Sylvie pulled herself up and tried to get her bearings. She was standing outside a boarded-up metro station. To her right, asymmetrical buildings lined the street like a row of cancan dancers. Arched roofs pointed toward the clouds, and red awnings draped over the sidewalk, like billowing skirts.
“Where are we?” Georgia asked.
Sylvie wasn’t sure. It certainly looked like Paris, but this wasn’t what she’d expected. Maybe it was foolish, but she’d assumed they’d arrive in a kitchen.
Whoosh!
Flora popped out, just as a man wearing skinny jeans parked himself next to the oven. He checked his text messages, oblivious to the rattling appliance.
“My mama always says cell phones rot your brain… . Maybe she’s actually right,” said Georgia.
“It’s fool’s fondant,” said Sylvie. “All Scullery see is a postal box. Extra thick draping conceals the sound.”
Flora pulled a half-singed envelope out of her pocket. “Though the CCS still hasn’t quite figured out what to do about the mail that gets dropped inside. Speaking of things that don’t belong. What were you thinking, Sylvie?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Georgia puckered her lips.
“I’m not surprised.” Flora handed her a peppermint. “This’ll help the nausea.” She turned back to Sylvie. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? If you’d taken a wrong turn … or gotten stuck.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sylvie. “But you don’t know what’s happened.”
“But I do,” said a voice.
Sylvie turned. Standing there was a man with a thick mop of brown hair. He adjusted the signature fleur-de-lis patch covering his left eye.
Sylvie gaped at him. “Guy Fabre.”
“Godard sent a message, told me what happened.” Guy looked at her. “But she didn’t say anything about you coming to Paris.”
Sylvie didn’t meet his gaze. “That’s because it wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Oh, dear.” Guy scratched his head. “Your mother told me you could be stubborn. I see she wasn’t kidding.”
You two still talk?Sylvie wanted to ask, but she had more important things to worry about. “Please don’t send me back. I know—”
Guy held up a hand. “Even if I wanted to, there’s no time to waste. Making another pan of rumbledethumps will have to wait. But first, I need to send a message.”
He pulled a small cwtch out of his pocket.
The initialsGFwere embossed on it in gold. Sylvie eyed the bits of red dust swirling inside like a swarm of fiery hornets.
Guy must’ve noticed her staring.
“Myexpress cwtch,” he said proudly. “We’ll be releasing a line of them soon… . Fireseeds give it an extra zip.” He cleared his throat.“Urgent! Fernand LeGrande! Delay the competition. Jospehine Flammé is releasing a Vindicti-au-vent!”
“Jospehine Flammé at the Golden Whisk? What exactly did I miss?” asked Flora.
“I’ve got this,” said Georgia, launching into the story.
Guy pulled out his Blade, an eight-inch knife with an electric blue resin and cherrywood handle. He tapped it gently against the cwtch.“Express Delivery. To. Fernand LeGrande. Rue Lepic.”Guy said something in rapid French. Sylvie wished she’d understood the meaning.
The cwtch shot up into the air and quickly vanished out of sight.
Guy turned and headed toward the abandoned metro station. “Let’s go.”
“That’s how we get to the competition?” asked Sylvie, not bothering to hide her surprise.
“Ever since your mom was accused of cheating, they’ve cracked down on access points,” said Guy, pulling out a gold card with the wordsGolden Whiskwritten on it. “Besides, it’s not so bad; this is the VIP entrance.”
