Chapter 19 SIFT #2
Maggie pulled her eyes off the ground. “She reminded me of my family’s standing in the system … friend of magic.”
“I see.” Agnes paused. “Well, hopefully you told her that her father’s ranking system doesn’t count at Brindille.”
“I wish I had,” said Maggie. “But she caught me off guard.”
“What’s so bad about being called a friend of magic?” Georgia asked.
“It’s a backhanded compliment,” said Flora.
“You’re correct.” Agnes pressed a tissue to Sylvie’s lip. “Hmmm … a minor cut. I don’t think we need to bother poor Madame Lopez with this today. The term is used for Sages with what some might call insignificant jobs.”
Maggie nodded. “The word friend puts them adjacent to magic. It’s a subtle way of saying, ‘You may have earned your Blade, but you’re still not a real Sage.’”
“Oh.” Now, Sylvie understood why Godard had refused to implement Bass’s ranking pins at school.
“The fact that Belinda thinks she can get away with saying whatever she wants is infuriating,” said Flora. “She thinks she owns this place.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “She practically does. Every year, Bass gets all his alumni buddies to vote for her during the Commis Contest. She’s already won twice.”
Flora nodded. “If he really wants to clean things up, maybe he should start with his own house… . But thanks to Godard, winning this year won’t be so easy.”
So that’s why Godard changed the rules. Sylvie didn’t want to think about what might happen if her mom ended up with Belinda assisting her at the competition. She’d be as helpful as a swarm of fire ants.
Unfortunately, Sylvie would’ve bet her cookbook collection that they hadn’t heard the last from Belinda, or her dad, about the sudden change to the Commis Contest rules.
Agnes handed the platter of madeleines to Georgia. “Why don’t you put these on the buffet table for me. I’ll take Sylvie into the kitchen and seal up her lip.”
“Sure.” Georgia popped one into her mouth. “Delish! I’ll save you one, Sylvie.”
“Thanks,” said Sylvie. Though, she wasn’t sure how she’d manage to eat anything. With each passing second, her lip was feeling more and more like a pounded slab of beef.
Sylvie followed Agnes beyond the kitchen’s double doors.
There was a whirlwind of activity inside. Sauces were simmering on the stove. Baguettes flew in and out of the oven. Little white rounds of pearl sugar fell from spoons, landing like crowns on top of golden rounds of brioche.
“I’m just making some Tarte Tropézienne for Bass’s visit,” said Agnes, sliding the pans of brioche out of the way. “Sit here while I get something for your lip.”
Sylvie hopped onto the wooden workbench as Agnes rummaged through a freezer. “By the way, I heard about the macaron bake-off. Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” said Sylvie. “They definitely turned out better than the last time I made one of Fabre’s recipes.”
“The great Guy Fabre.” Agnes yanked a small ice cream container from the freezer.
“You’re … not a fan?” asked Sylvie.
Agnes waved a hand dismissively. “I knew him before he was a star, back when his face was covered in pimples and the other children teased him mercilessly… . You know he was a student here?” She pulled out a bowl and grabbed a purple-handled scooper.
“Yeah. I know,” said Sylvie. “My mom told me… . Plus, he’s listed in the Brindille school brochure.” The glossy picture taking up half a page makes him hard to miss.
Agnes nodded. “After the Golden Whisk, he became the most popular kid here… . Naturally, his ego grew as grand as the Eiffel Tower.”
Sylvie’s thoughts landed firmly on Julia’s cautioning. She was betrayed by a friend. “Do you think Fabre could’ve done it?”
“Done what?” Agnes scooped several creamy balls into a bowl.
“You know, sabotaged Flammé’s ingredients?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” She slid the bowl toward Sylvie. “Have some rhubarb sorbet. I added milk thistle. It’ll help your lip.”
Sylvie picked up the spoon. “Milk thistle?”
Agnes pointed to a bundle of large, prickly purple flowers that reminded Sylvie of artichokes. “I picked some up at Tidwick’s when I was replenishing our supplies for the Commis Contest. It’ll stop the bleeding and reduce the swelling… . It also makes a refreshing treat.”
Coolness draped over Sylvie’s mouth as she took a bite. The flavors of rust and salt were instantly replaced with a creamy sweetness.
“Now, what were we discussing? That’s right!
Guy Fabre.” Agnes continued. “I think he just knew how to make the most out of the opportunity fate handed him. Now, everyone adores him.” Agnes shook her head.
“They even like that eye patch he wears. We’re Sages, not pirates!
A ridiculous show of bravado if you ask me. ”
Agnes tapped her Blade against a sheet pan lined with sugar-crowned brioche. It lifted into the air like a magic carpet and floated toward the oven.
Ironically, the eye patch wasn’t for show.
Sylvie knew that for a fact. Her mom had told her it was connected to the accidents that happened after the Golden Whisk.
Naturally, Sylvie had tried prodding her for more details.
The most she’d gotten out of her mom was this.
The same day Sylvie got her scar, Fabre was sent a raspberry bombe laced with butcher’s-broom.
“But enough Fabre talk,” said Agnes, staring at Sylvie with a look of curiosity. “Madame Lopez said you came looking for me.”
“Yes.” Sylvie toyed with a strand of hair. She’d wanted to ask Agnes about Guy Fabre, but there was more … the spell that can break down obstacles.
The only real way Sylvie could protect her mom, and stop Bass, was to take away the power he was holding over their futures.
What if she was just a spoonful of sugar or cup of bone broth away from realizing her dream?
What if one simple recipe was all it took to remove the obstacles in her way?
She and her mom were in danger of losing everything.
Sylvie was now prepared to do whatever it would take to protect her family—even if that means not playing by the rules. Her mind was made up.