Chapter 22 Stuck Between a Rock and a Jar of Pickle Dust
Stuck Between a Rock and a Jar of Pickle Dust
IT WAS TRUE THAT ANYONE WORKING FOR THE CCS HAD MAD cooking skills.
But even then, there was a pecking order.
Management, like Bass, wielded the most power.
Next came Inspectors. It was their job to sniff out blossoming talent and dole out glamorous awards.
They were a mixed bag. Loved by some, hated by others. Then, there were—
“Agents,” whispered Flora. “Everyone—act casual but watch your backs.”
“Why?” asked Georgia, staring at the apron-clad men and women in confusion.
“Also don’t stare,” said Maggie, through gritted teeth. “They may look harmless, but it’s their job to hunt down forbidden recipes and clean up spells gone bad. They get the offal.”
Georgia scratched her head. “Awful?”
“Not that kind of awful,” said Sylvie. “The bits of guts and gore that no one else wants. If they’re here, it means Bass is looking for trouble.”
“Oh!” Georgia glanced at them nervously.
If they realize what I’m up to … Sylvie stole a peek. They were like thirsty mosquitos, dressed in matching canvas aprons. Beads of sweat formed on her temples. I’m done.
Jack Bass’s voice had now dropped to a whisper.
Sylvie moved closer and pretended to examine one of the brass scales on the desk behind them.
“Changes like this have to be run by the council.” Bass loomed over Godard. “You know we don’t have time for that.”
“Actually, Monsieur President, the rule you’re citing does not apply here.”
Godard smiled politely, and yet, there was something dangerous in her gaze. Her eyes no longer bore the look of placid waters. Beyond her dark lashes, storm clouds were brewing.
“You see, rules that affect the entire school body must be run past the CCS. But this change will only affect students competing in the Commis Contest. Therefore, it falls under the ruling of Brindille’s head, which is me.”
Bass’s cheeks turned red. “Now you listen—”
“No. My decision is final. No alumni voting this year,” said Godard. “Now, I would hope to have you embrace it. After all, there have been whispers that children with parents of influence have an unfair advantage. We can’t have that. Can we?”
Bass opened and closed his mouth like a fish gulping down water.
“Of course we can’t. I know how important a good, clean competition is to you.
Besides, with Strange a wanted man, and the rice paper scrolls full of rumors about what’s really going on at the CCS, you have a full plate.
” The malice in Godard’s voice grew thick.
“So, consider the optics. Now, if you’ll excuse me.
Today is a big day, and we still have preparations that require my attention. ”
Bass stared after her with the look of a constipated hippopotamus.
Sylvie quickly turned back toward her group. Flora, Maggie, and Georgia were chatting about the Golden Whisk.
This is good, thought Sylvie. Bass tried to turn the tide and failed. Things were looking up. Of course, that didn’t mean Sylvie was out of the woods. She still had an ingredient to find and liberate.
“Don’t get too excited yet,” said Maggie. “You still have to win the Commis Contest before you get to the Golden Whisk. So, is your recipe ready?”
“What?” Sylvie stared at her.
Maggie pointed to Flora. “I was asking about her recipe for the Commis Contest.”
“Oh right.” Sylvie scanned the room. “Didn’t you say you’ve been working on it for six months?”
“Yup!” Flora smiled. “It’s finally come together quite nicely.”
“Nice? It’s brilliant!” Maggie lowered her voice. “When they see your spell—”
“Shh!” Flora tilted her head toward the far wall.
There was Belinda, arms folded, scowling in their direction. Sylvie eyed the jars on either side of Belinda. BURSTING BUTTER BEANS. CANDYTUFT BLOSSOMS.
Agnes had already told her that everything was stored in alphabetical order. Which means the woad is on the opposite wall.
Sylvie rotated like the hands on a clock. At three, there was a female CCS agent. Her green eyes turned sharp as she questioned a group of kids. Behind her, a bright red and emerald feather blew sparks into a jar labeled GALLUS PLUMES.
“Impressive. Isn’t it?” said Flora, who must’ve noticed Sylvie staring.
“Yeah,” said Sylvie, trying to focus.
“Most magical feather around. We only have one right now because of the shortage,” said Flora excitedly.
“Rumor has it Zotter, head of the Swiss team, was planning to make Gallic roosters for his showpiece at the Golden Whisk. But Caron, head of the French team, got wind of it. He bought up all the gallus plumes. Now, Zotter is stuck with sugar dragons.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Here she goes. Watch out ladies. Flora literally knows everything about the Golden Whisk. She’s obsessed.”
Flora folded her arms. “I prefer to call it well-informed.”
Maggie laughed. “You know I love you, but it’s a serious fixation.”
Sylvie continued scanning the room. At six o’clock, two stocky agents stood staring across the crowd. Behind them rested jars with shriveled leaves of Skunk Cabbage and bright purple Toad Lily Powder.
“Well, I don’t see what Zotter is so miffed about,” said Georgia. “Dragons are definitely cooler than a bunch of crowing roosters.”
“Perhaps to you, but not to the French. His isomalt dragons will put on a good show. But”—Flora drew a finger across her neck—“Caron dealt Zotter a deadly blow.”
Jack Bass moved from ten o’clock toward the agents parked at six. Sylvie bobbed and weaved, trying to see past the brim of his hat. She froze. There was an empty spot next to the jar of Wattleseeds, right where the woad should’ve been.
It’s gone.
Sylvie felt her knees weaken. The one ingredient she needed wasn’t here. She tried scanning higher. Zingiber. Candied Pickle Balls.
Sylvie paused. Z next to C?
Maybe not missing … but misplaced.
After all, Agnes had just replenished the school’s supplies.
She needed to go back over the shelves and read each label. Sylvie turned back toward the A jars. The space next to Belinda opened, as she shuffled toward her father.
Sylvie’s gaze drifted from shelf to shelf. Where are you?
“Shouldn’t be long now,” said Flora, checking her watch.
Maggie nodded. “Kitty will be handing out FizzleFott’s Fire Wands for the parade. She’ll lead the first-year students and you two. Once she gets here, we’ll join our parade groups and get our booths set up.”
“That’s fine,” said Georgia. “I doubt big, and bigger, Bass will cause trouble with a teacher here… . Everything all right, Sylvie? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“S-sorry. What was that?” Sylvie swallowed hard.
“I said you’ve been quiet.” Georgia eyed her. “Plus, you look like the creek has flooded up to your elbows.”
“I’m fine.” Sylvie forced a smile. “Really… . All good.”
Sylvie’s gaze settled back on the shelf she’d been staring at a moment ago. Next to where Jack and Belinda Bass now stood was a crystal container. The silver ID tag wrapped around it, ending in a point below the word WOAD.
On the bright side, Sylvie was right. The ingredient she needed wasn’t gone, just misplaced. Now, she’d found it. Trouble was, it was stuck—between a rock (Pink Rock Salt to be specific) and a jar of Pickle Dust.
To make matters worse, Sylvie was running out of time. Things will only get harder once Kitty arrives. Sylvie stared at the jar of glistening black powder. She needed a plan to get to it, fast.
The girls shuffled closer to the wall as kids moved around the room.
Sylvie glanced at the jar in front of her. BURSTING BUTTER BEANS. Like skateboarding, she couldn’t overthink; she just had to act.
She lifted her arm. The bursting butter beans were at just the right height. It didn’t take much. A simple punch.
The jar came crashing down like a tumbling piggy bank. Beans of various sizes burst out, rattling, clinking, and rolling across the floor like loose bits of change.
Clang! Bang! Pop!
But unlike loose change, these beans seemed to have an electric charge. Every time one hit the ground, it burst back into the air.
Bang! Pop!
A boy standing not too far from Sylvie screamed as several pelted him in the head. More bounced up, crashing against shelves, threatening to send more jars tumbling down.
All eyes were now focused on the chaos. Bass and his agents raced over.
“We need a container!” he shouted. “Belinda, empty your tool kit, darlin’.”
Belinda muscled her way through the crowd and yanked open a box; piping tips, whisks, and spatulas plopped to the ground.
“Good.” Bass took it from her. “Now, try to catch ’em.”
The green-eyed agent yanked off her apron. “We can use this as a net,” she said, fastening her gold pin to one end, tightly grasping the other.
Kids continued to duck and scream.
This was it, Sylvie’s chance to grab the woad. She stooped under elbows, slipping across layers of grease.
Splat!
A butter bean burst beneath her shoe. Sylvie grabbed hold of a shelf as she slid forward, nearly doing a face-plant.
Bang!
Something pelted her in the neck.
Sylvie slapped a bean down, her eyes locked on the woad just out of reach.
Pop!
More legumes exploded.
Quickly, Sylvie scrambled up a ladder, her eyes focused on the crystal jar.
One handful. That would be more than enough for her recipe. Sylvie yanked the bag out of her pocket and stole a final glance at the scene below.
More agents cast their aprons out, as Bass snatched beans from the air.
No one had even noticed Sylvie scaling up.
She shoved her fist into the jar. Woad, soft as baby powder, dark as midnight, clumped and caked in the palm of her hand.
Sylvie jammed it into the empty bag and crammed it back into her pocket.
She caught sight of her hand, laced with a fine residue of what looked like black talcum powder. Frantically, Sylvie wiped it onto her dark T-shirt and silently scolded herself. I should’ve worn gloves. Of course, there hadn’t been time.
The chaos below was starting to die down.
Move. Before someone sees you.