“So, you can fix this?” asked Sylvie hopefully.
“Yes … and no,” said Fernand. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough time, or pastels, to protect everyone in the arena. But hopefully it won’t come to that. If we can capture Josephine, our problems will be solved. Luckily, Bass sent extra security to the competition this year, trying to prevent August Strange from getting in, if you can believe it.” Fernand shook his head. “I told Bass it was flattering but unnecessary. As if the world’s most wanted man would risk showing his face here.”
Sylvie glanced knowingly at Georgia and Flora.
“Luckily, Bass refused to listen.” Fernand tapped a finger against his chin. “We’ll send several agents to search for Josephine while I find your mom.”
“So, you didn’t get Guy’s message?” asked Sylvie.
“No.” He glanced at Camille. “Have any cwtches arrived that I forgot to open?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Hmm …” Fernand stuffed the chocolate-covered handkerchief back into his shirt pocket. A sticky brown smudge leaked onto the sequins, though Fernand didn’t seem to notice.
Georgia’s words rolled through Sylvie’s mind, gnawing at her like a hungry wolf.Does that mean the message got lost on purpose?The detail that kept bothering Sylvie crept back.The win at the Golden Whisk catapulted Guy to stardom. More than anyone else, he’d benefited.
“I don’t suppose you know which kitchen Josephine is planning to use?” Fernand stared at Sylvie.
“What? Oh … sorry … no.” Sylvie tried to push Guy Fabre from her thoughts.
“Josephine was never very good at letting things go,” said Fernand. “Camille, head back up to the Sky Deck. Let the competitors know we’re pausing the competition until further notice.”
“Y-you want me to tell them? B-but what if they get mad?” she asked.
Fernand rested a hand on her shoulder. “Relax.”
Camille inhaled deeply. Though, she still looked nervous.
“Thanks to these three, everyone, including Josephine, thinks the competition has been paused because of Zotter’s dragons. We have the element of surprise on our side. I’ll be up shortly. Any grievances can be aired with me.”
Camille nodded.
“Start with the Swedes. They always tend to be an even-keeled bunch.”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Camille scuttled off.
Fernand turned back to Sylvie. “She’s great with organizing, but terrible with competitors. One hot-tempered Sage and she cracks like a cold egg in boiling water.” He checked his watch. “Now, follow me.”
Sylvie struggled to keep up. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her was starting to wear off.
Fernand walked briskly through a maze of corridors.
A tender lump was growing on Sylvie’s shin. She wasn’t even sure how it got there. But now it throbbed with each step. Georgia and Flora didn’t seem to be doing any better. They straggled behind, moving as if their legs were stuck in cement.
Fernand glanced over his shoulder. “Almost there.”
Where?Sylvie wanted to ask, but her tongue now felt like a ball of wool. She looked around, hoping to spot a drinking fountain.
A bunch of awards lined the walls: Silver Aprons, Fine Feasts, Michelin Stars. Each one had the nameBalthazar LeGrandewritten beneath it.
“In here.” Fernand tapped his Blade against an isomalt doorknob that looked like cut crystal, revealing a spacious office.
A desk studded with more isomalt crystals was parked in the center of the room. Candy jars rested on top, filled with a treasure trove of exotic things: powdered sugar cookies with bits of snow drifting around them, almonds that looked like drops of amber, even hatching chocolate eggs.
“Have a seat.” Fernand pointed toward a zebra-print couch wedged between a brass bar cart and a red FizzleFott’s soda dispenser. Gold bowls filled with sugar cubes hovered in the air.
“But shouldn’t we be looking for my mom?” asked Sylvie.
