Sylvie picked up the spoon. “Milk thistle?”
Agnes pointed to a bundle of large, prickly purple flowers that reminded Sylvie of artichokes. “I picked some up at Tidwick’s when I was replenishing our supplies for the Commis Contest. It’ll stop the bleeding and reduce the swelling… . It also makes a refreshing treat.”
Coolness draped over Sylvie’s mouth as she took a bite. The flavors of rust and salt were instantly replaced with a creamy sweetness.
“Now, what were we discussing? That’s right! Guy Fabre.” Agnes continued. “I think he just knew how to make the most out of the opportunity fate handed him. Now, everyone adores him.” Agnes shook her head. “They even like that eye patch he wears. We’re Sages, not pirates! A ridiculous show of bravado if you ask me.”
Agnes tapped her Blade against a sheet pan lined with sugar-crowned brioche. It lifted into the air like a magic carpet and floated toward the oven.
Ironically, the eye patch wasn’t for show. Sylvie knew that for a fact. Her mom had told her it was connected to the accidents that happened after the Golden Whisk. Naturally, Sylvie had tried prodding her for more details. The most she’d gotten out of her mom was this.The same day Sylvie got her scar, Fabre was sent a raspberry bombe laced with butcher’s-broom.
“But enough Fabre talk,” said Agnes, staring at Sylvie with a look of curiosity. “Madame Lopez said you came looking for me.”
“Yes.” Sylvie toyed with a strand of hair. She’d wanted to ask Agnes about Guy Fabre, but there was more …the spell that can break down obstacles.
The only real way Sylvie could protect her mom, and stop Bass, was to take away the power he was holding over their futures. What if she was just a spoonful of sugar or cup of bone broth away from realizing her dream? What if one simple recipe was all it took to remove the obstacles in her way? She and her mom were in danger of losing everything. Sylvie was now prepared to do whatever it would take to protect her family—even if that means not playing by the rules.Her mind was made up.
The Forbidden Recipe
SYLVIE LOOKED ATAGNES. TALKING TO ADULTS WAS A BIT LIKEskating down a ramp. You needed a clear path for movement, and an exit plan, in case something went terribly wrong.
“Our talk the other day … it helped me.”
Agnes picked up a mixing bowl full of cream and began to whisk. “I’m glad. People around here usually go to the instructors for help, not me.”
“Really?” said Sylvie. “That’s a shame. In fact, you’re the only one who’s given me some useful advice recently.”
Agnes smiled.
A measuring cup full of sugar now hovered over the bowl. A steady stream of sweet crystals poured in. Agnes began whisking in a brisk figure-eight pattern.
“Speaking of advice,” said Sylvie. “I wanted to ask you about something you said the other day… . I asked if the right recipe could help me. You said recipes can do many things … even break down obstacles.”
The whisk in Agnes’s hand froze. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you about that. It … was a mistake.”
“But—”
“Listen, Sylvie.” Agnes turned to face her. “I’ll be retiring in a few months. Forty years I’ve been here, rain or shine, never a misstep. I feel sorry for you. Really, I do. Just like LeGrande and your mom … maybe even Flammé, you’ve been dealt a terrible hand. But I can’t get tangled in that, can I?”
This wasn’t the answer Sylvie had been hoping for. On the other hand, it also wasn’t a no. She’d noticed the uptick in voice. The hesitation. The lingering question at the end. Agnes was clearly torn. What Sylvie had to do now was convince her.
“Look, I’m not asking you to do anything.” Sylvie lowered her voice. “But you said it yourself, I’ve been dealt a bad hand. Now, Bass is coming here … right before the Commis Contest. None of this is fairorimpartial.”
Agnes gave a weary nod. “Bass has been putting up roadblocks for people who are different, or who disagree with him.”
Sylvie needed to know which spell Agnes was talking about. She looked into her eyes. “Isn’t that a reason to help me?”
Agnes twisted her hands together. The room suddenly seemed to fall silent. Gone were the clanging pans and whirring mixers. Even the sauces on the stove seemed to be holding in their bubbles. “Well … I suppose. But—”
“Someone has to stand up to Bass. Just tell me what spell you were talking about,” Sylvie pleaded. “You don’t have to help beyond that.”
Agnes sighed. “Fine. Oh … I can’t believe I’m doing this!” Agnes pulled off her apron. “Follow me. Quickly. Before I change my mind.”
Sylvie hustled past workbenches and speed racks as she tried to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” said Agnes. She moved deeper into the kitchen and stopped in front of an old Prometheus stove.
Sylvie stared. The clawed feet were freshly polished. The green tiles glistened. But unless there was a recipe hidden inside, Sylvie didn’t see howthiswas going to help her.
