A Dash of Magic: A Bliss Novel (6 page)

“It’ll improve
your
results, you mean!” Rose cried. “Anyone who eats this stuff waxes poetic about you! The judge will just start talking about how amazing you are!”

“Can I help it if it has that particular side effect?” Lily winked.

The expo center suddenly went dark, and Rose hurried back to her own kitchen. A set of roving purple spotlights focused on the center of the ceiling, where a giant cupcake with a hollow center hovered like a hot-air balloon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed an announcer, “please welcome the inventor of crêpes suzette, the champion pastry chef of France, and the founder of the Gala des Gâteaux Grands: Chef Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre!”

Orchestra music soared as the giant cupcake sank slowly to the ground. Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre stepped out of it, dressed in his coat of red velvet, his hands clasped atop his wide belly. His beady eyes peered from behind his glasses as he stared out over the crowd.

He raised a microphone to his lips and said, “Remember, after I announce the theme, you’ll have precisely one hour to plan and to gather your one special ingredient, one that is not found in the pantry.”

“So now Lily can combine her Magic Ingredient with any of the magical recipes in the Booke, which will make it infinitely more powerful!” whispered Rose. “Can you believe this, Ty?”

But Ty was too busy staring across the black-and-white-tiled aisle. Miriam and Muriel Desjardins were looking casually at Ty. Ty was pretending not to notice, staring into the distance with his eyes wide and his mouth pursed, as if he were writing the lyrics to a painful love song in his head.

The twins had perfect faces, with sparkling eyes and pouting lips, chic haircuts, and expensive-looking clothes. They looked a year or two older than Ty, and an inch or two taller. They were definitely out of his league, but he would be the last one to admit it.

“And now . . . ,” Jean-Pierre said over the thunder of a drumroll, “the theme of the day is . . . SWEET! You may interpret the theme however you wish. The cooking will commence in one hour. Go. Now!”

The lights snapped back to full in the room and the spectators in the opera boxes clapped as all of the bakers and their assistants began to confer in heated whispers.

SWEET. Rose could bake a hundred versions of the common cupcake, but today she was competing not only against the best bakers in the world, but also against her aunt Lily, who could make any magical recipe in the Cookery Booke, plus add a dash of Lily’s Magic Ingredient. To make it through this first round, she would need something from the Bliss Cookery Booke, and for that she needed Purdy and Balthazar.

As she waited for her mother and great-great-great-grandfather to join her on the expo floor, Rose glanced over at Lily. Lily was conferring with an impossibly small man wearing a calico jumpsuit of purple, white, and gold satin, the kind you’d find on a medieval clown. He was little, but he wasn’t proportioned like a dwarf—it was as if he was a typically sized man who had been shrunken down. The top of his head barely reached Lily’s hip. He had tanned skin, a bald head, thick black eyebrows, and a long, black mustache.

Lily’s assistant?
Rose wondered.

Balthazar and Purdy hurried up, with Albert, Sage, and Leigh trailing behind.

“Look at this,” said Rose, holding up the box of Lily’s Magic Ingredient. “She donated this to the Gala. Everyone’s pantry is stocked with it.”

“That wicked cheater!” Purdy yelled.

“I have just the thing to beat her,” Balthazar said, handing her one of his perfectly handwritten sheets. “I translated this one a few months ago. It’s aces.”

With Ty looking over her shoulder, Rose read the recipe:

The Sweetest Cookie, for the Relief of Human Sourness

It was in 1456, in the French city of Paris, that young Philippe Canard did confess to Sir Falstaffe Bliss that his sole wish on the occasion of his fifth birthday was that his notoriously sour, crabby, ill-tempered, and otherwise foul Grandmother might grant him a smile. Sir Bliss did feed these sweet cookies to the Countess Fifi Canard, who, at the occasion of Philippe’s birthday party, did hoist Philippe into her arms, kiss his cheek, and smile so sweetly that young Philippe himself did smile for the remainder of his life.

Sir Bliss did place four fists of
white flour
in the center of the wooden bowl. Into the flour he cracked one of the
chicken’s eggs,
then poured an acorn of
vanilla
and one staff of melted
cow’s butter.
Afterward, he did add the
lover’s sweet whispers
, congealed in almond butter.

“So that’s our one special ingredient,” Ty said. “‘Lovers’ sweet whispers in almond butter.’ That should be easy enough to get. I’ll just whisper into a jar.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “No, kid. You’ll need the sweet whispers of
two
people who
are
in love, not
one
person who
wishes
he was in love.”

“Burn,
Abuelo
,” Ty replied. “Burn.”

There were a few more instructions, and then the recipe ended with

He did rest the cake in the oven HOT as
seven flames
for the TIME of
six songs
and then fed the cookies to the sour Countess, who remained sweet thereafter.

Just then Lily walked up, arm in arm with Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre. The short man she’d been talking with earlier was nowhere to be seen.

“Look!” Lily said, pointing at the scrap of paper with the recipe. “They’re cheating!”

Purdy stepped between Lily and the recipe. “Lily, if you sunk any lower, they’d have to dredge you up from the bottom of the Seine.”

Lily smiled at Jean-Pierre. “I really hate to have to tattle on children,” she said. “I’m just trying to protect the integrity of the Gala.”

Albert stepped in with a toothy grin. “No rule violations here, sir! The rules prohibit using a cookbook
while baking
. The kids have merely planned out their recipe. The paper will be gone come competition time.”

Gus, still in the BabyBjörn on Balthazar’s chest, swatted Rose’s ear till she leaned close, his whiskers tickling her cheek. “If I were you, I’d go now and get those sweet whispers. An hour goes by faster than you think.”

“But where are we going to get lovers’ sweet whispers?” Rose asked.

Gus squinted a minute, thinking. “In my first marriage, my dear Hilarie and I often exchanged sweet nothings while catching mice along the River Thames in London.”

Gus was right—lovers did tend to congregate by water. The expo center was only a few blocks from the Seine, the winding, snaky river that cut through Paris.

Rose reached up and scratched the soft gray fur under Gus’s chin.

If it’s possible for a cat to look bashful, at that moment, Gus did. “Thank you,” he said. “Now go.”

Though the riverbank was just a few minutes’ walk from the Hôtel de Ville expo center, Sage complained the entire time.

“Why am I even here? You and Ty are gonna do all the baking, and I’m just supposed to watch?” he whined. “With all those cameras around?
I
should be in front of the cameras! I could launch my stand-up comedy career. But no, you two get to do everything important, as usual.”

Rose glanced over at Ty, then looked guiltily at the blue mason jar she was carrying, which she’d slathered on the inside with pale yellow almond butter. It was true. Sage rarely got the opportunity to do anything important. Of course, when he did, he usually made a mess of it.

“Why don’t you be in charge of collecting the sweet whispers?” said Rose. “In fact, you could collect
all
the special ingredients! We’ll do the baking, you’ll do the collecting, and then when we win, we’ll introduce you on camera and you can launch your stand-up comedy career.”

Ty looked at her like she was crazy, but Sage smiled and immediately stopped complaining. He took the blue mason jar from Rose and cradled it in his arms like it was an infant.

The morning light rippled across the Seine like a spilled canister of silver glitter. Rose thought that this may have been the most romantic place she’d ever seen, even more romantic than the overlook point on Sparrow Hill in Calamity Falls. She imagined building a hut on the stone riverbank and living there with Devin Stetson, baking croissants for passersby while he played guitar and collected change in a hat.

As she was plotting where on the river wall she’d build her hut, Rose spotted a man and a woman walking hand in hand. The man and the woman were staring at each other so lovingly and intently that the man tripped over a raised brick in the sidewalk and fell to his knees. The woman giggled as she hoisted him up again and kissed his cheek.

“Jackpot,” Rose said.

Sage nodded and scooted ahead, falling into step a few feet behind the couple. He opened the blue jar and held it up to the back of their heads, trailing behind as close as he could without running into them.

It worked for a few seconds, until Sage sneezed and the man whipped around. “What are you doing, kid?” he said.

Sage snapped the jar closed so as not to catch any less-than-sweet whispers in the almond butter. “Uhhh . . .”

Ty jogged over to Sage. “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Ty said. “He’s collecting fireflies.”

“But it’s the
daytime
,” said the woman.

Ty covered Sage’s ears with his hands. “He
thinks
he’s collecting fireflies,” he whispered. “Poor kid hallucinates fireflies wherever he goes. Carries this jar everywhere and just keeps swiping it through the air. We don’t have the heart to tell him the truth.”

The man and woman nodded sympathetically as Ty removed his hands from Sage’s ears. “You keep chasing those fireflies, son!” the man said, rustling Sage’s curly red hair. The pair waved and headed off toward the Eiffel Tower.

“I heard that,” groaned Sage. “Thanks a lot for turning me into a crazy person.”

Rose and her brothers sat down at an outdoor café overlooking the river. A waiter in a starched white shirt, black pants, and a white apron handed them menus.

“
Merci
,” Rose said, blushing. She knew how to say a few words in French, but she had a hard time pulling off the accent.

“
De rien
,” replied the waiter.

Two tables over, Rose spotted a handsome gentleman with a jaunty wave of gray hair sitting with an elegant woman in a silky red dress. Something on the woman’s hand was glinting in the sun. It was so bright that at first Rose thought it must be the face of a watch, but it wasn’t on the woman’s wrist; it was on her finger. Rose realized it could only be a diamond ring, the biggest she had ever seen.

“Look at those two!” Rose said.

The woman leaned over the table and put a finger underneath the man’s chin.

“
Je te quitte
,” said the woman.

“
Ne me quitte pas
!” answered the man.

Sage nodded, then snaked along the ground toward the table where the couple was whispering their sweet nothings.

“Wow,” said Ty, admiring the couple. “Look at that. Maybe I should give up Spanish and learn French instead.”

Sage slunk to the base of the table and held up the mason jar.

“
Je te quitte
,” the woman repeated.

“
Ne me quitte pas
!” the man answered back.

As Rose watched, the almond butter inside the jar slowly turned gray. It was odd. Rose always thought love would be red.

Sage slammed the jar closed and popped up from the ground, banging his head on the bottom of the couple’s table. The tiny cup of espresso that the man had been drinking hurtled skyward, bathing the man’s elegant gray hair in steaming brown coffee.

“Ahhh!!!”
he screamed. “
Qu’est-ce qui ce passe!
”

Sage scrambled from beneath the table as the waiter headed straight for him, a basket of bread in his hands. He pelted Sage in the face with a roll and cried, “Don’t come back here, you strange children!”

Rose and Ty jumped out of their seats and took off for the Hôtel de Ville expo center. Sage, with sweat on his brow, a bump on his head, and crumbs in his face, raced past them, then turned around victoriously, holding the blue mason jar high above his head. “Got it!”

When Rose and her brothers returned to their kitchen in the expo center, Jean-Pierre had just finished his investigation about their supposed cheating. “Because the cooking had not officially begun,” he said to Lily and the Blisses, “there has been no infraction of the rules.”

“Oh, good!” Lily said. “I would hate to see these kids kicked out of the competition.” She looked at Rose and gave her an icy smile as she returned to her kitchen.

Rose closed her eyes and focused on recalling the recipe. Balthazar’s calligraphy was so unique—so ornate, so perfect—that Rose found she could easily picture the recipe as he had written it, including the ingredients, the measurements, the temperatures, and the times.

She “read” the ingredients out loud to herself. “White flour, eggs, vanilla, butter, lovers’ whispers.”

Purdy wrapped her arms around Rose and squeezed. “Go get ’em, lovie.”

Rose looked down at her little sister. “Wish me luck, Leigh.”

Leigh ignored Rose. “The décor in here is dreadful,” she said, looking at the ceiling and sighing. “If a space is meant to be grand, it must at least
attempt
to employ the conventions of rococo. Where are the whimsical stucco stylings of the Wessobrunner School? Lily Le Fay prefers the Wessobrunner School.”

“What is she talking about?” Rose asked.

Purdy sighed. “Before we left home, I tried to whip up a batch of Scones of Simplification. Even though I knew they weren’t perfect, I fed her one this morning and it backfired. And now she’s fixated not only on Lily, but on art history as well.”

Rose shook her head, wondering if she’d ever get her sweet little sister back.