Chapter 16 The Clarity Consommé
The Clarity Consommé
SYLVIE SLIPPED INTO THE DINING HALL JUST BEFORE DINNER. The tables were still empty, except for a few teachers in a corner, munching on tortilla chips and sipping agua fresca.
Kitty’s stunning announcement was still running through Sylvie’s mind. Bass is coming to Brindille for the Commis Contest. This isn’t a coincidence. He wants Mom to lose All-Stars. Maybe a shady commis is the key to making that happen?
A cart stacked with dinner plates rolled past, pushed by an invisible force. Sylvie stared as it wedged itself firmly into a corner, readying for the line of hungry students that would soon swarm around it like locusts.
What is Bass up to? Sylvie racked her brain, trying to come up with an answer.
The wanted picture of August zipped across the scroll in the dining hall like a loose fly.
The CCS was obviously getting desperate.
They’d increased the reward to fifteen gallons liquid gold.
Sylvie hoped that wouldn’t be enough to tip the scales in their favor.
The picture faded as a new announcement shimmered to life.
2 DAYS 6 HOURS AND 5 SECONDS UNTIL brINDILLE’S COMMIS CONTEST!
3 DAYS 1 HOUR AND 5 SECONDS UNTIL THE GOLDEN WHISK!
Sylvie was running out of time. She had to figure out Bass’s next move, fast.
Platters of fragrant tamales floated out of the kitchen, swaddled in corn husks and banana leaves. She eyed them with curiosity. Every chef had their own style of cooking. Sylvie had only known Agnes for a few days, but this didn’t seem like hers.
She grabbed a tamale and gave it a whiff. Chicken in mole? Maybe it’s a Mexican theme night, thought Sylvie, taking a bite.
Sylvie peeled back more of the husk as she contemplated what to do next. Digging up information on Fabre would have to wait. First, she needed to get more information about Bass’s visit. But how and from who?
“He actually asked her to make a full Texas barbecue for lunch,” said one of the teachers.
“But that’ll take nearly a whole day of smoking brisket,” said the other instructor, shaking his head. “I suppose she could add some magic ironwood … speed things up. Still, with everything going on for the Commis Contest, it’s too much.”
Sylvie ignored them. As a mentor, maybe Flora would have some information? But could she trust Flora? Sylvie wasn’t sure anymore. Besides, it was unlikely that they’d give a student a detailed timeline of the president’s visit, even a mentor.
“Poor Agnes,” said the first teacher, dipping a chip in salsa. “The CCS really threw her for a loop.”
Sylvie’s ears perked up.
The other one nodded. “Her hands are already full. Now, she has to factor in special meals for Bass and his team.”
Sylvie hustled toward the double doors connecting the dining hall to Agnes’s kitchen. If she’s making special meals for Bass, that means coordinating menus and itineraries. She’ll have his schedule!
Zip!
The wanted poster of August flew back into view. Sylvie turned rigid. This one was different. It took her mind a moment to catch up with her eyes.
WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE! ISN’T IT TIME WE STOPPED AND ASKED, WHY?
AUGUST STRANGE KNOWS THE TRUTH… . THE APPLE OF DISCORD HAS BLOOMED.
THE CCS IS COVERING IT UP WITH LIES!
The teachers in the corner stared at the scroll.
“The Apple … do you think it’s true?” one asked.
“If it is, you know what this means,” said the other.
They dropped their chips and raced out the door.
Sylvie wasn’t sure what it meant. But one thing was certain. This announcement wasn’t just a hack. It was an act of war. The CCS would retaliate. Time was running out, for everyone.
Sylvie burst into the kitchen.
“Hello? Agnes? It’s Sylvie.”
The sound of a pan crashing to the ground echoed out.
“Agnes?” Sylvie followed the noise. “I need to talk to you.”
The speed racks were now overflowing with pans of fluffy tortillas and chafing dishes full of cheesy enchiladas.
Urgent footsteps moved across the room, but no one answered.
“Hello?”
Thunk!
A door somewhere in the back shut.
Sylvie stopped short. The glint of something lying beneath an overturned sheet pan caught her eye. A mentor badge. Sylvie picked it up and examined it. A name was etched into the backside, just below the hook and needle: FLORA JACKSON.
Sylvie tried to make sense of it. She was here.
“Hello? Flora?” Sylvie called, hoping she’d suddenly appear with a simple explanation.
But the kitchen remained quiet. Why run and hide?
Because whatever she’s up to, she didn’t want anyone to know about it, thought Sylvie, answering her own question.
Sylvie tucked the badge into her pocket.
Well, that’s too bad, because I’m going to confront her, Sylvie decided.
The air around Sylvie suddenly grew fragrant. Parsley. Onion. Carrots. Peppercorns. This is more like Agnes’s cooking. Sylvie spotted a stock pot on the nearby stove. A heady steam floated out.
A cookbook was open next to it. Sylvie brushed a finger across the matte cream cover dotted with red fleur-de-lis. Sylvie knew this cookbook. It was her favorite: Mastering the Art of Magical Cooking.
Sylvie eyed the open recipe. Clarity Consommé. She’d never made consommé, but she knew what it was. Broth that was slowly cooked and strained, until nothing but a rich, crystal-clear soup was left.
Sylvie stared into the pot. This was an incredibly powerful spell, designed to give murky situations more transparency. Is this what Flora was after? Just like the broth simmering inside, an idea was churning in Sylvie.
This could help me figure things out.
Sylvie peered over her shoulder. She was still alone.
Bubbles floated toward the glossy surface as Sylvie stared into the consommé. She gave her eyes a rub.
Pictures were gathering in the bubbles, like fat droplets of rain filling storm clouds. People. Places. Some familiar, some Sylvie had never seen before. A gentle voice whispered out of the stock pot. Do you seek an answer true?
Sylvie dared to nod.
Then, clarified broth is the perfect brew.
It will help you shed new light,
And bring forth the vision that is right.
A force pressed itself against her. Questions raced through Sylvie’s mind. She slid her backpack to the ground and picked up a spoon. I need this. Warm broth brushed across her lips.
The world around Sylvie immediately started to shake. Blue peg boards dotted with rows of copper pots shot out of the walls. Sylvie hopped out of the way as a butcher block countertop rose out of the floor like a submarine. The stove buckled, twisting into a dining table.
Sylvie stared as the buttery gold tablecloth lifted itself up.
It bunched together, forming rivulets of fabric.
The tasseled edges twisted and turned until they settled into a bouquet of soft brown curls.
The linen had transformed into a towering woman.
The woman cast an unhappy glance at Sylvie.
“I only had one appointment on the books for today, and they’ve already left. ”
“You mean Flora Jackson,” blurted Sylvie.
“Who?” asked the woman, scratching at her brown curls. “Did you, or this Flora, forget to make a reservation?”
“Err, no … I mean, yes.” Sylvie craned her neck, trying to meet the woman’s gaze. It’s her! I can’t believe it’s her.
The kitchen that had risen out of the ground now hummed with sounds. A boiling pot. A whirring mixer. An odd buzz that reminded Sylvie of a swarm of insects.
“Aside from the required appointment, only fourth-year students are allowed to make Clarity Consommé.” The woman’s voice rang out like a peal of bells. She raised a buttery brow at Sylvie. “You look much too young.”
Sylvie stretched her neck, trying to make herself appear larger. “I’m here on my own, not as part of a class.”
The woman gave a satisfied nod. “That’s what I thought. What’s your name?”
“S-Sylvie Jones.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“J-Julia Child.”
“In the flesh … or at least, the fabric,” hooted the woman.
Sylvie pinched herself. She’d never imagined meeting Julia Child, even if it was just a fabric form.
Most kids her age probably didn’t even know who Julia Child was.
But she was Sylvie’s idol. Julia was an icon, responsible for bringing French cuisine to America.
During her life (which ended long before Sylvie was born), she’d written nearly twenty cookbooks and hosted a dozen television shows.
She had pioneered the way for female chefs. This is beyond cool and intimidating.
“Well, I don’t know how you got your hands on my recipe. But I’m afraid you’ll have to leave as soon as the effects of the consommé wear off.” Julia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t be too long. I have guests coming for dinner, and the honey has gotten loose again.”
The what? A sticky gob dripped down from the ceiling, landing squarely on Sylvie’s forehead.
“Oh, dear, you see what I’m dealing with today.” Tablecloth Julia handed Sylvie a napkin. “My apologies.”
“Thanks.” Sylvie dabbed at her forehead, but the napkin just stuck to it, as if it had been superglued.
“My honey is so much better than the stuff sitting in jars, but it does require work to harvest. Some might call it tedious to put so much time into one little thing. But I detest spells that have been boiled down to their essence.”
“Uh, yeah. Me too.” Sylvie smiled. “Listen. I know you’re busy, but I really need your help. If you could just tell me about Jack Bass and the Golden Whisk.”
“The cooking competition?”
Sylvie nodded.
“Hmph!” Julia scooped up a handful of dough, pulling and stretching until she’d transformed it into a blossom. “That’s what everyone wants to know about this week. But I refuse to use my skills for such utter nonsense. Food is meant to bring people together, not tear them apart.”
The hum in the air grew louder.