“What?” grumbled the cat, mid-lick. He’d finished cleaning his left ear and was working on the right.
“In our secret cellar, back home,” Rose said, “all the really nasty ingredients were in green jars reinforced with chicken wire!”
“So?”
“The Moon’s Cheese was in a red jar reinforced with chicken wire!”
“Green and red,” mumbled Gus. “Put them together and you get Christmas.”
Rose gently flipped through the Apocrypha’s pages, which were cracked and creased with age. In the corner of one, something caught Rose’s eye: an engraving of a half-moon, with a tiny man digging into the surface with a shovel. The recipe read as follows:
PERENNIAL PATRONS’ PASTRY CREAM: For the magical assurance of Customer Loyalty
It was in 1745 in the Romanian town of Dragomiresti that Albatross Bliss’s distant cousin Bogdan Tempestu did notice his bakery’s popularity waning after he had begun to substitute sawdust for flour in order to increase his profits. He did create this pastry cream and inject it into all of his fruit tarts, after which his patrons did become violently addicted to his pastries.*
Sir Tempestu did stir in a copper saucepan two fists of the freshest cow’s milk with one fist of white sugar. He did stir in the yolks of six chicken’s eggs and three acorns of white flour. When the mixture had almost cooled, he bid his caged wolf, Dracul, to howl at one jar of the Moon’s Cheese, then did stir four acorns of the melted Moon’s Cheese into the pastry cream.
“This must be the recipe that Lily was adapting from,” Rose said. “Instead of using the Moon’s Cheese in pastry cream, she stuck it in Marshmallow Cream. But she got the proportions all wrong.”
So Moon’s Cheese wasn’t some kind of processed factory cheese after all—it was a Bliss family magical ingredient. But it wasn’t a gentle ingredient, like the first wind of autumn, one that could be stored in a regular blue mason jar. The Moon’s Cheese required a reinforced container, something suitable for an ingredient that could only be activated by the howl of a wolf.
Or a baker with a stubbed toe.
In the margins was a note written in Lily’s unmistakable calligraphy: Tried to insert four acorns Moon’s Cheese into Marshmallow Cream. Texture all wrong. Had no howling wolf—had to microwave instead. Cheese was chunky and rancid. Yuck-o!
Rose smiled in spite of herself. She had done what Lily could not—adjust the amount of Moon’s Cheese, recognizing that four acorns would be too much for Marshmallow Cream. And it was just a stroke of sheer luck that Marge’s howling had triggered the Moon’s Cheese to melt.
Rose read the remainder of the recipe:
*The townsfolk of Dragomiresti, thence addicted to Sir Tempestu’s pastries, did demand more and more, until he could no longer meet their demand, and they did descend upon his bakery in a starved furor, clawing him to death and setting the bakery on fire. Only the wolf Dracul survived.
As Rose read, Marge’s head poked through the floor. She had ascended Rose’s private staircase. She was sweating and scratching her arms. “I need my Moony Pyes! MOOONNNNYYYYYY PYE-PYESSSSSSSS! If I don’t get that sweet marshmallow in my belly NOW, I’m going to claw out somebody’s EYESSSSSSSS!”
Gus froze in terror, pretending to be a Scottish Fold statue.
Thanks for the help, Rose thought at him. Then she smiled at Marge’s wild-eyed face. “Okay, Marge,” she said. “Why don’t you go bake two dozen sugar cookies according to the recipe, and prepare the chocolate coating, and I’ll make the Marshmallow Cream.”
Marge nodded, then immediately vanished, her feet clomping down the stairs sounding like a whole troop of bakers.
Gus hopped atop the dresser. “Is she gone? My goodness. What a loon. A loon for a Moony Pye.”
“Everyone in the country is going to be acting like that if Mostess puts that recipe into production,” Rose said to Gus. “This could be bad. Really bad.”
“I think you ought to just worry about fixing her first,” Gus said, pointing a puffed gray paw at the window. Below, Marge was skipping around the kitchen, shaking ingredients into bowls and dashing to set them all in a row on a prep table.
“How?”
“If I remember correctly from overhearing Balthazar’s mutterings during translation,” Gus said, “antidotes are always there. Just look on the back of the page.”
Rose flipped over the page and saw, in extremely fine print, another recipe:
DRAGOMIRESTI’S APRICOT JAM: To cease the effects of the PERENNIAL PATRONS’ PASTRY CREAM
The good baker Nicolai Bliss did fix an apricot jam that he injected into Bogdan Tempestu’s fruit tarts, after the townsfolk had murdered Bogdan Tempestu and set fire to his bakery and other portions of the town. The jam had the miraculous effect of causing the townsfolk to yearn, instead of for Tempestu’s pastry cream, for apricots. After rebuilding their beloved town, the people of Dragomiresti became Romania’s prime exporter of apricots.
Sir Bliss did stir in a copper saucepan two fists of fresh apricots with one fist of white sugar. He did then add ONE tale of one who has known the most fiery love, TOLD BY THE LOVER, then stirred, and cooled the preserves.
“This is worse than useless,” Rose moaned. “Who has known the most fiery love? I sure haven’t.” The most torrid exchange that she and Devin Stetson had ever had was when he accidentally touched her hand while giving her change at Stetson’s Donuts and Automotive Repair.
“I have,” said Gus with a gentle lick of his lips. “Grab a jar.”
To the soft sound of the snores that came from the Bakers’ Quarters, they labored through the night. At one point, Rose found her stomach grumbling and nearly crying out Feed me! but then she found a package of the cookies that had been left out for her on her first night. KATHY KEEGAN KRISPIES, it read. She took one out and had a nibble and was surprised to discover that she liked the taste. Could use some milk, but this little cookie was better than anything she’d eaten made in the Mostess factory. She gobbled down two and that took care of her hunger.
In a storage closet in the prep kitchen, Rose found an empty red mason jar. She coated it inside with a fine film of almond butter and brought it over to Gus, who proceeded to recount—into the jar, of course—the story of his first love affair.
“Her name was Isabella,” he began, “and she was an Italian Manx with brindled fur that was mesmerizing. That feline temptress turned many a tom’s head, but left only her claw marks on their hearts. I espied her one afternoon lying in the sun astride the bricks of a Roman church, and I fell head over paws in love. I would make her love me even if it killed me.” Pausing dramatically to scratch at his neck, he added, “And it very nearly did.”
Gus’s tale involved a voyage to America, a wealthy but brutish Siamese to whom Isabella was engaged, and plenty of stolen glances on a moonlit poop deck. When the story was over, Rose just stared.
“Wow, Gus. Whatever happened to Isabella?”
“Oh, we lived together for a time. But it was not to be. A Manx and a Fold can never get along. We’re both too stubborn, too proud. But it was beautiful while it lasted. Our love was like a pizza oven: full of flame during the day, but cold and unused at night. Loving Isabella made me the heartsick Scottish Fold you see before you today.”
Rose snapped the mason jar closed and, tucking it underneath her arm, dashed over to the metal counter where the bowl of apricot preserves sat—sad and goopy and still. Rose stood, staring down into the orange mass, then carefully opened the red mason jar and let the essence of Gus’s fiery love for Isabella seep into the dish.
And then she waited.
“Oh gosh!” Marge cried out as she raced around the kitchen preparing the sugar cookies, her cheeks flapping as she ran.
“What’s wrong?” Rose asked, looking over at Marge, who was wiping wisps of hair off her forehead.
“Nothing!” Marge cried out. “I’m just so excited! Baking gives me such a rush! I feel like . . . a little girl on Christmas morning about
to open up all the presents—and all I want is a new Barbie, and I just know there’s a new Barbie hiding in one of those boxes, somewhere . . .” Marge stopped in the middle of the kitchen, holding three eggs and a cup of sugar. Her lower lip began to tremble. “Only there never was a Barbie. Not for me, Rose. Not for me.”
“Oh, um, I’m sorry about that, Marge,” Rose said, glancing back at the bowl of apricot preserves.
When she did, her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
The preserves were no longer mushy and still. Gus’s fiery love had thickened them and turned them bright red. The mixture was heating up in the bowl, bubbling and hissing, bubbles nearly rising over the sides of the bowl.
Pop!
The preserves looked angry. They began to swirl in tiny circles, faster and faster like a miniature tornado. Within seconds, the preserves took on the shape of a gigantic red heart. Rose glanced over at Marge, who was busy stuffing a tray of sugar cookies in the oven.
Soon the heart morphed from red to orange to yellow, like one enormous flame—and then, as quickly as it had erupted, the preserves seemed to calm and drop back inside the metal bowl in one loud gloop.
“Whoa,” Rose whispered, staring at Gus. He only smiled and gave a gentle purr.
When it looked safe to touch, Rose grabbed the bowl with an oven mitt and stuck it inside the refrigerator to cool. That Isabella must have been some cat, she thought to herself.
“That looks awful orange for marshmallow cream!” Marge noted suspiciously. The windows of the kitchen had gone from pitch-black to a warm gray: The long night was nearly over.
“Do you want the Moony Pyes or not?” Rose asked, exasperated. “Because I can just throw this mixture out and—”
“Nooooooooo!” Marge cried. “Please don’t stop, Master Directrice Rose!”
Finally, just as a fine blush of sunrise bled through the high panes of the Development Kitchen windows, Rose sandwiched the Dragomiresti’s Apricot Jam between Marge’s sugar cookies, coated the sandwich in chocolate, and presented the antidote Moony-Pye-in-Disguise to Marge on a white plate.
In every respect, it looked like the Marshmallow Cream Moony Pyes that Rose had made the day before. Still, Marge sniffed it skeptically, her nostrils flaring in and out. “It doesn’t smell like a Moony Pye!” she said. “I want a REAL Moony Pye!”
“It’s the same thing, Marge. JUST EAT IT.”
“No!” Marge crossed her arms.
“Yes!” Rose said.
Marge clamped her lips shut and violently shook her head, so Rose did what she had to do: She stomped on Marge’s foot.
“Owwww!!!!!! Ow ow ow owwwwwww!!!!!!!” Marge howled.
And while she was howling, Rose stuffed the antidote Moony Pye into Marge’s open mouth.
Overcome with her need for a Moony Pye, Marge chewed and swallowed. She wiped her mouth free of chocolate and then let loose an enormous belch—a belch so strong that it blew Rose’s hair back like a fan and rattled the glass in the windows.
“Oh my goodness!” Marge exclaimed. Her eyes flashed orange with a sudden clarity. “What happened to me? It’s like I was gaga for Moony Pyes! And they aren’t even good!” Marge ran her tongue around the inside of her lips and belched again, more like a tiny little hiccup this time. “I could sure go for some apricots, though.”
“Welcome back,” said Rose, smiling. Her hard work—and Gus’s memory—had paid off. “I made you an antidote to the Moony Pyes. You may crave apricots for a while, but otherwise you’ll be okay.”
Suddenly, Marge enfolded Rose in her flour-coated arms, and though it was hard for Rose to breathe, the hug felt good. Somehow it reminded her of her mother—which made Rose miss her family all the more.
“You . . . you saved me!” Marge gasped and dropped Rose, backing away in panic. “Wait! If they know that you changed the recipe, they’ll never let you go home!”
Oh no, Rose thought. That’s not good.
Then an idea came to her. “We won’t tell them about the antidote,” Rose said. “As far as they know, there aren’t any Moony Pyes left because you ate them all. You’re proof that the recipe works. Mr. Butter will have to be satisfied with that.”
“But I no longer crave Moony Pyes!” Marge made a face. “I ate a dozen of those things. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“They won’t know that you’re cured,” Rose said. “Just be . . . loony.”
“You want me to lie to Mr. Butter? Pretend I’m still in a pickle over those Pyes?” Marge said. “Why, I have never lied in my life.” She placed her hands firmly on her wide hips and blew a stray wisp of hair away from her face.
“Not even once?” Rose asked.
Marge thought for a second, then cringed. “Oh goodness! I just lied about never lying! I have lied. Once. As a young girl, to my mother. She did my hair in braids before a Sadie Hawkins dance and asked whether I liked them, I said yes even though I really didn’t! I hated them!” Marge sucked in a long breath of air. “I’m a terrible person.”
“No, you’re not,” Rose said, placing a comforting hand on Marge’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with a tiny white lie.”
Marge blinked. “There isn’t?”
“Not if it’s going to help someone,” Rose said. “And if you tell Mr. Butter that you’re obsessed with Moony Pyes, he’ll think I did what he asked. Then there’s only four recipes left and he’ll let me go home. To my family.”
Marge nodded dutifully. “I shall accept the challenge,” she said, speaking in a strange sort of British accent. “It will be a role. A portrayal such as the stage has never seen. The performance of a lifetime!”
“Sure,” Rose said, cutting a piece of another antidote Moony Pye and eating it as well. She couldn’t be too careful.
Gus trotted down the staircase from Rose’s room and leaped onto the table. “I thought you’d want to know: They’re on their way! I saw them through the window.”
Marge stared at Gus, dumbfounded. “Is one of the side effects of the antidote Moony Pye that I hallucinate talking cats? It’s fine if it is; I always wanted a talking cat, I just want to be prepared for it.”
Rose immediately shot Gus a glare that said, Why did you speak in front of her?
Oh well—she’d have to tell Marge the truth now. “No, this cat actually does talk,” Rose admitted. “But don’t tell anyone, not even the other bakers.”
Marge gleefully swept Gus into the air, holding him aloft like a doll. She pressed her face into his belly and rubbed it back and forth, making cootchie-coo noises. “How is this possible, young cat?”
“I am a very old cat, one who ate a magical biscuit when he was young,” said Gus. “Please put me down.”
Marge set him on the table and rubbed the underside of Gus’s chin. “What a naughty kitty you were.”
Just then, red lights flashed from every corner of the room, and an insistent buzzing siren began to wail, on and on, like the world’s loudest alarm clock.
Marge gulped. “They’re here.”
CHAPTER 6
Cheesy Home Videos
As the golf cart with Mr. Butter and Mr. Kerr appeared through the floor, the five other master bakers marched out from their quarters at the back of the test kitchen.
Rose glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was seven a.m. She and Marge had baked all night. This was officially the morning of the third day she’d been at the Mostess compound. “Best not let him see you,” Rose whispered to Gus, who skulked off behind one of the ovens.
“It is a new day!” said Mr. Butter as he slid from the passenger seat of the golf cart and moseyed over to the prep table. “How comes along recipe number one—the Moony Pye?” (He actually said Mooooony Pye.)
“They’re, um, perfect,” Rose said, stifling a yawn. “They’re perfected. The best Moony Pye the world has ever seen!”
Mr. Butter gestured at the empty prep table. “Funny, Miss Bliss, but I don’t see any Moony Pyes. Where are they?”
“I don’t understand.” Mr. Butter scratched his bulbous bald head with exaggerated care. “I thought you wanted to get home to your family as soon as your little feet could carry you. But we agreed that you wouldn’t leave until you perfected those Moony Pyes. So where are they?”
It was then that Marge emerged from behind the rest of the bakers with her arms spread wide. Her cheeks were covered in chocolate, her lips were covered in chocolate, even her eyelids were flecked with chocolate. Chocolate coated her tongue and sat in the spaces between her teeth. Her formerly white apron was dotted with sugar cookie crumbs, and each of her fingers was topped off by a white cap of hardened Marshmallow Cream.
Apparently, this was what Marge considered getting into costume.
“The Moony Pyes are gone!” she thundered in an operatic vibrato. “There are no more—because I ate them all!” Marge clasped her hands together and swayed on her feet as if she were preparing to launch into a Shakespearean monologue. “They were the finest things I have ever shoved down my throat! I can’t stop eating them! Yum yum yum yum yum yuummmm!” Now Marge was actually singing, in a high falsetto. “I will die if I can’t have another right now! Fire me if you must, but I regret nothing!”
Nervously, Rose glanced at Mr. Butter. His expression was hard to read, mostly because, well, his face was so strange. Was he buying it?
After a few seconds, Mr. Butter turned to Mr. Kerr with a sour look, which dissolved into an unnaturally wide smile. “This is really something,” he said quietly. “This is really remarkable. Didn’t I tell you she could do it, Mr. Kerr?”
“Actually,” answered Mr. Kerr, “if I remember correctly, I told you she could do it. Cook not book.”
Mr. Butter cleared his throat and squinted, his eyes looking extra glossy behind his spectacles. “Miss Bliss, you’ve done yourself very proud. We’ll go into production on the new Moony Pyes immediately. May I have the new recipe card?”
Bite-Sized Magic Page 7
