The Mysterious Lost Child (The Inscrutable Paris Beaufont Book 2)

by Sarah Noffke

  Hemingway clapped again and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Okay, now onto our more hands-on lesson for today. We’re going to continue classifying different plants in the greenhouse, on the Enchanted Grounds, and for higher-level students, you’re free to venture into the Bewilder Forest. If you have trouble identifying a plant, please come and find me. I’m going to be repotting some Unearthly Orchids.” He indicated some flowers in the back corner that didn’t look from this planet. They were seemingly impossible shades of neon green, blue, and bright pinks—colors that Paris had never seen on flowers.

  Not needing to be ushered anymore, most students got up and started for the grounds or the forest to classify the plants they came across.

  Drawn to the strange orchids, Paris strode over as Hemingway went straight to work, shoveling fluffy soil into pots. She figured she could cross the Unearthly Orchids off her list for classifications and learn about them in one go.

  “These are very interesting.” She indicated the delicate blooms, although she’d learned that the fragile-looking flowers could be very hardy.

  Hemingway nodded. “And quite temperamental. I think I’ve finally figured out what they needed to grow.”

  Paris lifted an eyebrow. “Moon rocks?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Good guess. Legend has it that an alien race left the orchids behind from their planet and that’s why it’s almost impossible to get them to grow. I think the reason they’re so difficult is that they don’t require the things we usually think of when trying to get orchids to flourish.”

  “You mean it’s not a specific type of dirt or fertilizer or food?” she asked.

  “Yeah, if my findings are correct,” Hemingway began. “I think that the Unearthly Orchid wants to form a relationship with its gardener—but a healthy one.”

  Paris shot him a skeptical expression. “Like, you have to court the flower? How does that work?”

  “Pretty much.” He chuckled. “Many plants simply want their basic needs met, but that hasn’t worked with the Unearthly Orchid, I’ve observed. Two different plants can get the same thing, but one will do better than the others. So I started to wonder what the distinguishing factor was. That’s when I started to observe my behavior around them. I realized that I might find myself singing as I tended to one of the orchids. The next day it would do better and the other beside it would have wilted and died. So I started playing around with it and realized that the ones that got positive attention flourished more than others who either got negative treatment or none at all.”

  “I have heard that plants like for people to talk to them,” Paris said. “I thought that the logical reason was it was the carbon dioxide we breathe out that they liked.”

  “Spoken like a real pragmatist.” He nodded. “That was my thought too, but then it would mean that regardless of whether an orchid was spoken to in a nice or mean way, that it would do fine. However, I found that only ones that had positive treatment flourished.”

  “Kind of like the shame plants then?” Paris guessed.

  “Sort of,” he answered. “Those pick up on our emotions. With the Unearthly Orchids, one really has to form a relationship with them, and like any healthy partnership, it takes constant maintenance. If one day I don’t give the orchids affection, they start to deteriorate.”

  “Wow, that’s fascinating.”

  He nodded while regarding the strange orchids. “Indeed. There are so many lessons we can learn from plants that surprise even me.”

  “I’m listening.” She waited for him to continue.

  “Well, this one here.” Hemingway indicated the closest orchid, which was about two feet tall with several blooms. “It was really struggling yesterday. I offered it the attention that I thought would help, but it was failing, and I really thought it was a goner. All day, I kept telling the plant that we couldn’t give up and did everything I could think of. Anyway, I came into the greenhouse this morning, fully expecting to find the orchid dead or close to.”

  “It looks healthier than the others,” Paris observed.

  Hemingway flashed her a smile. “That it does. I was surprised to find it doing great this morning even though my hope had dwindled. Like I said before, I think that one has to form a relationship with the Unearthly Orchids and like any relationship, they’re complex. I didn’t give up on the plant yesterday and offered it everything I could until I was exhausted. I was pretty demoralized this morning and the flower was robust and really lent me some inspiration that I needed when I came in this morning. It reminded me of an important relationship principle.”

  Paris lowered her chin, giving him a silent look that urged him to continue.

  “In a relationship, two people have the best chance of making it if they both don’t give up,” he explained. “But we’re all human so it’s difficult not to lose hope. Instead, a healthy relationship is one where the two don’t give up at the same time.”

  Paris smiled. “So you gave the Unearthly Orchid all you had and had all the hope. This morning, when you were at your lowest, it had risen to the challenge and lent you the hope.”

  He nodded victoriously. “That was enough to encourage me to give the orchid what it needed so it could continue to flourish. Now I think it’s strong enough to be repotted.”

  “That’s pretty amazing.”

  Something outside the glass walls of the greenhouse caught Hemingway’s attention. “Oh, if you want to see something amazing, follow me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. “Hurry, before it’s gone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hemingway didn’t release Paris until they were outside on the Enchanted Grounds, the sunshine making everything sparkle. There was a palpable excitement in the college’s groundskeeper.

  He led her over to a set of bushes with tiny white blossoms. “Aren’t they delightful?”

  At first, Paris didn’t see what Hemingway was referring to. Then she did and was completely in awe. Flying around the bush was a little creature that resembled a hummingbird but also a butterfly. Its wings beat extremely fast, making a drumming sound, and it had a long tongue that dipped into the flowers, gathering nectar.

  “What is it?” She watched the creature, which moved so fast it was difficult to keep up with its actions.

  “It’s a hummingbird hawk-moth,” Hemingway answered. “Isn’t it fun?”

  Paris nodded, noticing that the animal had a bird-like body and butterfly wings. It was like its own type of halfling, and Paris instantly liked it.

  “They’re fairly rare to see here on the grounds, for whatever reason,” Hemingway stated. “I think it’s a good omen. Some believe them to signify luck.” He tilted his head back and forth. “However, some also think that they represent mystery, transformation, and moving from darkness to light. So I guess it depends on what meaning you want to endorse.”

  “I’ll go with luck. That seems like the most straightforward option,” Paris remarked, watching as the hummingbird hawk-moth gathered nectar from a flower efficiently before moving on to the next. It was an incredibly remarkable creature and moved with such grace. “Why is it that new plants are showing up here on the grounds and now a rare sighting of this moth?”

  Hemingway looked at her, studying her expression for a moment. “It’s hard to say. Happily Ever After is influenced by many factors, although I haven’t seen this many changes at once. The people, the type of magic in use, and the level of the love meter all affect the college and its grounds.”

  Paris didn’t want to think it was her and her unique brand of magic affecting Happily Ever After, although she might want to take credit for the hummingbird hawk-moth. Not the Deadly Nightshade though. She reasoned that the love meter was down and that could be the cause. Not to mention that they’d lost an instructor the night before who had betrayed the college in an attempt to sabotage Paris, so there were many factors at play.

  “Speaking of strange new things on the grounds,” Hemingway muttere
d, kneeling beside the bushes and inspecting the grass and dirt.

  “What is it?” Paris asked.

  He combed his hand over the dirt, lifting his fingers to study them afterward. Hemingway shook his head. “I’ve been finding strange tracks lately…well, for a few weeks.”

  “Strange tracks?” Paris asked. “Like, a predator? I didn’t think there were any harmful animals on the grounds.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t guarantee that, although I’ve never seen one. No, this isn’t anything harmful. Merely curious. It’s a type of rodent that I haven’t seen here.”

  “Rodent?” Paris tensed.

  Hemingway stood. “Yeah, we have chipmunks here on the grounds, and I’m used to finding their tracks. These are larger. It almost seems like a fox squirrel, but I’m not sure why we’d have one of those.”

  Paris worked to keep the tension off her face. Those were Faraday’s tracks. She knew it. Although Wilfred knew about the talking squirrel and wasn’t about to say anything, she’d prefer if others didn’t know about her roommate. Paris had enough attention right then without others knowing that she’d smuggled a strange animal into Happily Ever After College. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she remarked and pointed at the hummingbird hawk-moth, trying to distract him. “I’m glad you spotted this and showed me.”

  An uncertain expression flickered in his eyes, but Hemingway smiled. “Well, it’s rare to see them, or at least it used to be. Seems when you’re around, I find things of interest.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris didn’t know what Hemingway meant by his statement about finding things of interest when she was around, which was why she made up an excuse and dismissed herself immediately.

  Having skipped lunch, she was looking forward to magical cooking with Chef Ash more than usual. It had quickly become one of her favorite classes anyway because the carpenter cook, as she liked to call him, was so easy-going and smiled often. Also, he was very supportive of her endeavors, and his passion for cooking came through in his instructions.

  “Cooking is all about instinct,” he explained to the class that afternoon. “Whereas with baking, the measurements are rigid and the process usually straightforward, there are many different ways to achieve desired results with cooking. It can be a pinch of this and a dash of that until you get where you want with a dish. Baking is the precise art form of love. Cooking is the feeling version of it.”

  He strode up to the front of the room and picked up a whisk from the countertop. “Today, I want you all to create a recipe using some key ingredients. You can make an appetizer, a main entrée or soup or salad, but you must use all three of these magical ingredients.”

  Chef Ash twirled the whisk, and a large picnic basket sitting on the counter opened. Three jars of spices rose from it before settling down on the work surface.

  Indicating the first jar with a bright red ground spice, he said, “We have Gaelic Smoked Paprika, which is known for affecting emotions. Too much of it, and whoever eats your dish will be as fiery and pissing mad as a Scotsman whose wife went on a shopping spree.”

  Many of the ladies around the room giggled, earning a satisfied expression from Chef Ash.

  “Second.” He pointed at the middle jar full of dark brown spice. “We have Artisan Cumin. Its main magical property is creativity. It’s mostly an amplifier, so its effects will be related to whatever you pair it with. Put it in sufficient amounts with Gaelic Smoked Paprika, and you’ll be well on your way to inspiring a romantic poet who cries easily and is moved by the slightest winds. However, pair it with more of our last spice and the effects are totally different.”

  Chef Ash indicated the third jar, which was full of a light tan spice. “Southern Coriander is known for sparking friendships. A pinch of it and people will be more responsive to making friends and bonding with others. Too much of it, and well, let’s just say that too much of any magical spice is a bad thing.”

  He twirled the whisk again, and identical jars appeared on all the workstations in front of each student. “The idea with magical spices and cooking is not to create love potions. We all know those don’t work and often backfire. Instead, the idea is to set the stage for pleasant interactions. We’re simply nudging two people who have potential. Yes, they could have a glass of wine to loosen up or a bite of chocolate to release endorphins. They could also have a bite of a quiche that makes them open up and be more receptive to another’s advances. The key though, is about harmonizing the spices. While this isn’t baking with precise measurements, it is about balance. Too much of one spice can have the opposite effects of what you intended to make.”

  Chef Ash glanced around the room as if expecting the students would have questions or comments. When no one did, he smiled wide. “All right, so today’s assignment is for you to invent a recipe, making anything you want. There are only two requirements.” He held up one finger. “The first is that you must use all three magical spices.” Then ticked off another finger. “The second is that your dish must have the effect of creating a favorable setting for two people. Maybe you make spiced mushrooms that encourage flirting. Or you could cook a grilled chicken that makes two people more open to each other. What you do is up to you, and I look forward to reviewing your concoctions.”

  Christine’s hand shot into the air, waving slightly. “If you’re judging the recipes, is that safe?”

  He chuckled. “I see your concern that I might be drunk from all the spices if I was trying all your dishes. However, for my grading, I’ll simply be relying on magic. My waistline and my mind really can’t handle that much magical cooking.”

  Chef Ash studied the room, waiting for other questions. When there weren’t any, he twirled the whisk again. “With that, you can get started.” A timer appeared on the workstation beside him and began ticking. “You have two hours to make something from scratch. Good luck.”

  Paris looked at the three full spice jars in front of her and the pantry of ingredients across the room. Two hours seemed like a lot of time—if it wasn’t for the fact that she had no idea what to make.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Most of the students were already cooking. Paris remained frozen, staring at the magical spices as if they would telepathically tell her what to do with them. She didn’t have a lot of experience cooking, mostly grabbing things from cafés on Roya Lane.

  Uncle John cooked for her when he wasn’t working, and he was quite good at creating tasty meals. His favorite cuisine was Mexican, and he made a chili that just thinking about it made Paris miss him. A strong feeling of nostalgia wrapped around her suddenly and she knew she needed to try and replicate the Mexican beef chili.

  Even though she didn’t know what all was in it, Paris thought she could get close enough.

  “It has to have the basics,” she reasoned, talking to herself as she pulled out an onion, jalapeños, and garlic from the pantry.

  Paris chose some lean ground beef after recalling visuals of watching Uncle John sauté the meat, waving his hand in the air to bring the steam up with the spices as he cooked, checking the aroma.

  Feeling much more confident than when the assignment started, Paris filled her arms with canned beans, tomatoes, and broth before making one last trip back to her workstation. She knew that chili needed time for the flavors to “marry.” That’s how Uncle John always put it, but she reasoned that she could use some magic to compress the cooking time.

  As the meat sautéed, Paris went to work chopping and dropping her vegetables into the pot.

  “You’re humming,” Chef Ash observed, buzzing by her workstation to check her progress.

  Paris paused, realizing that she had been humming to herself—not something she ever did. “Yeah, I guess I was. Cooking relaxes me.”

  He nodded proudly. “Me too. And I know why. You’re creating something that nourishes people. How can that not be fulfilling? The only thing better would be creating a home for them to live in.”

  Paris sti
rred the pot of vegetables and meat, the steam rising and wreathing around her face. “If you love carpentry so much, why didn’t you go into that?”

  Chef Ash touched the pencil behind his ear reflexively but left it in place. “I get that question a lot. Although carpentry was my first love, I felt like the world needed me as a chef. Magical carpentry is a very tricky art form that can have disastrous ramifications if you don’t construct something right. In the end, I decided on the profession that allowed me to construct and use magic in a safer way. This opportunity at the college opened, and it made sense that I pursued it. I’ve had zero regrets. I get to do both things I love, in a way.”

  “I guess that’s how life goes,” Paris mused. “Life usually dictates our path. That’s why I’m here.”

  “We’re glad about that detour life sent you on.” Chef Ash winked.

  “Thanks.” Paris blushed. “There are ramifications to magical cooking, like you said.”

  “Oh yes,” Chef Ash stated gravely. “Thankfully, it’s pretty quick to mitigate them. If you get a magical carpentry spell wrong, residents might find themselves forever locked inside their house or wake up to find their rooms shrinking, about to crush them. I didn’t want that kind of pressure on my shoulders.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t either,” Paris agreed.

  “Well, not to scare you, but you’re responsible for helping two people fall in love. I can’t think of a more important or tougher job.”

  Paris blew out a breath and pinched a little Gaelic Smoked Paprika into the pot. “Believe me, I’m scared.”