Jell-O? Georgia’s parents really don’t know anything about cooking.Sylvie tried to stay positive.
“Actually, I’m all right with it,” said Sylvie. “I mean us … not shrimp mixed with Jell-O. That’s gross.”
“I know.” Georgia started chewing on a nail, then replaced it with the tip of her pen.
“So, you’re seriously okay cooking with me?”
“Seriously. That question Bergen asked about the veiled lady mushrooms was tough… . You know your stuff.”
Georgia gave her a real smile this time. “Thanks.”
“For this exercise, we’ll be using Guy Fabre’s recipe for Nearly Magical Macarons.”
Boris rifled through the pile of cookbooks on his workbench, unearthing a familiar cover:Guy Fabre: Unbelievable Baking.This was the book Guy had given Sylvie for her eighth birthday.
Enthusiastic squeals erupted out of everyone but Sylvie. She’d made his macarons once. It hadn’t ended well. She’d overmixed the meringue, then accidentally set the oven to self-cleaning mode. Instead of crispy, sweet pastels, she ended up with charcoal disks. Sylvie had been tempted to write Guy and tell him,This recipe should come with a warning. Epic disasters have occurred when making macarons.
Georgia cleared her throat. “How about I mix. You sift?”
“Sure.”
Sylvie was trying her best to focus on the task. But preparing one of Guy Fabre’s recipes wasn’t the best way for her to set aside what she’d seen in Godard’s memory. If Sylvie wanted to get her Blade and stay at Brindille, she had to stop Bass. Her best shot was to prove her mom was innocent. But to do that, she needed to figure out what really happened. More importantly, she neededproof.
Sylvie’s desk suddenly started to shake. A mixer shot out of the pencil holder. Wood morphed into polished steel. Once again, magic was transforming the world around her.The right spell really can work wonders.If that was all it took to change a room, maybe one perfect spell could fix her future.
Guy’s Nearly Magical Macarons
SYLVIE ANDGEORGIA’S DESKS FUSED INTO A PRISTINE WORK SURFACE. Several boxes of sugar, ground almonds, and jars filled with powdered food coloring now rested on top.
Boris clapped his hands together. “The reason Fabre’s recipe is called ‘nearly magical’ is simple.”
Darius, who was sitting at the desk in front of Sylvie, turned. “Because Bergen can’t cook up proper spells anymore.”
Georgia’s brows crinkled. “What’s that mean?”
Sylvie fiddled with the box of powdered sugar. “The test we’re all hoping to take—the magic in that recipe only works one time. If something happens to your Blade, that’s it.”
“You mean, Bergen”—Georgia lowered her voice—“can’t cook up magic?”
Sylvie shook her head.
“I thought he wasn’t using his Blade because we’re making macarons,” said Georgia. “But then how did he transform the classroom?”
“One of the other teachers must’ve cooked up the spells that enchanted it,” said Sylvie.
Darius eyed Sylvie like a pimple he wanted to squeeze out. “And whose fault is it that he lost his Blade, Jones?”
Being called a cheat was bad enough. But getting blamed for ruining someone else’s life—that was the worst. Sylvie thought of her mom.I’ve been dealing with this for days. She’s been stuck with it for years.
Boris shot Darius a stern look. “Mr. Maxwell, are you here to discuss the past, or to work on your future?”
Darius shifted awkwardly in his chair. “My … future?”
“Good. Then I suggest we get on with the lesson. As I was saying … the test, and whipping up macarons, aren’t so different. There will be things you cannot easily control.” Boris raised a finger into the air. “For example, macarons hate humid days like today. Other things will be in your control. Like how you work on your own, and as a team.”
Sylvie and Georgia glanced nervously at one another.
“Little things often make the biggest difference between success and failure in the kitchen,” said Boris. “I suggest you keep that in mind. The team that manages to produce the best batch of macarons first will win the bake-off. As a reward, they’ll get ten extra points that will go toward their final grade,andthey’ll participate in the opening ceremony for the Commis Contest.”
