Chapter 9 Where Recipe Meets Magic #2
Now wasn’t the time to find out.
Sylvie set off across the garden. She still had no clue how she was going to find a squill.
Look for soft, exposed dirt, she told herself, crossing off the rocky area where patches of wolfsbane and swaying cobra lilies were growing.
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” said a boy wearing a name tag that said VIHAAN. “I mean, deciding if you should put bay leaf or lime leaf into a pot of chicken soup, that’s intuition. But hunting down a magical ingredient …” He turned to Sylvie. “What happens if we don’t find anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Sylvie. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one feeling nervous.
In the diner, she’d trusted her gut. She’d let it guide her. That’s how she’d known to use the crimson knotroot at the end, like vanilla. But this was different. At least in the diner she’d had options. Now, she was in the dark.
Her palms turned clammy.
Vihaan suddenly raced off. Sylvie wasn’t sure if he’d had an idea, or if he was going to puke in a bush.
There has to be a solution. Sylvie spotted a soft plot where rows of dandelions, butterwort, and purple shiso were growing.
Maybe there?
Sylvie frowned. Even if she had a colony of gophers helping her, it would take all night to dig it up. She had an hour. Correction, less than an hour.
Her hand turned tacky. Sylvie looked down at the trowel clutched tightly in her grip. Sweat wasn’t normally sticky.
Unless …
Sylvie examined the shovel closely.
Of course!
This exercise wasn’t just about using your intuition. It’s about recognizing spells. The trowel wasn’t made of wood and steel. It was made of gum paste. That’s why her sweat was making it sticky.
Gideon’s words drifted back. Each component feeds off the other.
If Sylvie’s hunch was right, the spell in the gum paste was connected to the squill. It would lead her to the bulb. She just had to let it guide her.
Sylvie moved toward the patch of shiso. She spotted Vihaan roaming through a bog of butterwort.
She got down on her knees and ran the trowel across the dirt.
Feel for it, she reminded herself.
A tiny buzz reverberated up her fingers. This was probably how Gideon knew which table had been made of chocolate and which one was stone.
She sensed the magic.
Leaves crunched nearby. Sylvie spotted Georgia crouching in the soft soil near a patch of dandelions.
She must’ve figured it out too.
Sylvie quickly moved her trowel across several mounds of mulch. She didn’t know how many squills Instructor Gideon had planted in the herbs and flowers, but with Georgia and Vihaan working close by, she needed to hurry.
A tiny spark erupted from the tip of her shovel.
Yes!
She shoved it into the dirt and felt it stop against something firm.
Sylvie pressed down, pushing more earth out of place. A second later, a grubby bulb popped out.
Got you!
“Hey, give that back!” someone shouted.
Sylvie turned and spotted Vihaan, his hands covered in mud, glowering at Darius.
“That’s my squill. I found it.”
“Then I guess it’ll be your word against mine,” said Darius smugly.
“No, it won’t be,” said Georgia, who was also clutching a squill. “I saw Vihaan dig it up.”
“You didn’t see anything,” said Darius, glaring at her. “Not unless you want everyone here to know your dirty little secret.”
Georgia’s cheeks flushed red.
Sylvie already knew one of Georgia’s secrets.
She has a phone. But this seemed like something more.
A phone wasn’t dirty, nor was it the sort of thing that would make Georgia blush.
Maybe the nervous nail-biting wasn’t about a crush after all.
Darius knows something. Even if Georgia could be a bit of a know-it-all, Darius was worse. He was a bully. Sylvie hated bullies.
“Is something the matter?” Instructor Gideon materialized. “I heard shouting.”
“Darius stole my squill,” said Vihaan.
“I didn’t,” said Darius, painting on a look of shock. “We were both digging. Then I pulled it up, and he started yelling.”
“That’s a lie!” Vihaan turned to Georgia. “You saw what happened, tell her.”
Darius gritted his teeth. “Think carefully about your answer.”
Georgia suddenly looked queasy.
Sylvie put down her shovel.
“Vihaan is telling the truth,” she blurted. Maybe Sylvie hadn’t seen what happened, but she’d heard enough to know. “Vihaan dug it up.”
Darius shot her a dangerous look. “You can’t actually believe someone like her.”
“I don’t see why she’d lie,” said Gideon. “But sometimes facts speak for themselves.” She pointed to Darius’s shovel. “Your trowel and hands are clean. So please explain how you dug up a muddy squill.”
“I … ummm.” Darius gulped at the air.
“Hand it over to Vihaan,” said Gideon.
“But—” started Darius.
Gideon raised a hand. “Rather than wasting time trying to change my mind, I’d keep looking.”
“Fine.” Darius shoved the muddy bulb at Vihaan and stomped off.
Gideon turned back to them. “Since you three have completed the assignment, you can help me tidy up.”
Sylvie spent the next fifteen minutes tucking marshmallow roots back into planters, while Georgia dried balls of sea moss, and Vihaan carted the puntarelle up to the kitchen.
By the time the assignment was over, only Darius and a girl who perpetually had the hiccups hadn’t found a squill.
Gideon placed the last shovel back into the crate. “If you were unsuccessful with the assignment, come speak to me about some additional sensory work after class.”
Georgia moved past the two tables and planted herself nearby. Her eyes flashed over at Sylvie.
Sylvie got the feeling Georgia wanted to say something, but before she got the chance, Gideon cut in.
“Sylvie. Please take the box of shovels into the greenhouse and place them on my desk.”
Sylvie glanced sidelong at Georgia, then picked up the crate. “Sure.”
Inside the greenhouse, the air was thick with dirt and must. Sylvie eyed a row of garden markers, wedged in soil like tiny tombstones: ghost orchids, witches’ butter, cockscomb, doll’s eyes.
The round white blooms on the doll’s eyes plants gazed up at her.
Creepy, thought Sylvie, scurrying ahead.
She maneuvered past a table of germinating muskmelons soaking in sponges and headed toward Gideon’s desk.
Mason jars full of seeds and lingering mugs of tea littered the space. Sylvie carefully pushed several cups out of the way so they wouldn’t tip over, then set the crate down.
A flicker of color caught her eye. Tucked behind one of the mugs was a tiny scroll with parchment that looked like a patchwork of rainbow-hued silks.
Sylvie had never seen a scroll made of anything other than rice paper.
The latest edition of the Blossom Brigade shimmered across it.
Her eyes narrowed as she scooped up the scroll. Not silk … flower petals.
The opening story pulled Sylvie’s focus from the quilted blooms.
THEFT AT TIDWICK’S CREATES NEW CHALLENGES
FARMERS HAVE BEEN LEFT SCRATCHING THEIR HEADS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LARGE QUANTITIES OF SKULLCAP.
“SUPPLIES WILL BE RUNNING SHORT FOR SOME TIME,” SAID IVY BELROSE, SPOKESPERSON FOR THE FATAL FLOWERS GUILD.
“WITH GOLDEN WHISK ALL-STARS JUST AROUND THE CORNER, DEMAND FOR FLORAS USED IN SPELLS IS AT AN ALL-TIME HIGH. FOR THIS REASON, WE ARE NOW WORKING CLOSELY WITH THE CCS TO SEE IF WE CAN LIMIT PURCHASES, STRETCHING SUPPLIES UNTIL AFTER THE COMPETITION.”
As Sylvie continued to read, the scroll shifted, sliding the story up.
SADLY, SOME SAGES HAVE EXACERBATED THIS PROBLEM. “WHEN YOU HAVE SOMEONE AS WILDLY FAMOUS AS GUY FAbrE SCOOPING UP BAGS OF SKULLCAP FOR PERSONAL USE, IT SETS A BAD EXAMPLE,” CONTINUED MS. BELROSE.
Guy Fabre wasn’t just a world-famous Sage.
He’d also been her mom’s assistant at the Golden Whisk.
Sylvie had met him once. He’d stopped by her eighth birthday party.
Five minutes of pictures, one autographed cookbook, and a pat on the head.
Sylvie supposed it was nice. Though it had all felt disappointing, like biting into a stale cupcake.
The story kept moving.
WHEN ASKED TO COMMENT, FAbrE’S PUBLICIST ISSUED THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT: “MR. FAbrE TAKES THIS MATTER SERIOUSLY AND DID NOT ACQUIRE THE SKULLCAP FOR PERSONAL USE. HE HAS A PRODUCT LINE, AND THESE INGREDIENTS ARE NECESSARY TO ENSURE THAT EVERY BOX CONTAINS BOTH SAFE AND EFFECTIVE SPELLS.”
SINCE ISSUING THIS STATEMENT, THE BLOSSOM brIGADE HAS LOOKED INTO THE INGREDIENTS IN EACH OF MR. FAbrE’S PRODUCTS. WE WERE UNABLE TO FIND ANY THAT CONTAINED SKULLCAP.
The final sentence left Sylvie feeling queasy. Something Godard had written last week in a letter to her mom drifted back.
I spoke to Fabre and told him you were entering All-Stars. It feels a bit like a chess match now, with Fabre working the board like a rook.
Sylvie spent her free time skateboarding and cooking. So she didn’t know much about chess. But aren’t rooks tactical pieces?
Question was, which side was Fabre playing on?
“Sylvie?”
She spun around.
Instructor Gideon was standing behind her.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. I saw …” She wasn’t sure what to say. “I spotted your scroll and was curious.”
“I understand.” Gideon plucked the scroll from Sylvie. “With your family under the knife, I’d imagine anything connected to the Golden Whisk would interest you.”
“It’s not just that.” Sylvie glanced at the story. “They’re saying Fabre bought a bunch of skullcap and lied about its use. Why would he do that?”
Gideon seemed to contemplate the question. “That I can’t tell you… . But I do know there’s more to Guy Fabre than meets the eye.”
Sylvie wanted to ask more, but Gideon cut her off.
“However, that’s a discussion for another day. It’s time to head back to the dorms.” She pulled open a drawer and tossed the scroll inside.
Sylvie stared after it. But like a bulb buried in the ground, it vanished.