Rose could only stare, open-mouthed, as Lily laughed and tucked the jar back out of sight.
“You’d be so cool if you weren’t so evil, El Tiablo!” Ty cried.
Rose turned to Balthazar, her eyes again filling with tears. “Come here,” he said quietly, putting his arm around her and turning her away from the ever-watchful cameras.
“You know I’m not one for sentimentality,” he said into her ear. “But you . . . you’re a good one, Rose. I’ve studied every recipe the Bliss family ever wrote, the life of every magical baker the Bliss family ever spawned, and you’re one of the special ones. You could go on to invent great things. Today you’re going to make the best darn polenta you ever made. Put love in it. That’s the real magical ingredient, and you’ve got that in spades.”
“But Lily . . . ,” Rose said, struggling with her tears. “She . . .”
Balthazar shook his head. “No matter what happens today, I’m sorry to say that Lily will end up destroying herself. That kind of ambition has wrecked civilizations. You just stay good.”
“So I just make the polenta without anything special in it?” Rose asked, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
Balthazar nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “And you know what? Things have a way of turning out special just when you need them to be.”
As Balthazar and Rose went over the polenta recipe one more time, Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre reentered the hall.
Balthazar gave Rose a kiss on the cheek and started back to the balcony as Jean-Pierre stepped up to the microphone on the cupcake stage. “You’ll have one hour to bake,” Jean-Pierre boomed. “Be bold. This is your final moment. As we say in Paris, Bonne chance.”
The massive baking timer on the wall began its ominous ticking, and Rose moved to her pantry shelf and began gathering what she’d need. Balthazar had stolen Ty away and was whispering to her brother about something or other, probably about how to mop Rose off the floor after losing turned her into a puddle of despair.
Rose was alone—no Booke, no magical ingredients. It felt like she was floating on her back in the middle of a vast indigo lake, her ears submerged in the water so that all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat. It was terrifying, floating in the middle of a lake by yourself; but there was still the sun, the clouds, the treetops. There was always something to grab on to.
So Rose picked up the box of cornmeal and a jar of honey, then put one foot in front of the other until she was standing in front of the stove. She measured one cup of water into a small saucepan, brought the water to boil, and added a half cup of the cornmeal, a sprig of rosemary, and two teaspoons of honey. As she stirred gently with a whisk, the tiny shards of dried corn began to swell and thicken into a golden-yellow porridge.
Rose felt one fat tear run down the length of her nose and then watched as it splashed into the cornmeal. When it hit the surface of the porridge, the tear made a curious spot of copper-colored iridescence.
Was she wearing some sort of bronze mascara that she’d forgotten about? Why would a tear turn the cornmeal copper? But the spot quickly disappeared. She continued to stand over the pot, stirring, as her tears plunked into the porridge, making tiny, copper-colored explosions each time.
“Whoa, mi hermana! Those are some fat tears, man!”
Rose looked up from the saucepan and saw Ty standing next to her, his apron tied neatly around his waist.
He looked at the cornmeal on the stovetop. “How’s it going? Looks good to me.”
“I’m almost done, actually. But you can get a bowl.”
Ty fished out three small bowls of red ceramic, and Rose ladled the polenta into the bowls, topping each with another sprig of rosemary. Together they arranged the bowls on the wooden chopping block, then stepped back and surveyed the scene. The bowls looked simple, rustic, and completely underwhelming.
From the stage, Jean-Pierre boomed, “Rosemary Bliss has finished with twenty minutes left on the clock, ladies and gentlemen! How brazen!”
“Well, Ty?” Rose laughed, relieved to be finished, even though what she’d finished was a failure. “What’ll we do for twenty minutes?”
“I say we try to psych out El Tiablo.”
They looked over at Lily’s kitchen. Lily was stirring a bowl of batter that flashed red, blue, or green, depending on how you looked at it.
“I feel like I’ve seen that batter before,” said Ty. “But where . . .”
“Red, blue, green . . .” Suddenly Rose remembered seeing those alternating colors next to the multicolored panels of a quilt during a backyard picnic months ago.
“The Hold-Your-Tongue Tart!” Rose hissed. “Remember when Lily made us that picnic in the backyard, and then she made us eat that tart—”
“She didn’t have to make me eat it,” Ty said. “That thing was good.”
“Yeah, but then we couldn’t talk about what she was doing.” Rose shook her head. “I don’t like this. . . .”
They watched as Lily took the box of her Secret Ingredient from the shelf and added a fistful of the chalky powder to the batter. An acrid, chemical stench wafted over from her kitchen, the same stench that Rose had smelled when she and Purdy had first tested the properties of the Secret Ingredient.
“That’s it,” murmured Rose. “The Hold-Your-Tongue Tart combined with Lily’s Secret Ingredient. One will make Jean-Pierre think Lily is great, and the other will prevent him from talking about anything else he might taste, including our polenta. We’re so toast.”
“Nah, I’m still holding out hope,” Ty said. “She’s not even cooking with an unusual grain. She’s completely ignoring the rules.”
“You’re right!” Rose said. “We might have a chance after all, if Jean-Pierre tastes ours first.”
Lily pulled her tart from the oven. She finished arranging tiny leaves of mint on the top of her slice of tart just as the timer rang.
Jean-Pierre hobbled down the black-and-white aisle toward the two kitchens as an orchestra played a coronation march. In honor of the occasion, the master chef had donned a mink-lined red velvet cape with a ten-foot train, which Flaurabelle held out behind him.
He came to a stop between Rose and Lily, between the magical tart and the very ordinary polenta, and looked from side to side. “Which to taste first . . . ?” he mumbled to himself.
Rose dug her ragged, chewed nails into Ty’s arm. He swatted her away. “Watch the dermis, mujer! I only get one!”
“I will perform a coin toss!” Jean-Pierre concluded. “Flaurabelle? The official coin, please!”
Flaurabelle pursed her red lips as she fished through her purse, ultimately pulling out a thin copper coin and handing it to Jean-Pierre.
Jean-Pierre turned to Lily. “I will let the older of the two finalists pick.”
“Are you calling me old, Jean-Pierre?” Lily asked coyly.
“Ha-ha!” the master chef laughed. “Please pick a side, Ms. Le Fay.”
“Why, heads, of course!” She winked.
Jean-Pierre flipped the coin high in the air. “Whoever wins will have the first taste!”
The coin landed tails up.
“The tasting will commence in five minutes’ time,” proclaimed Jean-Pierre, consulting the timer.
“Hey,” Sage said. The family had gathered in Rose’s kitchen to await the final verdict. “Have either of you guys seen Gus? He wasn’t around this morning, and he still hasn’t shown up.”
Rose shook her head no.
“I’m really worried about him,” Sage went on. “He’s my mentor.”
“Hey!” Ty said. “I thought I was your mentor.”
Sage beamed at his older brother. “You did?”
“Well, I, I mean, no,” Ty said. “I suppose we haven’t officially registered as mentor and protégé, but you’re always free to observe my behavior and steal my tricks.”
Ignoring Ty and Sage, Purdy folded Rose in her arms while Albert stroked her head. “You did great, honey,” said Purdy.
“I bet it’s really good, though. It looked real smooth. I didn’t even need to dump these in,” Ty said, holding up the vial of Rose’s tears that Balthazar had handed to him earlier.
“She totally cried into it. Like, six big, fat tears at least.”
“And did the polenta make a tiny copper explosion when the tears hit?” Balthazar asked.
Rose nodded, confused. What was all this about crying into the batter?
“Bang-o-rang!” Balthazar cried. “Tears of the pure at heart.” Balthazar smiled. “I told Ty to add the tears, but I couldn’t tell you what they were, Rose, because that would have spoiled them. Tears of the pure at heart are powerful things. Look at this.”
Balthazar pulled a rumpled sheet of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Rose. “I translated this while you were baking.”
Tears of the Pure at Heart, a Magical Additive to Any Baked Goode. Tends to bring on a Miraculous Turn of Events.
It was in 1516, in the British town of Bristol, that the young Heather Bliss did engage in fierce battle with her foe, the wicked German warlord Maximilian Fronk. He did call a truce with the town leaders, but young Heather, suspicious of his intentions, did convince her twelve brothers to launch a surprise attack on Maximilian, wherein her eldest brother, Everett, was mortally wounded.
She did set to preparing his favorite porridge, to comfort him as he bled, and she cried into the pot. The tears stained the porridge a bright copper, and when Everett did eat of the bowl, his wounds closed.
Rose began to tear up again as she read the story of her ancestor Heather Bliss, who had tried desperately to protect her town and only ended up making things worse. How history does repeat itself.
But would Rose’s tears be miraculous enough to override the powerful combination of a Hold-Your-Tongue Tart and Lily’s Magic Ingredient?
Just then there was a crash and a scream from across the aisle.
“My mouse!” Lily cried. “That cat has stolen my mouse!”
Rose turned to find the birdcage atop Lily’s pantry bookcase sitting empty, with the tiny door flung open. Gus stood in front of the cage, holding Jacques in his jaws.
“Gus!” Sage cried. “Don’t eat him!”
Gus looked at Sage and winked, while Jacques gave them a cheerful thumbs-up. As Lily reached for a broom, Gus leaped to the ground and galloped down the room’s center aisle, disappearing through the doors just as Jean-Pierre strolled back in. Rose wouldn’t have thought the fat cat could move so quickly.
“Jean-Pierre!” cried Lily. “Their earless cat stole my mouse!”
“Oh dear,” Jean-Pierre said. “I suppose the cat was doing us all a favor, as mice have no place in a kitchen. But then again, neither do cats. Good riddance to the both of them!”
“But—” Lily protested.
“No buts,” Jean-Pierre called as he made his way down the aisle. “Let’s get the judging under way.”
Marco placed Rose’s finished bowls of polenta on a silver tray as delicately as if they were baby chicks. He set Lily’s slices of tart on another tray, then gently lifted each tray to his shoulders, one on each side. Carefully balancing the two, he turned and made his way down the black-and-white aisle to the stage.
Marco set the silver trays on a giant banquet table next to the microphone. Jean-Pierre sat down and draped a napkin over his chest, then picked up a knife and fork in his eager, sweaty fists. The master chef’s eyes went wide with delight at the sight of Lily’s shimmery Hold-Your-Tongue-Tart; they went wide with confusion at the sight of Rose’s simple corn porridge.
“I will begin with Miss Bliss’s dessert, as per our earlier coin toss,” Jean-Pierre said. “Miss Bliss seems to have made . . . a bowl of yellow oatmeal.” He dipped a spoon into Rose’s bowl of polenta. “Will wonders never cease? I say, ‘Make the most exquisite dessert the world has ever known,’ and the child makes porridge! But, knowing her, it will probably manage to shake the earth, or something of that nature.”
With great ceremony, the master chef lifted the spoonful of polenta and placed it in his mouth. He rolled the polenta around in his mouth thoughtfully, swallowed, then licked the spoon clean.
He closed his eyes and clutched at his heart. “I . . . I don’t know what’s happening to me. My heart is swelling.” He peered at the empty spoon as it glinted in the harsh light of the cameras. “What have I just eaten?”
He took another hasty bite of the polenta, then another, and another, until finally he lifted the entire bowl to his mouth and slurped down everything that remained.
He set down the bowl, eyes closed, and sighed with contentment. “Ah, Miss Bliss,” he said. “Another exquisite concoction.”
Rose breathed a sigh of utter relief. The tears of the pure at heart might not be miraculous enough to best Lily’s spiked Hold-Your-Tongue Tart, but they had managed to transform an ordinary bowl of cornmeal into something that Jean-Pierre found special. He looked down at Rose and smiled. “Will you tell me, what is your secret?”
Rose shrugged shyly, searching for a truthful answer to the question. She couldn’t say “My tears were magic,” of course, because there were at least ten cameras pointed at her face. The truth was that her secret was her family—not just the love and the support of her brothers and her sister and her parents, but her ancestors, and the whole matrix of ancient traditions and lessons that had been written down in the Booke. It was the powerful history of her family—that was her secret. That history meant everything to her, and she wanted it back.
“My family has been baking for a long time,” she said, choking up. “For centuries. I’m just following in their footsteps.”
Jean-Pierre winked at her. “Of course,” he said. “I understand.”
He turned his attention to Lily’s tart, turning the plate round and round, mesmerized by the shimmering rainbow inside. “And now I’ll taste Miss Le Fay’s creation.”
Jean-Pierre turned to the Hold-Your-Tongue Tart. The tart couldn’t prevent him from saying nice things about Rose’s polenta, because he’d already said them, but the tart’s magic was so powerful that it could make him forget he’d said any nice things at all.
Jean-Pierre gobbled a forkful of the tart. “Oh my,” Jean-Pierre said, his eyes suddenly dead and dark, his voice robotic. “Oh, that’s good. My, my, my. My, my, MY, my, my, that’s good. The princess of pies has done it again. Unbelievable.”
“Really?” Lily asked, clasping her hands together and pressing them to her chest. “I’m so glad!”
Rose glanced at her mother and rolled her eyes. Lily’s Magic Ingredient had struck again.
Lily was standing with Jeremius across from Rose and her family. On the stage above them was the Gala’s trophy, a silver whisk no less than seven feet high. There was a plaque at the base that read 78TH ANNUAL GALA DES GTEAUX GRANDS. GRAND PRIZE WINNER. MASTER OF THE BAKE.
Jean-Pierre put down his fork and leaned back, patting his rotund belly.
Lily batted her eyelashes at Jean-Pierre. “Well, don’t stop eating now! There’s so much more tart to love!”
“I have sampled enough to know that your tart is the finest I have ever tasted,” replied Jean-Pierre.
The master chef steepled his fingers together and stared off into the distance as he contemplated his decision. The hundreds of onlookers in the balconies above held their collective breaths in anticipation. Rose stared at the floor in despair. It seemed just one bite of the tart was powerful enough to win over Jean-Pierre. It wasn’t fair. Lily was a liar and a cheater. But then again, Rose had done her fair share of lying and cheating that week as well.
Wasn’t Lily’s cheating much worse than Rose’s, because she had started the whole thing? Or did it not really matter who started it?
Either way, the Bliss Cookery Booke was gone.
With a twirl of his mustache, Jean-Pierre stood and stepped to t
he microphone. “But the tart is not quite as fine as the polenta of Miss Rosemary Bliss! Miss Bliss is the winner of the seventy-eighth annual Gala des Gâteaux Grands!”
The crowd erupted in shouts and applause, but Rose was so dumbstruck by the master chef’s announcement that she couldn’t hear it. She felt like she was falling through a long tunnel, or rather soaring through it. She had won back the Booke, and she’d done it without cheating—she’d won with sincerity, the sincerity of her tears.
“Congratulations, mi hermana!” Ty said. He gave Rose a hug as their family crowded around them. Albert hoisted Rose onto his shoulders. “You did it!” he shouted. He paraded Rose around the expo center as the spectators crowded the floor.
Blushing with embarrassment, unable to stop grinning, Rose looked back at her kitchen and saw Ty and Sage give each other high fives, while Purdy planted a kiss on Balthazar’s withered cheek. Miriam and Muriel ran down from the balcony and planted one kiss on each of Ty’s cheeks.
As Albert carried Rose above the cheering crowd, cameras followed her every move; hundreds of camera flashes flickered, but she ignored them all. She couldn’t stop staring at the joy on her mother’s face, the way her brothers were hugging each other, the way her father was prancing effortlessly around the room like he could carry her forever.
Rose looked over at Lily. Her aunt looked stunned, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening any more than Rose could.
And Rose pitied her aunt for a moment. Rose had a mother and a father and brothers and a sister and a great-great-great-grandfather who loved her—not to mention a devoted cat and a doting mouse. Even if Rose had lost, they would have been there for her. Lily had no one except for shrunken Jeremius, who at that moment was scowling at Lily and shaking his head. Lily had been paying people to love her, poisoning them into loving her, but now that she’d lost, she’d have to stop selling Lily’s Magic Ingredient—at least according to the rules of the No-Renege Rugelach.
A Dash of Magic: A Bliss Novel Page 16