Balthazar’s piercing gaze settled on him. “Fernand, you were Team France’s lead assistant. Did you handle themise en place?”
Sylvie knew the term. Her mom used it all the time in the kitchen. It meant “everything in its place.” It was, as her mom reminded her, the first step every chef should take before cooking.
Fernand’s blond hair fell loosely over one eye as he adjusted the orange scarf sticking out beneath the collar of his chef’s coat. “I think I did, Fath—” Fernand laughed nervously. “I mean, Monsieur LeGrande.”
Balthazar raised a brow. “The Golden Whisk is about more than culinary skills and clever spells. It’s also a competition of the mind, of preparedness. You didn’t think to check your ingredients before the most important moment in your life?”
“I did.” Fernand glanced over at Josephine. “At least … I checked most of it. Then, I had our commis handle the rest.”
The young commis’s eyes grew wide. “I did check… . It was all there.”
Fernand gave a satisfied nod. “You see. I was sure it was fine.”
“Fine?” said Balthazar. “You handed the job off to someone else, and now look what’s happened!”
Sylvie felt sorry for Fernand.
“Well, I had to clean the fish. I was listening to ‘Vive le Feu.’ Then Le Cerf started to play, and I realized there wasn’t enough time to do everything—”
Balthazar slammed his fists down. “Have I taught you nothing? You dishonor your team. Yourself!”
Fernand’s face turned red. “I … I’m sorry, Father. Next time I’ll make sure—”
“You think there’ll be a next time?”
Despite his stature, Fernand suddenly looked small. An awkward silence filled the arena.
“I should’ve checked themise en placemyself,” said Flammé.
“You’re right. As the leader, you should’ve double-checked every step,” said Balthazar. His voice was cool. “And I will not punish another team for your shortcomings.”
“Father. Please!” Fernand suddenly found his voice.
Balthazar stared at his son. “I created this competition as a pursuit of excellence, to showcase the best and brightest Sages of each generation. That is what I intend to do. We’ll put it to a vote.” Balthazar turned to Monsieur Treusso. “Starting with you.”
“Me?” Monsier Treusso cleared his throat. “Of course. Just give me a moment to confer with my team. After all, this is what my agents are trained to do … spot falsehoods.” He turned around as two men in canvas aprons, embossed with the lettersCCS, emerged from the shadows.
Sylvie stared at them. One was extremely tall and stocky, with tightly cropped hair tucked beneath a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. The other was slim with skin the color of a warm dusk night and sparkling auburn eyes. They leaned down and whispered to Treusso.
It took Sylvie a moment to place them… .That’s Jack Bass and August Strange!They were both younger, but now it was unmistakable. August’s piercing eyes. Bass’s massive frame and hat. Sylvie’s mind was spinning.They both worked for the CCS? But more than that, they were a team.Now, Bass wanted August’s head served to him on a platter.Once upon a time, they must’ve trusted each other,thought Sylvie. But trust was like holding a writhing snake.There’s always a chance you’ll get bitten.
“This is a mistake,” said Bass.
“No. It’s the right call,” said August firmly. “There’s no real proof.”
Bass shook his head. “But—”
Monsieur Treusso raised a hand to silence him. “I’m ready to cast my vote. The Council of Culinary Sages is always in pursuit of excellenceandhonesty… . It appears we have no solid evidence connecting Mrs. Jones, or anyone on Team USA, to the sabotaged ingredients. Therefore, they should not be expelled from the competition.”
Bass’s face turned red as he glared at August.
If Sylvie had to guess, this was the moment the fangs had sunk in, seeping poison into their relationship.
The woman who was dressed like an eggplant scoffed. “I say Team USA is still to blame. They should’ve been more careful with their ingredients. I vote to disqualify them.”
Flammé nodded in agreement.
One by one, each judge cast their vote, until finally, the count was tied. Sylvie wasn’t sure who looked more miserable, her mom or Flammé.
