustable neck strap should do the trick. Well done, dear.” Madame Pelletier looked up. “Next!”
The closest Sylvie had ever come to a fitting was the day her parents bought her skateboard.
The guy at the store had measured her feet before choosing the width of the deck.
But this isn’t the same. Sylvie squeezed toward the back of the line and noticed Flora standing in a corner, lost in thought.
She’d seemed distracted since the moment she saw the wanted bulletin.
Whatever was going on, Sylvie wondered if it was somehow connected to August Strange.
“Next!” cried Madame Pelletier, making her way through the line. “Canvas apron, extra-large with a double stitch,” she trilled, sizing up Big Shawn.
Adara got textured cotton with a wide hem.
“Denim with a leather neck strap for added durability,” she said as she wrapped the tape around Darius.
Sylvie swallowed hard as Madame Pelletier stared at her. “Well, come on, dear. I don’t bite.”
Sylvie forced herself forward.
“Hmm …” Madame Pelletier lifted the tape. “Definitely small! In fact, I may have to take the hem up … three inches. No … better make it four.”
So humiliating!
Darius gave a snigger. “Part Scullery and part dwarf.”
Sylvie gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “You realize dwarves aren’t real. But in folklore, they’re highly skilled creatures. So thanks for the compliment!”
Darius stood there, mouth open, as he tried to come up with something clever to say. He glared at Sylvie. “Think you’re being funny, Jones? You shouldn’t even be here.”
Madame Pelletier gasped. The room grew quiet. Sylvie’s hands clenched into fists.
“That’s quite enough!” Kitty stepped forward. “Mr. Maxwell, please collect your tool kit and wait for me outside.”
“Fine by me.” Darius yanked a toolbox off the counter and strutted out.