Chapter 29 The Golden Whisk
The Golden Whisk
SYLVIE’S FEET HIT SOLID GROUND. THE CRATE GROANED AND crumbled.
Flora appeared and ran over to them.
“I was so worried about you two! Where did you learn to ride like that?” Flora suddenly looked at Sylvie with admiration. “It was awesome.”
Georgia stepped over the remnants. “I don’t care what my momma says, ladies should ride skateboards. You and that thing saved us!”
Sylvie gave one of the wooden planks a dramatic flick. It feels good to finally be the expert in the room. She wanted to enjoy this moment a bit longer, but she couldn’t. She looked around. “Did Guy make it?”
Flora pointed to the entrance. “Impossible to say.”
Sylvie stared back. On this side, a polished metal door was all that was visible.
“I’m sure LeGrande will know what to do,” said Flora reassuringly.
“But where is he?” asked Georgia.
That’s what Sylvie was wondering too. She searched through the crowd. Men and women were pushing carts piled high with extraordinary merchandise and delicious food. Between them, posters twenty feet tall sailed through the air. Each one depicted a promising Sage, vying for the grand prize.
Sylvie continued to scan the crowd.
She’d imagined LeGrande rushing over, flanked by a security team of Sages, Blades at the ready.
The scent of onions and cumin wafted over. An Indian man wearing an embroidered silk blouse hustled past with a food cart.
“Excuse me.” Sylvie eyed the sign tacked to its front. ARJUN’S BUBBLE & SQUEAK: ALL PIES SEASONED WITH A MAGICAL BLEND OF TRANSPARENT TEJ PATTA AND CANDID CURRY.
“Would you care for a hand pie?” asked Arjun. He lifted a lid, allowing more of the fragrant spices to escape. “We have cauliflower and pea, potato with urad dal, and my favorite, ginger and lamb.”
“Maybe later?” Her stomach gave an objective grumble. “We’re looking for Fernand LeGrande.”
Arjun shrugged and closed the lid. “The competition just started. So, I imagine he’s in the arena.”
“Are you sure?” asked Sylvie, trying to suppress the panic that was rocketing up.
Arjun nodded.
“Now what?” asked Georgia.
Flora looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon. “I can’t believe it. I finally beat Belinda in the Commis Contest, only to show up late.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sylvie. “Why would LeGrande start the competition? Guy sent him an urgent message. He should’ve gotten it by now.”
“What if it got lost?” said Georgia. “Last Christmas, we got a fruitcake that was supposed to go to a lady in Brazil.”
Flora shook her head. “Impossible. Cwtch mail is one of the first spells you learn at Brindille. Besides, Guy is an expert.”
Georgia’s lips twisted. “So, if LeGrande didn’t get Guy’s message … does that mean it got lost on purpose?”
The question made Sylvie quiver. Once again, Julia’s words floated through her mind.
Betrayed by an old friend. But Godard trusts him.
Plus, Guy had helped her get here. Hadn’t he?
Confusion swirled through Sylvie. She wasn’t sure she could trust anyone anymore.
She hated feeling like nothing was what it seemed.
“We’re running out of time, and options,” snapped Sylvie.
“Don’t worry. Monsieur LeGrande always greets the commis at the end of the competition,” said Arjun. He glanced at Georgia, who was staring at a vibrant tray of animal-shaped lollipops. Miniature dragons puffed out smoke while the tiny horses whinnied. “First time at the Golden Whisk?”
“Yes,” said Georgia, still ogling the display.
Sylvie pointed to Flora’s commis pass as she threw together an idea. “Each of us won our school’s Commis Contest, but we got delayed. Can we still get to the kitchens?”
“Don’t worry. You’re not the first assistants to show up late,” said Arjun.
He pointed to a row of doors in the distance.
“There’s a shortcut through there. Go past the seating area toward the stairway on the left.
It has a sign above it that says ‘Sky Deck.’ That’ll lead you to the competition kitchens. ”
“Thanks,” said Sylvie. Maybe there’s still a way to find LeGrande.
Sylvie headed toward the doors, maneuvering past the banner of a dimple-faced chef with thick brows. He held a rose meringue playfully over one eye. A whisk, sprouting red roses, twirled in his other hand.
“Is he trying to win a cooking competition or looking for a date?” asked Georgia.
Flora rolled her eyes. “That’s Jasper Rose, head of the British team. The Brits have never won gold, only silver. They say Jasper could be the one to change that. His execution is killer, and his spells are, well …” Flora stared dreamily at the poster. “Utterly brilliant.”
Georgia just shrugged and pointed to the poster dangling above the door in front of them. “Who’s that?” A man wrestled with a dragon, as flames the size of a bonfire shot out of its mouth.
“That’s the guy I told you about … Ewald Zotter.”
“Oh! He couldn’t get the gallus plumes for his showpiece. Right?” added Georgia.
Flora nodded. “Another epic battle.”
Sylvie gave the door a push. Once again, an uneasy sensation settled over her. She had a feeling the most monumental battle in the Golden Whisk’s history was about to take place. But what if I can’t cook my way out of this one?
“Whoa!” said Georgia.
Sylvie set the question aside and stared at the arena.
There must’ve been ten thousand seats decked in gold.
Each one sparkled like a grain of sand at the beach.
Above them, glass kitchens floated through the air like a fleet of blimps.
Behind the kitchens, dangling like a giant banner, was an enormous rice paper scroll.
Projected onto it was the stage below. The podium now stood empty, marking the spot where the first-place winner would soon be crowned.
All around them people screamed and cheered, waving a patchwork of signs and pennants.
Sylvie looked around. Beyond a group draped in Italian flags was the staircase with the sign SKY DECK above it. “Over there.” Sylvie pointed past the crowded seats.
The stadium seemed larger and even more impressive than it had in Godard’s memory.
“I bet the Eiffel Tower would fit in here,” said Georgia.
“Actually, two,” said Flora. “The competition has become so popular, last year, LeGrande renovated.”
Sylvie spotted a group of Sages searching through the stadium. Gold pins were hooked to their shirt collars. She stopped short. “Gold pins and they’re scanning the arena like bloodhounds. I bet they’re undercover CCS agents.”
“Let’s not find out,” said Flora, snaking her way around them. Sylvie and Georgia followed.
The Swiss team’s kitchen floated overhead. Sylvie paused. She could see Ewald Zotter working inside. He wore a red chef’s coat, just like her mom once had.
Zotter pulled out a contraption that looked like a miniature alphorn. He took a deep breath and blew. But instead of music, a giant sugar bubble emerged.
Georgia gave her eyes a rub. “Either I’m hallucinating, or I just developed eagle vision. ’Cause I’m pretty sure humans aren’t supposed to see this far.”
Zotter slipped on a pair of gloves, twisting and pulling, until the sphere morphed into a silvery dragon.
“No kidding,” said Sylvie.
This was like spotting a plane, then noticing the passengers inside snacking on peanuts.
“It’s a speculum spell.” Flora looked up. “It makes the sugar glass surrounding the kitchens work like a magnifier in a telescope. LeGrande wanted to make sure everyone, even the nosebleed seats, got an up-close view of the action.”
Sylvie craned her neck, hoping to spot her mom, but everything suddenly went dark.
Colorful bursts of light filled the arena. They were followed by a sweet smell that reminded Sylvie of—
“Fabulous Fruit Punch,” said Flora. She took a deep breath and smacked her tongue against her lips. “I love FizzleFott’s Flavored Fireworks.”
Georgia stuck out her tongue. “Wow! It really does taste like punch.”
“Let’s keep going,” said Sylvie. She hated being a killjoy, but air that tasted like soda wasn’t going to help them find LeGrande or stop Flammé.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Sages of all ages!” said a sudden voice. “Please put your hands together for the one and only Fernand LeGrande!”
Sylvie stared as a man wearing a bright green blazer and yellow sequin shirt rose through an opening in the stadium floor.
The ground shook as the room thundered with applause. “FERNAND! FERNAND!”
Fernand flashed a brilliant smile as he rose on a giant golden whisk.
“Welcome to the Golden Whisk All-Stars competition!” shouted LeGrande. He ran a hand through his sleek blond pompadour. “Are you ready for the greatest battle in history?”
“YES!” roared the crowd.
Sylvie couldn’t help but envy the people around her. If ignorance was bliss, knowledge was misery.
It was just a matter of time before Josephine released her spell. If that happened, none of them would ever know happiness again.
Another fruity burst erupted in the sky.
The group around Sylvie began to sing, “Il Canto degli Italiani.”
“Scusa!” said a woman behind Sylvie. She had sun-kissed skin and was holding a large sign with the words GO FOR GOLD GIUSEPPE painted on it.
“Do you mind sitting down? They’re about to launch Italy’s kitchen.”
Sylvie looked up. Several darkened boxes were still connected to the side of the arena.
“There’s more,” muttered Sylvie, wondering if her mom was inside one of them.
“Sì,” said the woman. “Signor LeGrande staggers the launches, so every Sage has a moment to shine… . I just hope the dragons don’t ruin it.” The woman shook her head. “If you ask me, that recipe should be forbidden.”
The woman pulled a bundle of something green out of her purse and waved it in the air. She saw Sylvie staring.
“Laurel … it’ll ward off the dragons if they get loose. Zotter é pazzo … he’s crazy.”
Sylvie gazed back up.
There was Zotter, holding a cwtch. He tapped a white blade with a glossy red bloodwood handle against it. The silver dragon was immediately sucked inside.
A swirl of smoke filled the globe as the dragon puffed and pounded its wings.
The woman waved the bundle of laurel in the air again. “How can he safely propel those cwtches to the judges’ table? If they break, those beasts will ruin the competition. Idiota!”
“Judges’ table …” Sylvie gazed up again.
A decorative disk rested like a crown over the arena.
“Sì,” said the woman, pointing toward it. “If your showpiece doesn’t make it up there, dannato … doomed!”
This gave Sylvie an idea. “Well, good luck.”
The woman gave her a nod as Italy’s kitchen lit up and floated into the arena.
“Here comes Giuseppe Gasparini,” declared the announcer. “Will his torta setteveli be enough to win the grand prize? Let’s find out!”
Sylvie nudged Georgia and Flora. “I think I know how to get LeGrande’s attention and press pause on Josephine’s plan.”
Georgia raised a brow. “You do?”
“Yes.” Sylvie fished the cookbook out of her backpack and pointed toward the empty staircase. “Follow me.”
“You’re not thinking of cooking up another forbidden spell?” asked Georgia.
“No … just a peculiar one,” said Sylvie, ducking under elbows and stepping over feet.
“How?” asked Flora. “We don’t have any ingredients.”
Sylvie sat down on the staircase and started flicking through the book. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: Cooking is an art that requires creativity, skill, and time to be perfected. You can still make good food without all three, but you’ll never create a masterpiece.
Sylvie just hoped she didn’t need a masterpiece … just something good enough to delay the competition and get LeGrande’s attention.
Georgia peered over her shoulder and pointed to a strawberry buckle. “This one says it’s perfect for body-binding spells.”
Sylvie flicked past it. “It takes nearly an hour to bake. Plus, Josephine would have to eat it. We need something quick … something we can use indirectly.”
“What about an arctic roll?” Flora suggested. “We could release a blizzard, freeze everything in the arena.”
“Including us,” said Sylvie. “No thank you.”
Sylvie flicked ahead and stopped. “This is what we need.”
Flora and Georgia peered down at the recipe: Simple No-Bake Dragon Treats.
“Please tell me your plan doesn’t include dousing us in BBQ sauce and sticking us on a platter,” said Georgia.
“No,” said Sylvie. “I want to use this recipe to lure Zotter’s dragon out of its cwtch. Then LeGrande will be forced to pause the competition.”
“How hard is it to make?” asked Georgia.
“That’s the best part. It’s easy.” Sylvie pointed to the instructions.
Simply stir together one-part peanut butter, two packets untamed honey, and a dash of Miliard’s Milk Powder. Roll into balls. They’re so delicious, no dragon will be able to resist.
“It’s risky,” said Flora. “But this could actually work.”
“But where do we find the ingredients?” asked Georgia.
Sylvie dug around in her backpack. Buried next to a misshapen stick of chewing gum was the paper sack from Julia. She pulled it out. “I’ve got the honey and peanut butter. For the milk powder, we’ll have to improvise.”
“Improvise a spell?” Georgia asked inquisitively.
Sylvie nodded. “As the great Julia Child once said, ‘in cooking you’ve got to have a what-the-heck attitude.’”