SASHA’S FATHER SELLS MAGIC POTIONS.
THERE’S ONLY ONE PROBLEM—HIS POTIONS DON’T WORK.
Sasha knows they don’t work—they can’t work! Magic isn’t real! But everyone in town buys Papa’s potions, so Sasha has to take magic into her own hands.
When Sergeant Latouche bursts into the shop looking for a cure for courage, Sasha suspects it has something to do with the upcoming knights’ tournament. The question is, can Sasha and Puck get the sensitive soldier to feel as brave as the Knights of Daytime?
Albert Whitman & Co.
100 Year of Good Books
www.albertwhitman.com
Printed in the United States of America
Jacket art copyright © 2019 by Estrela Lourenço
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Text copyright © 2019 by Daniel Nayeri
Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Estrela Lourenço
Front matter and chapter opener illustrations copyright © 2019 by Anneliese Mak
First published in the United States of America in 2019 by Albert Whitman & Company
ISBN 978-0-8075-7245-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-8075-7252-8 (ebook)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
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To Enchantment
THE STORY SO FAR…
Sasha Bebbin lives in a village tucked away in a far-off corner of a world, between the mountains and the sea. She lives with her papa in an alchemy shop named the Juicy Gizzard. Her mother was the alchemist, but she has gone off to help fight against the Make Mad Order.
Now, Papa makes and sells the potions. But he’s not a very good alchemist.
And Sasha, who doesn’t even believe in magic, is worried that customers will start to complain. Then, Papa will be taken to the constable, who will give them a fine that they cannot afford to pay. And then, the wealthy gruel baron, Vadim Gentry, will buy up the Juicy Gizzard, and Sasha and Papa will be homeless.
And so, Sasha has her mission. Along with her sidekick, Puck—a mysterious wild boy from the woods—Sasha must use her detective skills to investigate the real reason every customer wants a potion—whether it’s luck or love or just a cure for the hiccups. She has to do this without being discovered. And the hardest part? She has to find a way to make the potion come true, to give the customer the magic they were looking for, before anyone finds out!
CHAPTER 1
It was so cold that even the snow seemed to shiver as it fell quietly over the Village. In every window was a candle and a halo of frost. The animals huddled in their stables for warmth. The stablers huddled with them.
Far out on the outskirts of the Village, near the Willow Woods, sat an old stone cottage with a thatched roof. In front of the cottage, a rickety wooden sign half-covered in snow, dangled from a spike in the ground. It read: The Juicy Gizzard Alchemy Shop: Makers of Fine Potions, Medicines, and Teas.
Inside the cottage, the light was dim and bluish. It came from two star-shaped lanterns burning a white jelly. The candles were unlit. The fireplace was cold.
The shelves were overfull with bottles of every shape and type, filled with powders of different colors, liquids of various sliminess, and several vapors swirling in glass.
Papa Bebbin sat at a small desk in the corner of the shop, studying an open ledger. He squinted in the half-light, shook his head, and sighed.
“What?” said Sasha. She stood at the workbench, stirring liquid in a copper pot that sat on a small burner. The blue flame of the burner flickered its light over the ingredients on the counter.
“I’m sorry, what?” said Papa.
“I said, ‘What?’” said Sasha.
“That’s what I said,” said Papa.
“You made a noise. I said, ‘What?’”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Papa. Then he turned the page of the ledger and sighed again, this time as if a slab of stone had fallen on his chest.
“Ugga mugga,” said Puck, rolling his eyes. He sat on the counter where Sasha was working, like a stray cat inviting himself to a dinner table.
“Puck’s right,” said Sasha. “Just tell us, and we’ll worry less.”
Papa considered it for a moment, then said, “It’s nothing. Sorry.”
There was a quiet moment. Papa read the ledger. Sasha stirred the pot.
Puck stole a cinnamon stick from Sasha’s tray of ingredients and put it in his mouth. “You can’t eat those,” said Sasha.
Puck’s cheeks stuck out, trying to hold the entire cinnamon stick, but his eyes were wide as if to say, “Whatever do you mean?”
“I don’t mean you can’t as in you shouldn’t,” said Sasha. “I mean you can’t.”
Puck crunched on the cinnamon stick. He tried to keep his expression calm.
His face began to turn red. He chewed a few more times. He began to shake.
“I told you,” said Sasha.
Puck tried to look innocent, but his eyes were watering.
“You can spit it out,” said Sasha. “It’s okay. I know you took it.”
Puck spit out a glob of cinnamon and coughed and tried to scrape the taste of it from his tongue.
“Have some of this,” said Sasha. She took her ladle and poured some of the drink from the pot into a cup. Puck grabbed for it and drank it all in one gulp. He handed it back and panted for air.
Only after Sasha filled the cup again and gave it to him did she realize that she had been tricked.
“Wait,” she said, “did you gag yourself on purpose?”
Puck shrugged, but his eyes twinkled as he took another gulp of her mulled honey drink.
“This is for Yuletide, you unmannered little burglar,” said Sasha. “Get down.”
She swiped him off the counter. The mulled honey had taken all morning to brew, and at each step, Puck had nosed in.
First, she had gathered a basketful of blackberries from the winter bush on the outskirts of the Willow Wood. Puck had stolen a handful and was caught purple-handed. Then Sasha cooked the blackberries in a pot with three cinnamon sticks and five stars of anise, which she had gotten as payment for cleaning out horse stalls for Oxiana the stabler.
Once the blackberries reduced down into a thick jam, she added the honey. She had gotten it from a wild beehive that Otto, their angry piglet, had dragged out of a hollow tree. Into the mixture, she added an orange pomander. She had gotten the orange from the fruit basket in the coolest corner of the basement. It was the last orange of the year, and almost too hard. She pushed clove buds into the rind in a lacy pattern. As it steeped in the liquid, the orange and clove would give off their flavors.
Then she added ten handfuls of newly fallen snow, which melted immediately in the steaming pot. She set it to a low simmer, and that was that. The family recipe for honey mull.
It was Mama’s favorite tradition.
But this year, Sasha had to be the one to keep it going. She looked into the sweet, dark drink and saw a reflection of herself. It looked almost like her mother’s face.
Sasha wondered where her mother was at that very moment.
Was she
riding through the winter passes, across the mountains toward home? Was the war over? Or was she busy in some castle of the Knights of Daytime, crafting potions for the soldiers to fend off the hordes of shadows summoned by the Make Mad Order?
It comforted Sasha a little to think that if she couldn’t be with her mother, at least they were both doing the same thing: staring into brewing pots.
Sasha filled a cup for Papa and walked over to his desk. He was slumped over the ledger once again.
She already knew what was wrong. The new year was around the corner. At the end of Yuletide, after the winter festival, tax collectors would make their visit. If Sasha and Papa couldn’t pay, the constable would make his visit, and soon they would be out of a home.
Sasha tapped Papa on the shoulder.
She tried to sound cheery. “It’s officially Yuletide!” That was what Mama always said after the first sip of honey mull.
Papa sat up and took the cup. When he smiled, the lines around his eyes were deeper. He looked older than Sasha had ever seen him.
“Mmm,” he said after he took a sip, “that is a perfect mixture, Sasha.”
The drink seemed to perk him up. He shut the ledger with a thud.
“Is it bad?” said Sasha, nodding at the ledger.
“Yes,” said Papa, pulling her into his arms. “It’s bad. But your wonderful drink has cheered me up. It must have some happy magic in it.” He took an eager gulp.
Sasha rolled her eyes. “No such thing as magic, Papa.”
Her father coughed and spat theatrically. “No magic? That’s a funny thing for the daughter of alchemists to say.”
Sasha shrugged. “And yet, I’ve said it.”
“What an insult! What terrible naughtiness!”
He squeezed Sasha, and they both laughed.
“Now tell me what present you’d like for Yuletide. A new bracelet? A Bloomhoof pony?”
All Sasha really wanted was to know her mother was all right.
“Papa,” said Sasha, “I’m not a kid anymore. Also, there are no such things as magic Bloomhoof ponies; otherwise I would want one.” Also, she thought, Papa didn’t have the money for gifts.
“What do you want for Yuletide?” said Sasha.
Papa took another drink of honey mull cider, breathed deeply, and said, “I want two ponies. And golden saddles for both. And peace throughout the world. And I want more bonbons than a mammoth could eat and a daughter whose brilliant mind will leave just a little room for the magic and mysterious. Oh, and ten more hugs daily. And I want everyone to call me Dearest and Wisest Papa.” Then he held out his empty cup and said, “And I’d like another cup of magic juice, please.”
Sasha laughed and took the cup. “Yes, Dearest and Wisest Papa. But it’s not magic.”
“Well, I don’t care what you say,” said Papa. “Your drink has given me hope that something good will come our way, and we’ll have the money for taxes. So it must be magic.”
Just then, they saw Puck from across the room, scrabbling up onto the counter toward the pot of honey mull. He had that look in his eyes like a rabid chipmunk in the middle of a chocolate shop. “Don’t do it,” said Sasha, but Puck wasn’t listening. He reached into the pot and fished out the orange pomander.
“You can’t eat that,” said Sasha.
Puck held the orange in both hands. He hesitated for only a moment.
“I’m telling you…” said Sasha.
But Puck stuffed the entire orange, and all the cloves, into his mouth and chomped on it with relish.
“Isn’t he a curious thing?” wondered Papa.
For a few seconds, Puck smiled and kept chewing.
Papa and Sasha watched and waited.
Papa said, “I mean, isn’t it proof of magic that a creature like him exists and hasn’t died from eating something poisonous yet?”
When the spicy paste of orange peel and dried clove finally hit the back of Puck’s throat, his eyes went wide, and he immediately stopped chewing. He made a tiny whimpering sound.
“You are extremely difficult, you know that?” said Sasha. “We warned you at least three times on this one. You’re like some kind of uneducated trickster fairy or something.”
Puck stood up straight, stiffened, and fell backward off the counter.
There was a thunderous crash.
The sound was much louder than Sasha expected.
A moment later, a huge sheet of snow slid off the roof and shook the whole house.
Bottles rattled on their shelves.
Papa jumped out of his chair.
Suddenly Sasha had forgotten all her frustration with the little guy and hoped only that he was all right. She ran around the counter.
“Puck! Are you okay? Puck!”
But when she came around the corner, she saw that Puck had fallen onto a basket of puffy winter moss. He had spit out the orange and was smiling at his luck.
“But, wait,” said Sasha, “if you didn’t make that sound, where did it come from?”
Her answer came quickly. They heard the shouting of people outside.
For a second, Sasha wondered if the tax collectors had come early.
“Wait here,” said Papa.
CHAPTER 2
Nobody waited. Sasha, Papa, and Puck all ran to the front door of the potion shop. When Papa opened the door, he was stopped by a pile of snow that had fallen from the roof.
But before Papa could suggest that they find some shovels, Puck ran headlong into the snow and plowed a little path.
Sasha and Papa followed.
They didn’t have to go far. At the road, right in front of their shop, they saw a cart that had veered off and crashed into their wooden sign.
A pair of soldiers were standing in the ditch with their swords drawn. In front of them stood Otto—the Bebbins’ family pig—growling. Otto was no bigger than a bread loaf, but the knights kept their distance.
“Back!” said one. “Back, you demon piglet.”
Otto was furiously grunting, most likely because their cart was draped with an orange horse blanket, and Otto hated the color orange.
Papa shouted, “Otto, relent!” But Otto saw red when he saw orange, and paid no attention.
It was Puck who noticed the blanket first. He jumped onto the cart. The pair of soldiers seemed even more alarmed when they saw Sasha, Papa, and Puck.
“Take what you want, thieves,” said one knight. “But know that we’ll be sworn enemies after.”
“Wait, we’re not thieves,” said Sasha.
“Then why did you run us off the road with your orc pig, and why is that gremlin rooting around in our stuff?”
“Oh. Oh!” said Sasha as the situation clarified in her mind. “We’re not bandits at all. Puck is trying to help you.”
Puck pulled the orange blanket into the cart and emerged. Otto stopped grumbling as soon as the blanket disappeared. “Everyone take a breath,” said Papa. “Otto, if you go back to your pen, then there’s an extra bit of dinner for you tonight.”
Otto had nothing else to do, so he waddled back around the house toward his pen.
Suddenly, everyone felt a little silly. The knights put away their swords. Puck jumped from the cart and scrambled out of the ditch.
The cart had lost a wheel. The knights’ horse was on the other side of the road, rummaging in the snow for a patch of grass to eat.
“Is this your house?” said one of the knights. He was tall and broad and seemed underdressed for the snow. The knight next to him looked identical, except that her boots, tunic, and helmet were green, and his were a peach color.
“What he means to say—now that we know you’re not bandits—is we’re sorry for the mess,” the green knight said.
“Right,” said the peach knight, “but if they don’t live here, then we’re sorry for something else. I was being precise.”
“Like what? What would we be sorry for?”
“They could be customers. We should say sorry for blocking their
exit.”
The green knight scoffed. “They’re not customers.”
“You don’t know,” said the peach knight. “This is a shop. They could be customers.”
“I know it’s a shop,” said the green knight. “You drove right into their sign.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Me?”
“I said that already. You!”
“Are you two knights?” said Sasha.
“And more importantly, are you two related?” said Papa.
“Brother and sister. How’d you guess?” said the peach knight.
Papa smiled and said, “You’re dressed similar.”
“That’s cause we’re hedge knights from Maraj,” said the peach knight, standing up a bit straighter to show his uniform. “At the hedge knight academy, each knight is named after a color. I’m Coral, and she’s Sage. We came for the Yuletide festival.”
“Right,” said Sage. “Heard there was a jousting tournament. Even heard a knight of the Kingdom of Daytime was coming.”
Sasha perked up at the mention of a Daytime Knight.
“Really?” she said. “Does that mean the war is over?”
“’Fraid not,” said Sage. “The knights will travel around sometimes, looking for heroes to recruit or going on secret missions.”
Sasha’s hope deflated. She said, “We should probably get you two out of there. The sun’s going down.”
Everyone agreed. Coral and Sage put their shoulders to the cart and pushed with all their might, but it didn’t budge. Puck jumped into the ditch between them. He spit on his palms and rubbed them together, then he put his hands on the cart.
It was a funny picture, the little boy, barely up to their knees. But he seemed determined. So on the count of three, they all pushed. This time, the cart jumped out of the ditch and landed several feet beyond.
Sage petted Puck on the head and said, “Thanks, little guy.”
Puck blushed and didn’t know what to do, so he hugged her leg.
The hedge knights replaced the missing wheel, lashed the cart to their horse, and went on their way. Sasha picked up the broken pieces of the sign and walked back toward the house.
Sasha and Puck and the Cure for Courage Page 1