Chapter 12 When Your Mise en Place Is a Bust #2
It took Sylvie a moment to place them… .
That’s Jack Bass and August Strange! They were both younger, but now it was unmistakable.
August’s piercing eyes. Bass’s massive frame and hat.
Sylvie’s mind was spinning. They both worked for the CCS?
But more than that, they were a team. Now, Bass wanted August’s head served to him on a platter.
Once upon a time, they must’ve trusted each other, thought Sylvie.
But trust was like holding a writhing snake.
There’s always a chance you’ll get bitten.
“This is a mistake,” said Bass.
“No. It’s the right call,” said August firmly. “There’s no real proof.”
Bass shook his head. “But—”
Monsieur Treusso raised a hand to silence him.
“I’m ready to cast my vote. The Council of Culinary Sages is always in pursuit of excellence and honesty…
. It appears we have no solid evidence connecting Mrs. Jones, or anyone on Team USA, to the sabotaged ingredients.
Therefore, they should not be expelled from the competition. ”
Bass’s face turned red as he glared at August.
If Sylvie had to guess, this was the moment the fangs had sunk in, seeping poison into their relationship.
The woman who was dressed like an eggplant scoffed. “I say Team USA is still to blame. They should’ve been more careful with their ingredients. I vote to disqualify them.”
Flammé nodded in agreement.
One by one, each judge cast their vote, until finally, the count was tied. Sylvie wasn’t sure who looked more miserable, her mom or Flammé.
Balthazar LeGrande heaved himself up. “France has captured the top prize almost every year since the competition began.” He threw an unhappy glance at Fernand. “This year shouldn’t have been any different. But Team France failed. Your spell went terribly wrong.”
“Through no fault of our own,” Flammé said.
“No fault?” The words seemed to make Balthazar bristle. “You should’ve checked your ingredients more closely. Now you want to blame someone else for your failure. There’s no proof—”
“What about the red tape?” asked Flammé.
Balthazar stared unhappily at them. “It’s not enough.”
Flammé now had the look of someone sliding off the edge of a cliff. “That … p-plus the butcher’s-broom. They can’t both be coincidences. It’s clear Abby did this to win!”
“You should’ve paid closer attention to your ingredients,” said Balthazar. “When your mise en place is a bust, you pay the price. I vote for Team USA to remain in the competition.”
“Yes!” Guy Fabre threw a fist in the air.
Sylvie’s eyes narrowed. The silver-and-green spine of a book poked out of his pocket.
The author’s name glistened in the lights: Eglantine Easton.
That’s the book I looked at in the library … Nectar to Ambrosia: A History of Magical Ingredients. Sylvie’s body turned stiff. It explains all about butcher’s-broom.
Gideon’s words floated back. There’s more to Guy Fabre than meets the eye.
The win at the Golden Whisk had helped catapult Guy to stardom. Sylvie always believed her mom was innocent, but now she understood why so many people doubted it. This was no accident. Someone wanted my mom to take the fall. Now, Sylvie thought she might know who.
“I’ll never forgive you for this!” Fernand’s words jolted Sylvie from her thoughts. His hands clenched into fists as he glared at his father.
“You’re done”—Balthazar’s voice boiled with fury—“both of you.”
“No!” Flammé wailed. “I’ve dedicated years of my life to winning, practicing, perfecting every spell.”
Every moment that had ever caused Flammé pain now seemed to be crushing her. Gone was the sparkle in her eyes. In its place was something fiery … something beyond anger. Revenge.
“My spell was by far the most difficult. I would’ve won if someone hadn’t tampered with my ingredients … or if you all hadn’t judged me so harshly.” Flammé glared at Sylvie’s mom. “You think you’ve gotten away with this, but you haven’t. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
The past week Sylvie had been swimming in a sea of emotions: Hope when she’d gotten her CCS letter, confusion when she’d seen the Apple of Discord, anger when she’d read Bass’s confidential memo.
She’d gotten a raw deal. But now, she realized none of them had gotten what they deserved … even Josephine Flammé.
The colorful lights of the arena suddenly began to fade. Jack Bass and August Strange grew hazy. Sylvie fought against it, but the scent of caramelized onions was already returning. She stole a final glimpse at Guy Fabre. A satisfied smile spread across his face. Then, Godard’s memory stopped.
Once again, Sylvie was sitting in a purple velvet chair, surrounded by books and peculiar plants. She mustered up the courage to ask the question she’d been wondering about. “The two CCS agents … I recognized them. It was Jack Bass and August Strange… . They were partners?”
“Yes. They were even friends, if you can believe it.” Godard peered intently at her. “But how did you recognize August Strange?”
“Oh, well.” Sylvie felt her cheeks flush. “It was the wanted poster in the library yesterday. I remembered the eyes.” Sylvie would tell Godard the truth once she gave her the confidential memo.
“The eyes? Hmm …” Godard tapped a finger against her desk. She seemed to be considering something.
Sylvie held her breath and didn’t exhale until Godard continued.
“Everything changed after the Golden Whisk. New policies were put in place to prevent another incident. There were rules and regulations about who could enter the competition. Suddenly, certain Sages were cut out. If you ask me, that’s when the ranking system really started. ”
Sylvie wanted to ask her more, but Godard continued.
“The CCS even got involved in our Commis Contest. Now, the selection of the winner involves …”—her lips turned tight—“oversight.”
Until now, Sylvie hadn’t realized the CCS’s authority stretched to Brindille’s Commis Contest. It didn’t seem right. Like the wolf looking after the henhouse.
“After Paris, August and Jack transferred to separate departments. But, until a few days ago, they both still worked for the CCS.”
Both. At least now, Sylvie understood how August had managed to steal the Apple of Discord and take the secret memo. But that still didn’t explain why the Apple had her name on it.
“Of course, nothing was ever the same between them,” finished Godard.
“So, Bass still thinks my mom cheated and Flammé’s team deserved to win,” said Sylvie.
The lines on Godard’s face turned heavy.
“He’s never said it so plainly, especially since becoming president, but yes, I suspect so.
The CCS even put up a generous reward for information that could lead to an arrest. It’s still on offer today, but no one has ever come forward.
I suppose Bass thinks he’s finally righting a wrong…
. That’s why your mom needs to show the world that she can compete and win without any tampering or controversy.
If she doesn’t … rumors are like shadows, they’re not easy to shake off. ”
Sylvie nodded. Godard was half right. Rumors weren’t easy to shake off, but her mom couldn’t redeem herself by winning All-Stars.
The only way to truly prove she was innocent was to track down the person who’d really swapped the gilead buds with butcher’s-broom.
Now, thanks to Godard’s memory, Sylvie thought she knew where to start looking: Guy Fabre.
“Now, I trust you won’t try to sneak into the school again,” said Madame Godard. “The last thing your mom needs to hear is that you’ve been poisoned by a belligerent staircase.”
“I won’t break in again… . But just so you know, I don’t think the stairs wanted to bite me,” said Sylvie, recalling how the mouth on the final step had opened wide and then suddenly snapped shut. “Luckily, when I fell and hit my shin, I missed the teeth.”
Madame Godard smiled. “Yes. That was lucky. Still, one’s luck can sometimes run out.”
“Yes,” said Sylvie. Although something now told her luck had nothing to do with it. A spell, thought Sylvie, watching Godard’s face.
Madame Godard eyed the clock on her desk. “I’m afraid our little discussion has made you late for class.” She pulled out a piece of paper and jotted something down and handed the folded slip to Sylvie. “Give this note to Instructor Bergen. It explains you were with me.”
Sylvie stared at the piece of paper. “Bergen? As in Boris Bergen … my mom’s old teammate?”
“Yes. He’s a teacher here now.”
Sylvie’s face grew warm. “What about Instructor Gideon? Why isn’t she teaching us today?”
“Because you’ll be cooking today… . Is there a problem?”
“No,” said Sylvie, pasting on a smile.
She’d known Boris worked for the school, but she didn’t realize he’d be her instructor.
The accusations at the Golden Whisk had dealt him a heavy blow.
Boris has plenty of reasons to be bitter, her mom once said.
The same day I was sent the muffins, he was sent a box of bursting bonbons laced with butcher’s-broom. It took his leg and his Blade.
For reasons no one seemed to understand, the magic in that spell only worked one time. If something happened to your Blade, that was the end of your magical cooking career. Sylvie couldn’t help but find it ironic. Now, he’s here, helping others get their Blade.
Sylvie’s mind wandered back to the Golden Whisk. Everything with Bass went back to that moment. Perhaps that’s why the Apple of Discord had her name on it? If Sylvie could solve the mystery, maybe she could fix it all?
Unfortunately, the only clue she had was a book in an old memory. That wasn’t proof that Fabre did something wrong. After all, knowledge wasn’t a crime. The question was, What did Guy Fabre do with the knowledge? Sylvie wasn’t sure how, but she was going to find the answer.