Chapter 17 Devious Is Sneaking Raisins into a Chocolate Chip Cookie #2
This made Sylvie sick. Online, nasty comments were like apples. Pluck one, and an entire bushel came cascading down. She took a deep breath and forced her eyes back onto the screen.
MyBladeRocks: @GoldenWonder @TeamFranceFan Why is everyone picking on Abby Jones? Fame is such a fickle friend. Fabre is a judge, but no one seems to be upset about that. He got all the glory and none of the blame, claiming he didn’t even know what butcher’s-broom could do. #SmellsFishy
Sylvie stared at the comment. Fabre knew what butcher’s-broom could do, he had to. She’d seen the book with that information in his pocket. Another lie to cover his tracks? Sylvie kept scrolling.
GoldenWonder: @TeamFranceFan I’m super stoked to see Fabre on the other side of the judges’ table this year.
I just found this old pamphlet in my closet from the year he was a commis.
He was the only good thing that came out of that team.
I still can’t believe Bass gave Abby Jones another chance. He’s got a big heart.
Yeah right! Sylvie enlarged the blurry image of the pamphlet. She could make out the team names, along with the list of judges. Sylvie squinted; listed under special guests was a familiar name: Eglantine Easton, author of From Nectar to Ambrosia.
She was there? Sylvie kept scrolling through the conversation, hoping to find another clue. Her skin turned prickly. Someone new had joined the chat. Not only were their words exceptionally toxic, but their name was familiar.
CamouflagedOyster: @GoldenWonder @TeamFranceFan Abby Jones messed with another team’s recipe to get a leg up. She and her kid both deserve what they’re getting. Like mother like daughter. But don’t worry. They’ll both be gone soon enough. Anyone else feeling relieved?
Sylvie let the glow of the screen die. Two sensations were creeping over her.
One was disgust. How can people be so mean?
The other feeling was a knot in her stomach, tight as a snake gourd winding its way around her.
She knew who CamouflagedOyster was. In fact, she’d seen her typing just yesterday, in the library … Ms. Honeycut!
Sylvie stepped outside.
Georgia stood there, eyeing the hallway. “So, did you find anything?”
“Yes. Several things … including”—Sylvie lowered her voice—“Bass’s mole.” She pulled Georgia back into the room and tapped on the phone. “Look at this.”
Georgia stared at the glowing comment. “CamouflagedOyster?”
Sylvie nodded. “That’s Ms. Honeycut’s handle on Sagebook. I saw her using it in the library… . Now, she’s telling everyone they’ll be gone soon enough. How could she be so certain?”
Georgia gasped. “Because she knows what Bass is up to!”
“Exactly!” said Sylvie.
“That two-faced traitor! I knew I didn’t like Ms. Honeycut.” Georgia chewed on the tip of a nail. “We’ve really crawled into the snake hole. Haven’t we?”
“It definitely looks that way,” said Sylvie.
“We have to tell Godard!”
Sylvie stared at the phone. “But if we tell her, she’s going to want to know how we found out… . You could get into serious trouble.”
“You’re right. But we can’t keep this to ourselves… . It’s too important.” Georgia frowned. “We went looking for information about Guy Fabre but ended up with the popsicle position.”
Sylvie glanced over. “The what? Seriously, sometimes I need a translation app to figure out what you’re saying.”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “Popsicles were invented by a kid who left a glass of juice out in the freezing cold. The whole thing came about because of dumb luck.”
“An accident?”
Georgia nodded. “Just like you discovering Ms. Honeycut is Bass’s spy… . So, what are you going to do?”
Sylvie stared at the stack of magazines next to Georgia’s bed. An idea was forming. “I need to warn my mom about Fabre and the Vindicti-au-vent. Then, we’re going to cut-and-paste together an anonymous letter and deliver it to Godard.”
Georgia grabbed several magazines and handed her phone back to Sylvie. “You can call your mom while I get cutting.”
Sylvie shook her head. “I already tried. She’s not picking up, and I need her to know what’s going on now.” She rummaged through her backpack and fished out a box.
Georgia stared at the object and read the inscription. “Chenery’s Communication Cwtch. Third Generation. Lighter. Faster. Durable. The perfect way to connect. What is that thing?”
Sylvie ripped open the top and pulled out the small clear ball nestled inside. “Isomalt and a dash of laqueum serum. They’re used to capture and store things. Mostly messages. But a good one can hold more than words—a prized recipe, sometimes even people.”
Georgia looked alarmed. “People? Is that legal?”
Sylvie shrugged. “It probably shouldn’t be, but don’t worry, Chenery’s specializes in communication. So there’s no way one of us will get sucked inside.”
“I suppose that’s reassuring,” said Georgia, taking a step back.
Sylvie eyed the instructions. She’d seen her mom use a cwtch before, but she’d never actually sent a message this way.
Chenery’s, communication at your fingertips! (Good for one use only.)
Speak clearly and slowly. We are not responsible for messages lost due to garbled or rapid speech.
Once your message is complete, press the small button on top to seal your voice inside.
State the recipient’s name and address. Once the cwtch begins to spin, let go.
To retrieve message, break open.
Sylvie cleared her throat and composed her thoughts. “Mom. It’s an emergency. Someone is planning to release a Vindicti-au-vent at the competition. You’re probably wondering how I know this. Well, don’t be mad, or at least not too mad. I swiped a bit of Clarity Consommé.”
Sylvie could already hear her mom scolding her. Irresponsible! Dangerous!
“Anyway, I know what you’re going to say, and you can lecture me later.
But it’s going to happen. Also, the person responsible may be an old friend—at least that’s what Julia said.
” Sylvie hesitated. “I think it might be Guy Fabre. He never told anyone, but he had a copy of Eglantine Easton’s book with him during the competition.
I saw it in Godard’s memory. So, watch your back! ”
Sylvie pressed the button on top, sealing her message inside. The ball started to spin. Sylvie recited the address.
“Abby Jones. The Golden Whisk. Paris, France. 18th Arrondissement.”
The cwtch lifted into the air and drifted past them, bobbing like a dandelion in the wind.
Georgia paused to stare at it, scissors in hand.
Whoosh! The cwtch hurtled toward the window. Sylvie watched it vanish from sight, carrying her hopes and fears as if they were light as a feather.
She turned to Georgia. “Now that I’ve warned my mom, we need to focus on getting the anonymous letter to Godard before Bass arrives.”
Maybe Sylvie didn’t have the power to stop Bass, yet. But thanks to the information she’d uncovered, she could pull his legs out from under him. All she needed to do was expose Brindille’s rat.