The Power of Poppy Pendle (18 page)

“I’ll figure it out,” Mr. Monroe said, and they all sat in the truck for a moment, staring at the shadowy cottage. It wasn’t as dark as they had hoped for. The sky was beautifully clear, lit up by the silvery glow from a full moon.

“What’s that?” Charlie suddenly whispered, pointing at a dark shape that had swooped out of the cottage window. “It looks like an enormous bat.”

“It’s Poppy!” Marie Claire gasped as the silhouette of a girl on a broomstick flew overhead. They could see her long, tangled hair flying out behind her, but she didn’t look down or appear to notice the truck. Her hands gripped the broomstick, and the determined set of her jaw was clearly visible in the queer silvery light.

“She looks like she knows where she’s going,” Charlie’s dad said as they watched her disappear in the direction of Potts Bottom.

“I wonder where,” Charlie whispered, holding tight to her father’s arm.

“No time to worry about that now. Come on, let’s shift this oven inside. Who knows how long she’ll be gone.”

Since Poppy had clearly left the cottage, Marie Claire and Charlie helped out by carrying the supplies. In fact, they all agreed it would probably have been impossible to move the oven into the cottage without Poppy hearing. Charlie’s dad had on long, thick work gloves and tall rubber boots. He kicked open the gate and wheeled the oven through on the handcart, plowing down nettles and bumping his way over the tall grass. There were so many stone creatures in the garden it was difficult to find a clear path. So Charlie walked ahead, carefully moving the animals and birds aside. She tried not to think about PC Flower, still crouched out of sight behind the holly bush. When they got to the front door, Charlie felt her legs go weak and a sick feeling lurched in her stomach. Even though they had seen Poppy leave on her broomstick, and she wanted to help her friend, she was still nervous about going in.

It was Marie Claire who opened the door and entered first, followed by Mr. Monroe and the oven, and then Charlie. Luckily, Charlie’s dad had remembered to bring a flashlight with him, and he switched it on.
“Mon Dieu!”
Marie Claire murmured as the powerful beam picked up empty cans of stew, Twirlie wrappers, and Fudge Monkey boxes scattered across the floor.

“I did tell you,” Charlie whispered.

“Poor thing,” Marie Claire sighed. “What are these Fudge Monkeys?” she asked, picking up an empty box and peering at the ingredients list. “This is not food.” Marie Claire sounded horrified as she read the back of the packet. “There is nothing in here but chemicals! Additives! Preservatives!”

“They have a shelf life of forever,” Charlie’s dad said. “Twirlies never go bad, and, besides, I loved them as a kid,” he confessed quietly. “Still do every once in a while.”

“Disgusting!” Marie Claire shuddered. “Poppy must be out of her mind. Let us set up the oven at once. This eating of Fudge Monkeys cannot go on.”

They cleared out a corner of the room to make space for the stove to stand. Mr. Monroe made sure the gas tank was hooked up, and Charlie carefully arranged all the supplies on one of the empty packing cases. Then they stood back to admire the effect. It looked ridiculously out of place with its white enamel door and shiny chrome burners. “Oh, it’s perfect!” Charlie said, skipping about in excitement. She gave her father a hug. “Thank you for helping,” she whispered into his shirt.

Mr. Monroe ruffled Charlie’s curls. “Let’s hope Poppy Pendle makes the most of her second chance, eh!”

“I really think this will work. I really do,” Charlie said, and she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what Poppy would bake first.

Chapter Twenty-Two

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A Bag of Almond Cakes

O
N THE DRIVE BACK HOME CHARLIE STUCK HER HEAD
out the window, staring up at the sky. She was trying to spot Poppy flying around on her broomstick. “I do wonder where she went,” Charlie said, but it wasn’t until the next morning that the answer became clear. Mr. Monroe almost choked on his toast and marmalade as he read aloud from the front page of the
Potts Bottom Gazette
. “‘Early this morning at around three thirty a.m., a robbery took place at the Super Savers Market. Several canned goods and Twirlie bars were taken from the shop. Police did respond to the alarm call, but no one was arrested. Unfortunately, two officers and a stock boy were discovered at the scene of the crime, all of them having been turned to stone. It is thought that this break-in is connected to an incident last Wednesday, when a Mr. Darren Smegs, the manager of Super Savers, was also turned to stone. Police are still searching for a young girl on a broomstick, whom the
Gazette
can now report is believed to be Poppy Pendle of Ten Pudding Lane. Miss Pendle’s parents have also been turned to stone, and if anyone has information on the whereabouts of Poppy Pendle, please contact the police station immediately. Constable Flower, who was working on the case, is still reported missing. The endangerment of a police officer is punishable by life imprisonment. At this point, the inquiry has been handed over to higher authorities.’”

“Oh no!” Charlie wailed, pushing aside her Rice Krispies. She had suddenly lost her appetite. “This is awful. I must go and tell Marie Claire at once.”

As soon as she opened the patisserie door, Charlie knew Marie Claire had read the headlines. There was no one else in the shop, and poor Marie Claire was hunched over the counter, staring at a copy of the
Potts Bottom Gazette
. When she looked up, her face was drained of color. “We must go down to the canal at once,” Marie Claire said. “I only hope it is not too late and Poppy hasn’t been discovered.”

Not even bothering to lock the patisserie door, Marie Claire and Charlie hurried through the village. As they started down the canal path Charlie sniffed the air and said hopefully, “I think I can smell cookies.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Marie Claire muttered, but the answer quickly became obvious. Whatever Charlie had smelled, it certainly wasn’t cookies baked in the little gas oven, because blocking the middle of the track was the stove. Only it wasn’t shiny white enamel anymore. It was smooth gray stone, and scattered around it were stone bags of sugar, stone eggs, a stone whisk, and even a stone bar of chocolate. Marie Claire and Charlie stared at the carnage in horror. “Oh my, oh my.” Marie Claire sank down on the grass. “This is awful, really awful.” She buried her face in her hands. Then after a moment she whispered, “How do you think she got it out here?”

“Threw it,” Charlie said in a dull voice. “You forget how strong Poppy is. She could lift anything.” Sinking down on the grass beside Marie Claire, Charlie began to cry. Not great heaving sobs, but quietly, as if the hope was leaking out of her. “They’re going to take Poppy away now, aren’t they? Ms. Roach will make me tell the police where she is, and they’ll lock her up in Scrubs. Oh, it’s just not fair,” Charlie sobbed, beginning to sound angry. “I thought this would work, I really did.”

“I did too,
chérie
.” Marie Claire sighed. “I did too.”

Charlie sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “Poppy wanted to have a bakery just like yours when she grew up. That was her dream, you know, to own a bakery.” Marie Claire was staring into space and she didn’t answer. She had picked up a little stone bottle of almond essence and was rubbing it between her fingers.

“Maybe,” Marie Claire murmured to herself. “If I can remember what went into them. It just might work. Like Proust and his madeleine.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlie said, not that she really cared. It was too late now.

“I believe I have one last idea we could try,” Marie Claire said softly. “It is a special kind of cake and—”

“We’ve tried making her things to eat,” Charlie cried out. “And it doesn’t work. Poppy won’t touch anything we give her.”

“So that is why,” Marie Claire said slowly. “That is why we must give these little cakes to her ourselves. Hand them over, face-to-face, and if she tries one, I believe it just might—”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Charlie exclaimed, cutting Marie Claire off in midsentence. “She’s like a mad person, a crazy girl.”

“I know, but what choice do we have?” Marie Claire shrugged. “If we don’t try this, then yes, you are right, child, the police will come and take her off to jail.”

Back at the patisserie Charlie didn’t say a word as she watched Marie Claire mix sugar and almond paste together in her favorite china bowl. She beat in eggs, sifted over flour, and gently stirred in melted butter and a dash of real almond extract. A pinch of salt and then the batter went into the little greased molds shaped like shells.

The smell was intoxicating as the cakes baked, but when they came out of the oven, Charlie was disappointed to see how plain and unfancy they looked.

“Aren’t you going to frost those?” she asked, watching Marie Claire pack them into a white paper bag and twist the edges shut.

“No frosting, but we must hurry. I want Poppy to eat one while they are still warm.” Charlie didn’t ask any more questions, because as they came out of the patisserie, she saw Ms. Roach hurrying down the street toward the shop. Rapidly pulling Marie Claire into an alleyway, Charlie hid there while Ms. Roach banged on the patisserie door, calling out Charlie’s name and peering through the glass. Finally, after a few more minutes, the headmistress gave up and left, but her determined, purposeful stride was not exactly comforting.

“She must know I’m with you,” Charlie whispered nervously. “It won’t be long before she finds us.”

“Quickly then,” Marie Claire said, cradling the bag of cakes in her hands. “Let us get to Poppy first.”

Thankfully, there were no police cars or other vehicles cruising around by the canal. “Should we look in the window and see if she’s there?” Charlie whispered.

“No, we shall go straight to the front door and knock,” Marie Claire said. “You can come with me, Charlie, but I have to give the cakes to Poppy myself, and you must promise me something,” she added sternly.

“What?” Charlie said. Marie Claire looked so serious.

“If anything happens to me, I want you to run straight home. Don’t hang around, just go.” Marie Claire’s voice was strained. “It’s important, Charlie. I need to hear you promise.”

“I promise,” Charlie mumbled, chewing on her nails.