Emma opened her mouth and looked at her reflection. In the center of her tongue, there gleamed a small, sparkling gold mark. She turned to Albie.
His tongue was out.
And glittering.
Emma, Albie, and Mr. Crackle looked at one another. Slowly, slowly, they started to grin, their smiles spreading and stretching wider and wider until they were laughing hard enough to hiccup. The tall baker picked up the two children and whirled them around and around until Emma felt as if she would burst with happiness.
“Now,” said Mr. Crackle once he had put them down, “let’s mix up some sugar and pickled cabbage and see if we can’t stop that poison before my world poofs out completely.”
A few minutes later, they were staring at a bowl of pink pickled cabbage crusted with sugar crystals. Mr. Crackle looked a little green.
“Why does medicine always look horrible?” he muttered as he dropped ten drops of the elixir into the bowl.
The elixir melted the sugary cabbage into a blob of red goo.
“Here goes.” Mr. Crackle grimaced as he held his nose and tilted the contents of the bowl into his mouth. He swallowed.
“It worked! I’ve never tasted anything so foul!” he announced cheerfully. “My sense of taste is back, and so is everything else. Goodness, pickled cabbage smells atrocious!”
“Time for a celebratory early lunch,” Mr. Crackle declared. “I’ll whip up a batch of pea soup!”
Albie and Emma exchanged glances. “Pea soup?” Albie said.
“I know it doesn’t sound very exciting, but there’s a reason why I was nicknamed Souper Duper in cooking school.”
Half an hour later, they sat down to steaming bowls of soup and hunks of fresh bread. Mr. Crackle inhaled and smiled. “It does feel lovely to have my senses back.”
As they dipped their bread into the scrumptious green soup, Emma asked hesitantly, “Mr. Crackle?”
“Yes, Emma?”
“Well, since you don’t have to worry about the poison anymore, can’t we just tell my uncle and Mr. Beedy that we failed to make the elixir and have done with it?”
Mr. Crackle paused thoughtfully over his soup. “Yes, we could, but I don’t think that would be the end of it. My guess is that your uncle and Maximus will do something terrible to us, whether or not we’ve been successful at making the elixir. We know too much of their vile plan. I don’t think they’ll let us go scot-free.”
Albie shuddered. “Then what are we going to do?”
Mr. Crackle smiled. He dipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew the elixir recipe. He passed it to Emma and Albie. “Take a look at the last verse,” he said.
Emma read the last lines of the recipe:
But, oh, beware the witchy hour
When potent powers turn sickle sour
Good shall turn from bad to worse
For those that taste at Creeker’s curse.
“Where’s Creeker’s curse?” Emma asked.
Mr. Crackle paused. “A more accurate question would be, What is Creeker’s curse? About five hundred years ago, there lived an extraordinary cook named Marta Creeker. Her dishes were like little mouthfuls of heaven, and people traveled thousands of miles to taste her cooking. There was one peculiar thing about her, though—she would never cook an afternoon meal.”
Mr. Crackle broke off another chunk of bread and swirled it into his soup. “One day, a rich king arrived and asked Marta to be his royal chef. She said yes, on one condition—she would be responsible for his breakfast and dinner, but someone else had to cook his lunch. The king agreed. All went well for a time, but one morning the king woke up and wanted a noon feast. Unfortunately, the evening before, the royal lunch chef had become violently sick with the flu. With no other cooks around but Marta, the king demanded that she prepare the feast. When Marta reminded the king of their bargain, he flew into a fit. He threatened to throw her in a vat of bubbling oatmeal if she refused.”
Albie wrinkled his nose. “Sounds like a bad case of the spoils! What happened next?”
“Marta made the feast. At noon the king sat down on his royal throne to eat. He took one bite … and turned into a lamb chop. It seems Marta suffered from a rare and inexplicable disease—if someone ate her food at noon, he would instantly turn into whatever he was eating.” Mr. Crackle lifted his soup-sodden bread and neatly dropped it into his mouth. “Since then, any dish that shouldn’t be eaten at noon has been referred to as ‘Creeker’s curse.’ ”
Emma remembered Mr. Crackle’s final words to Maximus Beedy and Uncle Simon. Come ten minutes before noon and I’ll have your potion. “Is the elixir going to turn Uncle Simon and Mr. Beedy into lamb chops?”
“The curse is a little different with every recipe. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
They cleaned up after their lunch, then settled in to wait.
It was fifteen minutes before noon. Inside the cake-shop kitchen, Emma sat on the dessert box and stared at the door. Albie chewed his fingernails and paced back and forth. Mr. Crackle sat on the counter with a mug of tea.
“Do you think they’re going to be on time?” Albie asked.
“They’ve got to be.” Emma hopped down from the box and began to pace with Albie. “I wish this whole potion-drinking-at-noon didn’t have to be so on-the-dot.”
Mr. Crackle sipped and swallowed. “There is a certain magic in precise timing. One of my favorite parts of baking is taking a pastry out of the oven at the exact moment it is perfectly cooked.”
“But if Uncle Simon and Mr. Greedy Beedy aren’t exactly on time, we’re the ones who’ll be cooked!” Emma cried.
“Have some tea,” Mr. Crackle offered. “I have a chamomile honey flavor in the cupboard that is wonderfully relaxing. And by the time you pour yourself a cup and drink it, your uncle and Mr. Beedy will be here. They know they can’t be late.”
Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A cane tapped at the door.
Emma and Albie froze. Mr. Crackle smiled. “It’s time.” He put down his mug. “Emma, please get the door—after all, I am supposed to be deprived of most of my senses, including the ability to notice a cane tap.”
Emma opened the door.
Maximus Beedy and Uncle Simon hobbled in. Maximus leaned grimly on his cane. Uncle Simon sat in a chair with a thud. “BLASTED PORCUPINE GOT ONTO THE PORCH AND SHED ALL OVER THE SHOES!” he bellowed. “I’M GOING TO HAVE THE HEAD OF EVERY PRICKLY BEAST ON MY TROPHY SHELF, IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO!”
Emma choked back a chuckle. Behind her, Albie made a funny sound.
Maximus Beedy glared at the two children suspiciously. “You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the porcupine that paid our shoes a visit, would you?”
“Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Crackle said hastily, “no use chitchatting when I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Let’s get this done with!” He went to the counter and picked up a tiny golden flask. “Here is the Elixir of Delight. I trust you have brought the antidote?”
Maximus Beedy smiled his thin, ugly smile. “Why, yes,” he said, withdrawing a clear vial filled with a viscous black fluid from his trench coat.
The two men switched bottles. Maximus smiled unpleasantly. “Now drink up, Mr. Crackle, before you lose your eyes,” he said.
Mr. Crackle held the bottle to the light and studied it. He gave it a swirl. His eyes darkened.
“Maximus Beedy, you may have fooled some fellows in your life, but never presume that you can fool an expert baker. I know exactly what is in this bottle, and it is not the antidote. You have given me liquefied poison-dart-frog toes. If I took it, I’d be a goner in three seconds.”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?!” crowed Uncle Simon. “We’ve got the Elixir of Delight! Let’s leave these miserable saps, Maximus, and make our fortune!”
Uncle Simon took a step toward the door. A cane whipped up and tapped him sharply on the belly.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
The cane swished down. It
hit the tip of Uncle Simon’s right shoe, then clicked onto the floor.
Uncle Simon yelped and jumped back. “Maximus! What the puffles are you doing?” he yelled.
Maximus Beedy moved in front of Simon, blocking his way to the door. He did not speak. He fixed an icy glare straight into Uncle Simon’s eyes. His eyes did not blink.
Emma shuddered. There was something inhuman about his stillness.
Uncle Simon fell silent.
Maximus’s thin voice floated through the air. “Simon Burblee, you are a complete and utter idiot. No criminal would trust this baker’s word about the elixir. He gave it to us too easily. He did not fight. He did not demand the cure for the poison first. If he is clever enough to make the Elixir of Delight, then he is clever enough to trick us.” He turned to Mr. Crackle. “What kind of game are you playing, Crackle?”
Mr. Crackle lifted one eyebrow. “Game?”
“Aha!” shouted Maximus. “You heard me, which means you’ve found a cure for my poison.” He held up the elixir. “You’re up to something with whatever’s in this little flask, and I intend to find out what that something is.” He turned to Uncle Simon. “You, Simon, must test the elixir.”
“Me?!” squealed Emma’s uncle. “Pig snouts and possum farts. Absolutely not. I’m not going to risk my neck so that you can get filthy rich.”
Maximus’s eyes glittered. “Oh, yes, you are, Simon. Do you remember that box of chocolates I offered you yesterday?”
“The ones I ate with the mashed liver?”
“Yes, the very ones. They were poisoned with a rather nasty concoction that will turn your insides to mud in”—Maximus casually glanced at the clock—“four hours and twelve minutes.”
Uncle Simon went white. He gurgled. He tottered. His hand wobbled out to steady him and landed with a thump on the kitchen counter.
Maximus smiled contemptuously. “I will give you the antidote only after you try the elixir.” He reached into his trench coat and pulled out a gleaming silver box. He opened it. Inside lay a sandwich.
Maximus said silkily, “Simon, I seem to recall you expressing a deep hatred of Brussels sprouts. As for me, I abhor anchovies. I’ve combined both ingredients into this disgusting morsel of food.” He delicately removed the sandwich from the box.
Emma winced as she saw the sandwich stuffing—a purply green mash that was flecked with black and smelled faintly of the sewer.
Maximus plucked the tiny stopper off the elixir bottle. Holding the bottle above the sandwich, he tipped a drop of liquid onto the slimy mess and offered it to his partner. “Eat up! If the elixir works, it will be the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted. If it doesn’t, either our little baker has failed or else he has tricked us.”
Uncle Simon slumped further and looked at Maximus with a horrified gaze.
“Personally,” continued Maximus, “if I were him, I’d love to see you twisted up like a licorice stick, but who knows? Maybe our Mr. Crackle has succeeded. Anyhow, whether or not it works, I’ll cure you of the chocolate poison afterward.”
A horrible stillness filled the room. No one moved.
The only sound was the kitchen clock tick-ticking, tick-ticking.
There was one minute left before noon.
Suddenly Uncle Simon leaped up. He snatched the sandwich from Maximus and took one terrible, desperate bite. His bulging jaw worked up and down.
He swallowed.
And grinned.
His grin stretched wider and wider, until all his teeth showed. Bits of anchovy and Brussels sprouts stuck out from the gaps. “It worked!” he shouted. “Maximus, this is better than roasted pigs’ feet! You have got to try it!” He took another enormous bite, then handed the rest to Maximus, who took a tiny nibble from the uneaten end.
The clock chimed noon.
Uncle Simon gulped. Maximus Beedy swallowed.
They looked perfectly fine.
“Well, Mr. Crackle, it seems you have succeeded.” Maximus took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his mouth. “I detest anchovies, and yet this is the most exquisite sandwich I’ve ever tasted.” He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Now, Simon, as for the antidote to the chocolates … Hold on, what the …?”
Uncle Simon’s head was changing. His skin had gone from pasty white to pale green. Veiny ridges crept up his bloated cheeks and curled around his head. His ears crinkled into round folds in his neck. His eyebrows disappeared into two leafy mounds.
Uncle Simon howled. His green eyes glazed with fury, and he turned toward Maximus. His howl died with a choke.
Maximus Beedy’s face had turned a scaly silver. His lips twisted into the shape of a beak, and his eyes grew three times their size. His entire head narrowed and sharpened.
In thirty seconds flat, Uncle Simon had turned into a Brussels sprout and Maximus Beedy had become a walking anchovy.
Mr. Crackle coughed. “So that’s what happens when you drink the Elixir of Delight at noon. How interesting!”
“Crackle! You knew about this?!” roared the Brussels sprout.
It lurched toward Mr. Crackle, but before its leafy head could reach him, the anchovy darted forward and grabbed Emma with its fins.
Emma was buried in a mass of smelly fish scales. The fins were horribly sharp. One of them drew up an inch from her throat. She froze.
Maximus’s voice came through the anchovy’s gaping mouth. “Mr. Crackle, I think you should change us back at once. Otherwise, something unpleasant might happen.”
Albie ran toward Emma but stopped short when the fish tightened its fin against her. “Leave Emma alone!” Albie yelled.
Mr. Crackle paled. For the first time since they had started this strange elixir-making, Emma could see he hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do next.
The fin against her throat drew closer. Then Emma felt the razor edge of the fin brush against the hairs on her neck.
Suddenly she had a tiny spark of an idea.
“Mr. Crackle!” she gasped. “Just tell them where to get the cure! Tell them about the flour barrel!”
“What rubbish are you talking about?” hissed the fish.
“Get your fin away from me and I’ll tell you!” Emma waited until the fin drew a fraction farther from her throat before she continued. “Mr. Crackle has a secret place where he stores all of his cures! Why do you think he hasn’t died from that horrible poison yet? He showed me this place. You go down the flour barrel, then”—Emma made her voice a bit louder—“open a secret door, and inside are the cures to any problem you could think of!”
Mr. Crackle looked confused. For one awful moment, Emma was afraid he wouldn’t understand.
Then an uncertain smile broke over his face.
“Yes, of course!” Mr. Crackle said. “Come with me, gentlemen, and I’ll get you fixed right up.”
He led everyone to the flour barrel, removed the cover, and flicked the wall switch. A whoosh of air flowed up and over the barrel. The soft glow of the tunnel lamps beckoned.
Mr. Crackle turned to Uncle Simon and Maximus and gestured toward the ladder. “Your antidote awaits below.”
The anchovy snarled, “Crackle, you go down first. Simon goes next, then the boy, then Emma. I’ll go last. Don’t try anything funny.”
Mr. Crackle got into the barrel and started to climb down. Emma watched her uncle flop his leafy arms onto the rungs of the ladder and follow. Albie gave her a quick hug, then dropped down.
The anchovy unwrapped its fins from around her. “Go,” it said.
Emma swung her foot over the edge of the barrel.
Down, down, down.
Emma could hear Uncle Simon swearing as he struggled to descend in the body of a Brussels sprout. The rungs smelled faintly of rotten vegetables.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Then they were there.
The air was just as cool and the lamps just as friendly as Emma remembered. She clutched Mr. Crackle’s and Albie’s hands. Uncle Simon
and Maximus scowled at the enormous door in front of them.
Emma stared at the door’s wrought-iron handle and the breath box. She crossed her fingers.
“Crackle! Open this door at once!” barked Uncle Simon.
Mr. Crackle glanced at Emma, gave her hand a good squeeze, and took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, behind this door are my most precious ingredients and priceless recipes. I’ve protected it with a very special system. In order to go through, you must follow my directions exactly.”
He approached the door and pointed to the glass pipe that led into the box full of metal loops. “I will blow through this tube, and on the count of three, all of us must push on the door together.”
The Brussels sprout blundered to the door and gave it a suspicious look. “Why together?”
“If you touch it even a fraction of a second before I do, then the door will bounce you back like a sack of Jell-O.” Mr. Crackle blew into the tube. “Ready? One, two … three!”
Maximus and Uncle Simon eagerly threw themselves against the door … just as Mr. Crackle, Emma, and Albie took a teeny step back.
CRACK! BANG!
Oily green smoke exploded into the tunnel. It smelled horribly of burned fish and vegetables. Emma began to sneeze and hack as her throat clogged. The tunnel swam before her eyes.
Behind her, Albie began to gurgle.
“Quickly!” cried Mr. Crackle. “Up the ladder!”
Emma dashed to the ladder. The rungs were slick with anchovy slime and stank terribly, but she gripped them tightly and raced up. Albie and Mr. Crackle followed right behind.
The foul smoke chased them, curling around Mr. Crackle’s shoes.
Then his legs.
Then his neck.
“Hurry!” he gasped. “Hurry!”
Emma’s fingers flew from rung to rung until at last she reached the top. With a mighty push, she dove out of the flour barrel. Albie launched himself over, and Mr. Crackle tumbled out after.
The smoke erupted from the barrel and flooded into the kitchen.
With Emma and Albie at his heels, Mr. Crackle ran to the front of the shop, wrenched open the door, and stumbled out.
The Magic Cake Shop Page 9