A large walnut door was now all that stood between Sylvie and Madame Godard. She tucked her shirt into her leggings, adjusted her backpack, and knocked.
“You may enter,” said a voice with a reedy timbre that reminded Sylvie of a fluttering clarinet. Sylvie tried to ignore the sensation of jumping beans in her stomach.Godard wants to punish me because of last night.But that didn’t matter. Whatever Godard’s plan, this was also Sylvie’s chance to speak her mind and try to get to the bottom of things.
Sylvie stepped into the room. The same balls of light she’d seen floating in the garden drifted through the air like clouds. Her eyes followed them.Blown sugar globes filled with …Sylvie wasn’t sure what the silver strobes inside were made of.
She craned her neck, trying to follow them as they moved higher, illuminating shelves that stretched to the ceiling, crammed to the hilt with books and orbs of luminous glass, each housing a peculiar plant. Sylvie read the names etched into those closest to her.
CORPSEFLOWER
DRAGON’STOOTH
PORCUPINETOMATO
“Do you like my plant collection?” asked Madame Godard. She was seated in a large velvet chair behind an antique desk, reading the newspaper.
“What are they?” Sylvie stared at the porcupine tomato. A fine mist swirled between purple blossoms and leaves covered in dagger-sharp thorns.
“Powerful ingredients. All quite useful, but too valuable to keep in the garden… . I’m afraid Tidwick’s isn’t the only one dealing with the theft of ingredients recently.”
“Here too?”
Godard nodded.
Something cold and sharp gnawed at Sylvie.Is that what Flora was doing last night? But why steal?Besides, she didn’t seem like a thief.But not all thieves wear grubby clothes and ski masks,she reminded herself.
“Ch-chocolate… . Criollo. Is that what was s-stolen?” Sylvie stammered.
Godard furrowed her brows. “No. Why?”
The cold stabbing sensation lifted a bit.Maybe it’s not Flora.“Oh, no reason. Just something I heard some kids talking about,” lied Sylvie.
“I see. Well, I didn’t call you here to discuss disappearing ingredients, anyway.” Godard gestured to the chair opposite her and set aside the newspaper. “Come. Sit.”
Sylvie couldn’t help but notice the headline splashed across the front page: “Fernand LeGrande Takes Extra Measures to Ensure Memorable All-Star Competition Free of Cheating.”
Perhaps the sentiment would’ve been reassuring, if Sylvie hadn’t read the confidential memo.Three days.That’s how much time she had left until the Golden Whisk. After that, it would be too late to stop Bass and whatever he had planned for her and her mom. She was sure of it.
“Are you all right?” asked Godard. “You’re suddenly quite pale.”
Sylvie let her backpack slip down as she took a seat. “I have a lot on my mind. The competition that will decide my mom’s fate is in just a few days. Now Flammé has vanished, and someone stole dangerous ingredients from Tidwick’s… . I can’t help but wonder if it’s all connected.” She was still unsure if she should show Godard the letter. After all, August’s note was clear.Give it to Godard the day of the competition.But was that really the right thing to do?There’s a spy at Brindille. What if they find the note? As long as I keep this secret, I’m in danger.
“I understand your concern,” said Madame Godard. “It feels a bit like history is repeating itself to me too. I’m sure you don’t remember. But I visited you once … after the Golden Whisk.”
Godard’s face was creased with delicate wrinkles. Her hair, ghostly white, fell to her jaw in a sleek bob.
Sylvie did remember. Although, the memory of that meeting had been boiled down to little more than a flavor.
“You were the one who brought me the tin of butter cookies after the accident.” Sylvie held up her hand.
“Langues de chat… cat’s tongues. You loved them.” Madame Godard smiled. “Youdoremember.” There was a calmness in her eyes, like a sea that had churned out all its waves, leaving only placid waters. “Speaking of sweets …”
She hoisted a glass jar onto her desk. A school of colorful fish were inside, swimming in circles.
“Chef Devon just brought me a batch of gummies to sample.” Madame Godard dipped her fingers in and yanked a wriggling purple fish up by the tail. “Would you like to try one?”
Sylvie’s stomach grumbled. “Sure.”
“Devon has been trying out new spells in her captivating confections class.” Godard pointed to the floating spheres Sylvie had been eyeing. “She also made the zing-n-zap taffy for our sugar lanterns. Between you and me, they’re lovely to look at, but rather jarring to eat!”
