Chapter 27 Rumbledethumps
Rumbledethumps
THE SOLES OF SYLVIE’S SHOES VIbrATED UNDER THE SHUDDERING stairs. Sylvie stepped over the final snoring stone and gave the doors at the top a push.
“Look! The birds built a nest,” said Georgia, eyeing the same golden cage Sylvie had noticed the first time she stepped into the school. The milk chocolate cockatoo and white chocolate parrot fluttered inside as they shaped malted twigs and icing leaves into a tidy bundle.
“Great.” Sylvie forced a smile. She’d been in such awe of Brindille.
But now, an emptiness threatened to swallow her up.
Her mom was probably working on a spell just as spectacular, not realizing she had no chance to redeem herself, or even (thanks to Sylvie) a shot at finishing the competition.
If Sylvie didn’t find a way to fix this, her mom’s story would end abruptly with a curse.
“Godard’s office is on the second floor.” Sylvie walked past the pulled sugar tree, still dropping its leaves, as she tried to bury her thoughts.
Beyond the glass partitions were pristine classrooms full of Hobart mixers, Pacojets, cauldrons, beakers, and Bunsen burners.
It would be hard going back to a regular school after this.
Brindille was part kitchen, part wonderland, and 100 percent magic.
By morning, she’d probably be packing her bags, which would be a small price to pay if she could at least save her mom.
Trouble was, Sylvie didn’t see how she was going to do that.
“I know things seem bad,” said Georgia, “but when life gives you lemons, you gotta make sweet tea.”
Sylvie glanced at her. “Isn’t it lemonade?”
Georgia shrugged. “Maybe in California but not in Louisiana. Anyway, the point is not to give up. Even with a sour situation like this, there might be a fix.”
“Thanks.” Sylvie appreciated Georgia trying to cheer her up. She pointed toward a staircase. “Godard’s office is up there.”
Georgia stared into one of the classrooms. “Hey! There’s Flora.”
Sylvie turned. Sure enough. Beyond the glass stood Flora, scooping mashed potatoes into a casserole dish. She looked up and waved them over. Sylvie opened the door.
“I didn’t expect to see you two here. Are you lost?” asked Flora as she put the finishing touches on her casserole.
Sylvie shook her head. “Godard asked us to wait for her in her office. We were just heading up.” She glanced down at the recipe resting on the counter. Rumbledethumps. “You’re working on your travel spell for Paris?”
“Yes.” Flora picked up a fuzzy sprig. It looked like a bunch of Italian parsley wearing a downy coat. “I just have to add the par-cel. Then it’ll be ready for the oven.”
Flora dropped it on top. Sylvie watched it dissolve the moment she gave the mixture a stir.
“So, you really did it? You took down Belinda in the Commis Contest?” asked Georgia.
A smile spread across Flora’s face as she shoved the casserole into the oven. “Yup! I’m officially the winner.”
“Congratulations,” said Sylvie.
Flora tucked her Blade into her knife bag. “It took ages for me to work on my velouté and perfect my veiled lady spell, but it was worth it. I still can’t believe I’m going to Paris!”
Boom-thump!
The oven shuddered.
Sylvie ogled it. Voices echoed in her head. First, Julia’s. You will see him again, when it matters most. Then, Kitty’s. An unexpected trip … a chance for salvation.
Thump-thump-bang!
“Sounds like the rumbledethumps is almost ready,” said Flora.
What if? An idea was forming, but even the thought of it turned Sylvie queasy, and yet …
Flora glanced at Sylvie. “You know I’ll do my best to bring home a win for your mom and Team USA. Right?”
“Yeah,” said Sylvie, not really listening.
The oven door flew open. Nothing but a dark tunnel stared out at them.
Flora took a deep breath. “I’ve never traveled this far by spell before. It can cause serious burns … or a nasty case of food poisoning. Hopefully, I don’t end up with either.”
Sylvie peered into the darkness. There was no time to think. To reconsider.
She turned to Georgia. “I’m really sorry about this.”
Georgia’s brows furrowed. “For what?”
She lurched forward, pulling Georgia along with her. “For trying to turn these lemons into lemonade.” Sylvie charged past Flora, as Georgia stumbled along.
“It’s sweet tea—ahhhh!”
This was the last thing Sylvie heard. The next thing she knew, they were falling face-first into the abyss.
They tumbled left, then right. Sylvie felt as if she’d been sucked into a vacuum cleaner. Hot air blew through her clothes, knocking her back and forth like a pinball. She squeezed her eyes shut. The Fire Wands dug into her wrist as she and Georgia cartwheeled through the darkness.
“This is how I’m going to die,” cried Georgia. “Clobbered to death in an oven.”
Just when Sylvie thought she couldn’t take any more, a hot gust shot her out. She tumbled to the ground like a loose roll.
Georgia landed on top of her. “Ouch!”
“Pardon!” cried a woman. Her heels clicked briskly against the pavement as she maneuvered past.
Sylvie pulled herself up and tried to get her bearings. She was standing outside a boarded-up metro station. To her right, asymmetrical buildings lined the street like a row of cancan dancers. Arched roofs pointed toward the clouds, and red awnings draped over the sidewalk, like billowing skirts.
“Where are we?” Georgia asked.
Sylvie wasn’t sure. It certainly looked like Paris, but this wasn’t what she’d expected. Maybe it was foolish, but she’d assumed they’d arrive in a kitchen.
Whoosh!
Flora popped out, just as a man wearing skinny jeans parked himself next to the oven. He checked his text messages, oblivious to the rattling appliance.
“My mama always says cell phones rot your brain… . Maybe she’s actually right,” said Georgia.
“It’s fool’s fondant,” said Sylvie. “All Scullery see is a postal box. Extra thick draping conceals the sound.”
Flora pulled a half-singed envelope out of her pocket. “Though the CCS still hasn’t quite figured out what to do about the mail that gets dropped inside. Speaking of things that don’t belong. What were you thinking, Sylvie?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Georgia puckered her lips.
“I’m not surprised.” Flora handed her a peppermint. “This’ll help the nausea.” She turned back to Sylvie. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? If you’d taken a wrong turn … or gotten stuck.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sylvie. “But you don’t know what’s happened.”
“But I do,” said a voice.
Sylvie turned. Standing there was a man with a thick mop of brown hair. He adjusted the signature fleur-de-lis patch covering his left eye.
Sylvie gaped at him. “Guy Fabre.”
“Godard sent a message, told me what happened.” Guy looked at her. “But she didn’t say anything about you coming to Paris.”
Sylvie didn’t meet his gaze. “That’s because it wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Oh, dear.” Guy scratched his head. “Your mother told me you could be stubborn. I see she wasn’t kidding.”
You two still talk? Sylvie wanted to ask, but she had more important things to worry about. “Please don’t send me back. I know—”
Guy held up a hand. “Even if I wanted to, there’s no time to waste. Making another pan of rumbledethumps will have to wait. But first, I need to send a message.”
He pulled a small cwtch out of his pocket.
The initials GF were embossed on it in gold. Sylvie eyed the bits of red dust swirling inside like a swarm of fiery hornets.
Guy must’ve noticed her staring.
“My express cwtch,” he said proudly. “We’ll be releasing a line of them soon… . Fireseeds give it an extra zip.” He cleared his throat. “Urgent! Fernand LeGrande! Delay the competition. Jospehine Flammé is releasing a Vindicti-au-vent!”
“Jospehine Flammé at the Golden Whisk? What exactly did I miss?” asked Flora.
“I’ve got this,” said Georgia, launching into the story.
Guy pulled out his Blade, an eight-inch knife with an electric blue resin and cherrywood handle. He tapped it gently against the cwtch. “Express Delivery. To. Fernand LeGrande. Rue Lepic.” Guy said something in rapid French. Sylvie wished she’d understood the meaning.
The cwtch shot up into the air and quickly vanished out of sight.
Guy turned and headed toward the abandoned metro station. “Let’s go.”
“That’s how we get to the competition?” asked Sylvie, not bothering to hide her surprise.
“Ever since your mom was accused of cheating, they’ve cracked down on access points,” said Guy, pulling out a gold card with the words Golden Whisk written on it. “Besides, it’s not so bad; this is the VIP entrance.”
Sylvie eyed the shabby exterior and graffiti-covered walls. A rat scurried out of a crack.
“Maybe VIP means something different in French,” whispered Georgia.
“No kidding,” said Flora.
Guy waved the card.
The neon lights flickered overhead, lighting up the dingy stairs.
Sylvie had imagined the competition arena as a grand building, with pillars made of fondant and archways covered in gold leaf. This was far from spectacular.
Bits of garbage littered the floor. A musty smell that Sylvie suspected was urine hung in the air.
“The entrance is down here.” Guy pointed to the tunnel where a rat had just made off with a chip bag.
Great! Not only had Sylvie played right into Bass’s hands, but now, if she wanted to stop Flammé from unleashing a curse, she had to go through … Pee Central!