Bite-Sized Magic

by Kathryn Littlewood

  The woman said, “Don’t mind if I do!” She reached for a cake and took a bite. “Ah-may-zing!” she declared, letting her tongue hang out of her mouth. “Just how many you got there?”

  “Yes,” the man said, stepping forward, “I see you have some more in that bowl.”

  Rose raised her arms, extending the bowl toward the two, but tripped and flung it at the last second. The perfectly round Glo-Ball cakes flew through the air, onto the pavement, and began to roll away.

  “Oh no! The Glo-Balls!” the man cried, running frantically after them.

  “No you don’t!” the woman said, leaping out and tackling him in the doorway. “Those are mine!” She scrambled across him and after the balls, while he hung on to her leg, sobbing hysterically, “Mine, mine, mine!”

  Rose and her brothers tiptoed over to the golf cart and plopped into the seats.

  “Piece of cake,” Sage said with a grin.

  Rose just rolled her eyes and consulted the map. “This is where we’re going,” she said, pointing to the pastry-bag-shaped hotel.

  “I’ll drive,” said Ty, patting the pocket that held his driver’s license.

  Rose led Ty and Sage into the lobby of the grand hotel with its bouquets of candy and cookies. “May I help you?” said the concierge, a skinny teenager who didn’t look much older than Ty.

  “No, thank you,” said Rose.

  “Are these your guests, Miss Bliss?” said the concierge.

  “These two?” Rose said, pointing to Ty and Sage. “Um. These are fans of mine. They’re from an organization that helps children who have . . . weird voices. The children get to spend a day with their favorite celebrity. Did Mr. Butter not tell you? I’m just taking them around the compound for the day.”

  “I see,” said the concierge. “Of course. Feel free to show them around.”

  “What do you say, boys?” said Rose.

  Ty and Sage groaned and sputtered in strange guttural voices. “Thernk yew!”

  “That was real nice, Rose,” muttered Sage as the three walked away toward the elevator bank. “Real nice.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the only thing I could think of,” said Rose as she stepped into the elevator and pressed 34.

  “Key required,” said a robotic voice. “Please insert key.”

  Rose stared at the panel of the elevator and saw, next to the button that said 34, a small indentation in the metal, in the shape of a rolling pin. Figures, she thought.

  “Oh man,” said Ty, frowning. “Where are we gonna get the key, hermana?”

  Rose couldn’t remember Mr. Butter having used a key in the elevator. But she could recall the way he bristled when she had pointed to the tiny red cottage in the corner of the compound.

  “I don’t know for sure where we’re gonna get the key,” she said, “but I have an idea.”

  After a half-hour’s driving, the three finally stopped the golf cart in front of the little red cottage in the corner of the compound.

  The house looked like it had been plucked from another era: A white picket fence surrounded a green lawn, and a flag swayed above the porch in time to the soft jangle of wind chimes. Two empty rocking chairs sat on the wide porch, just waiting for a lazy day.

  “What is this place?” Sage asked.

  Rose pointed to the stenciling on the old-fashioned mailbox: THE BUTTER FAMILY. “I think this is where Mr. Butter grew up,” she said.

  She led Ty and Sage through the white gate, up a brick walkway lined with flowers, across the porch, and through the front door. The green shutters were pulled closed over the windows of the darkened living room, but the rug was painted with ribbons of late-afternoon light. Next to a dusty player piano was a worn corduroy easy chair, with a basket of half-finished knitting at the foot.

  “It’s like a museum,” Sage whispered.

  “The most boring museum in the world,” Ty said.

  Over the mantel was a faded photograph in a frame. A father and a mother wearing chef’s hats stood flanking a little boy, who was pudgy and round, with a crew cut. “Who is that?” Ty asked.

  “It must be Mr. Butter,” said Rose.

  “That skinny, bald alien dude?” asked Sage. “Looks like someone bought a treadmill.”

  “Do you really think the key is in here, hermana?” Ty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rose said. “But there’s got to be something in here worth finding. Mr. Butter freaked out when I asked him about this house.”

  “I wonder why it’s still here?” Ty said. “If I had the kind of money he must have, I’d build a huge house. One big enough for me, Katy Perry, and all her band members.”

  Rose led her brothers up a narrow, creaky wooden staircase. Next to a bathroom with floral wallpaper and cracked sconces was a bedroom painted in light blue. A nautical comforter lay over a twin bed, and model airplanes hung from the ceiling.

  On a wooden desk sat a few dried-up jars of paint, a barrage of half-painted WWI models, and a book bound in brown leather. JOURNAL read the front cover.

  “Jackpot!” Sage cried, grabbing the book.

  “You can’t read that!” said Rose. “That’s spying!”

  “Rose,” said Ty, putting a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “The man kidnapped you, not to mention our parents. I think we’re pretty much allowed to read his journal.”

  Fair enough, Rose thought, opening the journal to the first page. The letters were large and wobbly.

  The Journal of Jameson Butter III, age ten.

  Day 1

  I found this old journal today in Mr. Sansibel’s garbage can. I’m not one for writing, but Mama says it’s a shame to let things go to waste, so I will write what happens every day. Today, Grandpapa baked his Dinkies, and Mama and Papa worked in the front of the bakery, and everyone in town came to eat one. Another home run for the Mostess Bakery! I got pinched in the nose again by Raymond Kerr at school and I came home and told Mama about it and she fed me a Dinky Cake.

  “Real juicy,” said Ty sarcastically. “Where’s the stuff about girls?”

  Rose flipped a few pages.

  Day 45

  Raymond Kerr and the rest of the Pine Ridge Crew stole my overalls while I was at the swimming hole and gave them to Polly Rainer, and she screamed and dropped them and said cooties. When I got out, they were covered in mud and leaves and I had to walk home with mud inside my overalls. When I got home, Mama scolded me for bringing dirt into the bakery. When I told her what happened, she fed me three Dinky Cakes and told me to calm down.

  “Seems like he was eating a lot of Dinky Cakes,” said Rose.

  “You know who I bet likes Dinky Cakes?” Ty asked.

  Sage shrugged. “Who?”

  Ty’s eyes seemed to twinkle. “Katy Perry.”

  Day 162

  My overalls no longer fit me. Mama took me to the store to buy me bigger overalls, and who was there, of course, but Raymond Kerr. He called me Lardo and pinched my nose. I shed a tear and reached out for Mama, but instead of petting me on the head or giving me a hug, she shoved a Dinky Cake into my mouth.

  “Fine,” said Ty. “Looks like all the Dinky Cakes caught up to him anyway.”

  He sighed. “Let’s skip ahead. Raymond Kerr is a jerk. We get the point.”

  “Wow, he really wasn’t much of a diary writer,” Rose said, reading the dates. “He passes over whole years in just a couple of lines.” She pointed to a series of entries that read simply: Age 13—HORRIBLE. Age 14—Never mind! Age 15—I got taller. That’s something, I guess. But mostly? HORRIBLE.

  She turned a few more pages.

  Day 2,920

  It is my eighteenth birthday today. Papa has asked what I’d like as a present and I told him that I would like him and Grandpapa to retire so that I can take over the chain of bakeries that Grandpapa has built up over the years. Papa and Grandpapa are happy with sixteen bakeries, but they don’t have any vision. Maybe because they still eat our baked goods and are still fat and round like I us
ed to be.

  Last week I received a letter in the mail from something called the International Society of the Rolling Pin. Apparently, I am a descendant of a great baker named Albatross Bliss. I will join this Society and use the knowledge they give me to build a huge corporation. The people I hire will all be as short and round as I was as a boy, and I will become so important and make so much money that I can make Raymond Kerr work for me and have him do my bidding. Ha ha ha! One day, the world will be at the mercy of the Mostess Bakery.

  That is my dream.

  “That’s it,” said Sage, closing the journal. “That’s the end. Geez.”

  “Wow,” Ty said. “I can’t believe that Mr. Butter is a descendant of Albatross Bliss. That makes him sort of like—”

  “Don’t say it, Ty,” Rose said, cutting off her older brother.

  “Family,” Sage said softly.

  “So, wait—has he been using magic the whole time?” Ty asked.

  “I don’t think so,” said Rose. “He probably wanted to, but he didn’t have the know-how. He just had those industrial strength preservatives,” she added, thinking of the historical Dinky Cake. “Then Aunt Lily joined up with him, and she used the Apocrypha to make the Mostess recipes dangerous.”

  The grim truth settled over the room. Rose glanced at the far wall, where a tiny ticking cuckoo clock had begun to chime. It was nine o’clock! Mr. Butter said he would be back later—and later was . . . now.

  “Guys!” Rose cried out, peering through one of the windows. She felt a strange grumbling in the pit of her stomach. “We didn’t find a hotel key, so we need to perfect the Dinky Doodle Donuts tonight or our parents are toast!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Dinky Doodle Donuts of Zombification

  Rose, Ty, and Sage returned to the test kitchen to find that the bakers had graciously cleaned up, and the kitchen was once again spotless.

  The giant vats of batter were covered and set off to the side, and the bakers were chatting among themselves, crowded around one of the steel prep tables. Ning and Jasmine were drinking espresso, while Melanie and Felanie were brushing each other’s hair. In the corner, Gus was napping, curled into a tight gray ball atop a pile of flour sacks.

  Marge saw them first. “There you are! Did you kids get your parents?”

  Ty and Sage shook their heads No.

  “There’s a key to the elevator, and we couldn’t find it,” Rose said. “But Mr. Butter said we had to perfect the Dinky Doodle Donuts before bedtime. So here we are.”

  Something soft butted against her shin, and she looked down and saw the folded ears and fuzzy gray head of the cat. Rose dropped to her knees and gave him a gentle stroke behind the ears. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “Of course,” the cat replied. “Bored by these ninnies, but fine.” He stood and stretched. “Due to the urgency of our situation here, I abandoned the idea of napping and instead threw myself into our joint endeavor.”

  “What?” Rose said.

  “I read through the Apocrypha. And I believe I have already located the necessary recipe, Rose.”

  Rose gave Gus a quick kiss between his wrinkled ears. “Oh good.” Then she stood, wiped her knees, and rolled up the white cuffs of her baker’s uniform, which had unrolled and fallen below her wrists.

  “Here are the Directrice’s Dinky Doodle Donuts,” said Marge, handing Rose two packages of six mini donuts. Some were covered in white powdered sugar that looked to Rose like chalk dust from a blackboard, and some were covered in a waxy chocolate glaze. All of the donuts were hard and puck-like.

  “And here is the recipe.” Marge held out a creamy-colored recipe card that bore Lily’s familiar purple-ink calligraphy. The only magical direction listed on the card was to “fold in the voice of Drimini.”

  Before anyone could stop him, Sage grabbed a donut and took a bite. He immediately spit it out. “It’s like biting on a rock,” he complained. “Except not as tasty.”

  Rose gave her younger brother a pat on the shoulder, then turned to Marge. “So, what’s wrong with them, other than that they have the texture of concrete?”

  “Nothing,” said Marge. She wiped a sweaty palm across her forehead. “I’ve tried them. Dozens of them! I get no magical feeling whatsoever.”

  Rose tapped the card. “Where is this ingredient, this Drimini thing?”

  “The Directrice used this.” Marge showed Rose a red mason jar, which did indeed appear empty. “Maybe that’s why the donuts do nothing. The jar is empty.”

  “It’s getting late,” Sage said. “I’m tired.”

  “You can’t be tired,” Rose told her younger brother. “We still have a lot to do.”

  Meanwhile, Gus hopped onto one of the prep tables and sat on the Apocrypha, and flipped it open to a recipe. “This was Lily’s inspiration,” he said.

  PUPPETEER’S POPOVERS: For the pulling of strings

  It was in 1932 in the Italian village of Montecastello that the nefarious Albatross descendant Vesuvio D’Astuto did bake a basket of popovers that he did serve at the fourth birthday of the boy who lived next door, Arlecchio. Arlecchio and all of his young friends did eat the popovers, whereupon they became puppets, controlled by the person who bade them “pop to my voice”—the nefarious Vesuvio D’Astuto, who did instruct the boys to pick the pockets of the rich and deliver the spoils to him.

  Rose scanned down to find the magic ingredient:

  Sir D’Astuto did imbue his batter with the soothing voice of Grigory Drimini, the famous hypnotist.

  Rose compared the recipe with Lily’s recipe card. “Why didn’t it work?” she asked.

  “Maybe this is the wrong Grigory Drimini?” said Sage.

  Rose opened the jar and held it to her ear. She heard a lilting tenor singing an aria. She squinted at the label. It was almost impossible to make out, but she was sure that the faded print read GRIGORY DRIMINI, MUSICIAN.

  “Good thinking, Sage,” said Rose. “Marge, do you have any other empty jars?”

  Twenty minutes later, after the correct red mason jar had been located and the voice of the great hypnotist Grigory Drimini had been added to the batter for the Dinky Doodle Donuts, Rose pulled a tray from the oven and fed a half dozen donuts to the bakers.

  Immediately, the bakers’ eyes glazed over, and they stood perfectly still, waiting.

  “Tell them to do something,” said Sage. Then his eyes widened with delight. “Make them dance. Make them do it Gangnam Style!”

  Rose didn’t want to take advantage of the bakers, but it had been a long day, and well . . . a little dancing never hurt anybody, right?

  “Pop to my voice!” Rose said to the bakers, and the six straightened up and gazed blank-eyed at her. “Um, put your arms out straight.”

  Immediately, the bakers lifted their arms straight into the air, as if Rose’s voice were a set of invisible puppet strings.

  “Nice, mi hermana,” Ty said, clearly impressed.

  Rose had to think for a second before she remembered the next move. “Cross your hands at the wrists,” she said, and the bakers did as they were told. “Now pretend you’re riding an invisible horse, tugging at the reins.”

  The bakers moved their hands up and down. Some moved their entire arms, some moved only their hands.

  “You forgot the leg moves!” Sage protested, squatting up and down.

  “This is terrible,” said Rose.

  “I know,” said Ty, frowning. “They are the worst dancers in history. They have no rhythm. Worse than Dad.”

  “Come on!” Sage said. “There’s more to the dance than that!” He raised his right hand into the air and twirled his fist like he was spinning an invisible lasso.

  “No,” said Rose, “that’s not what I mean. It’s terrible that Mr. Butter is trying to turn everyone in the country into an army of zombies who just want to eat Mostess Snack Cakes!”

  Ty scratched his head. “Yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “That’s bad, too.”
>
  The bakers quietly continued rocking their hands back and forth.

  “That’s enough,” Rose said. “Everyone stop!” The bakers froze in place, their arms extended.

  Rose leaned down and whispered into Gus’s ear. “Gus, what is the antidote ingredient?”

  Gus flipped the page and placed his paw toward the bottom.

  “Ah!” said Rose, turning to Sage and Ty. “We need something called the Capsules of Time.”

  Rose turned to zombie-Marge, who stood at attention with her arms extended. “Marge, do you have any mason jars with Capsules of Time here in the kitchen?”

  “No, we have none,” Marge said, her voice flat, her eyes as cloudy as marbles.

  “Okay, I know where to get these capsules,” said Rose. “Maybe they have a key to the hotel there as well. Ty and Sage and I are going out. You all stay here.” She looked at the motionless bakers. “Drop your arms and relax.” They did as they were told but still didn’t seem quite normal.

  To Gus and Jacques, Rose said, “You guys are in charge.”

  Gus and Jacques looked at each other mischievously. Or rather, as mischievous as a Scottish Fold cat and a French mouse could look.

  “Don’t make them do anything silly,” said Rose. “They’re completely in your power.”

  A thunderstorm rolled in as Ty drove Sage and Rose toward the cake-shaped multitiered laboratory and warehouse that housed all of the red mason jars.

  Ty pulled his shirt up over his head to protect his marvelous spiked hair from the rain. Sage and Rose huddled together under the roof of the golf cart as the evening sky gave way to deep purple storm clouds, with the occasional white flash of lightning and a barrage of fat, cold raindrops.

  They sped past the darkened marketing offices and the abandoned graphic design building and slowed as they approached the laboratory/warehouse. The alleyways were filled with parked cars, long rows of gleaming black limousines, and sleek red sports cars.