A Dash of Magic: A Bliss Novel

by Kathryn Littlewood

  Rose crossed her fingers. Maybe the men would think Leigh was an extralarge baby doll and ignore her.

  But the man with the hanging microphone lowered it toward Leigh, tickling her ear with its gray fuzz.

  As fervently as Leigh loved to nap, she hated to be tickled even more fervently. She bolted up and swatted at the scratchy microphone like it was a swarm of locusts. “Stop, fiend!” she cried.

  The fleeced man holding the microphone stumbled backward.

  “We—we—we . . . caught you!” he stammered. “We caught you breaking into Lily Le Fay’s fantasy suite. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Rose glanced nervously at Ty. Lately Leigh had had a tendency to be too truthful, and in this case, too truthful might get them into serious trouble.

  Lie, little sister! Rose wanted to scream. Lie your head off!

  Leigh was shaking her head in disgust. “Breaking in?” she said incredulously. “Breaking in! That is rich, men. Extrarich. Nay, nay. Why should I break in when I’ve got the key?”

  Leigh reached into the front pocket of her 101 Dalmatians T-shirt and pulled out the brass key the concierge had so apologetically handed her just minutes before.

  The jaws of the cameraman, microphone man, and wire-wrangler man dropped simultaneously.

  “That’s right, gentlemen. I am the smallest woman in the world, and I am waiting here for a rendezvous with the smallest man in the world. I was hoping to ease some of the puffiness under my eyes by taking a nap, but since you’ve so rudely interrupted my regimen of facial restoration, I’ll have no choice but to meet my paramour looking like a droopy old sack!

  “I see you’ve been recording the proceedings,” Leigh continued, addressing the man with the camera on his shoulder. “If you dare show any of your pitiful ‘footage’ on television, my lawyer will extract millions of dollars from your low-rent production company and put you out of business.”

  “We’re so sorry, ma’am,” the microphone operator said. “It’s just, you look like a four-year-old, what with being so small and all, and with your hair and clothes.”

  “How dare you!” Leigh said. “This weathered 101 Dalmatians T-shirt was purchased for six hundred dollars at a boutique on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. You obviously know very little about style, you”—she pointed to the microphone man—“whose idea of fashion is to carry a pole with a fuzzy gray microphone on it, and you”—she pointed to the wire wrangler—“who thinks loops of wire are the new sleeves.”

  The wire wrangler hastily gathered together all the loops of cords, unplugged the various machines, and ushered his cohorts out the door. “We do apologize, ma’am.”

  As soon as Rose heard the ding of the elevator from the Fantasy Floor antechamber, she leaped out from behind the couch and hoisted Leigh up in her arms.

  “Leigh!” she exclaimed. “You were brilliant!”

  Leigh lifted her button nose and patted Rose dispassionately on the cheek without cracking a smile. The old Leigh—before eating the pound cake tainted with Lily’s Magic Ingredient—would have melted into Rose’s arms and gurgled lovingly, if not eloquently. This new version of Leigh was useful, to be sure, but Rose missed the old one.

  Ty patted Leigh on the top of the head, mussing her hairdo, which was like the top of a pineapple.

  “Please!” she said, swatting his hand away. “Mind the hair!”

  “Watch yourself!” Ty said back. He’d never say it, but Rose could tell he missed his goofy, dirty, unsophisticated little sister as much as she did.

  All of a sudden, Jacques popped out from the pocket of Rose’s sweatshirt, tapping a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “You must hurry back or be late for the Gala!”

  After Ty whipped egg whites in a red bowl, Rose folded in the dry ingredients for the Angel’s Breath Food Cake. Then she grabbed the jar with the ghostly gust. Taking a deep breath, she opened the jar over the batter and watched in wonder as the ghost’s lighter-than-air wish drifted down and lifted the batter out of the bowl. She punched it back down with a fist, dragged over the cake pan, and forced it into place. Then she set another cake pan atop it, tied it down with twine, and shoved it into the oven.

  “Fingers crossed, Rose,” Ty said, forgetting for once to put a Spanish spin on things.

  Rose looked across at Lily as she prepared a Springtime Soufflé, a puffy pot of emerald-green fluff that looked to be made entirely of air. The sweet soufflé, Rose knew, was from the Bliss Cookery Booke, and used the wishes of a growing rosebud to give a person the feeling of springtime even in the dead of winter. Growing rosebuds were shy creatures, and they didn’t readily discuss their aspirations, so capturing their wishes was a difficult task indeed. Combined with a dash of Lily’s Magic Ingredient, the soufflé was sure to fill Jean-Pierre with a momentary feeling so sublime that he would award her the win for the day.

  It just wasn’t fair. Lily was guaranteed to win. The thought made Rose so angry that she started across the aisle toward her aunt’s kitchen, unsure of what might come out of her mouth when she got there.

  She planted her feet across from Lily and tapped her aunt on the shoulder. “Just once,” Rose heard herself say, “I’d like to see you try and win without your box of Lily’s Magic Ingredient.”

  Lily stared back at Rose with a look of admiration. She looked almost delighted by Rose’s bravery, almost like she wanted to be kind to Rose. Rose recognized the look from when Lily had stayed at their house, before she’d run off with their cookbook. Lily wasn’t all rotten, after all. She was a very good baker. And she was lonely.

  “Sure,” she agreed. “I’ll forego the Magic Ingredient. I like your audacity.”

  Rose walked back to her kitchen, shocked. She hadn’t expected Lily to say yes.

  Twenty minutes later, Ty pulled the Angel’s Breath Food Cake from the oven, and Rose cut a slice and laid it on a plate.

  After the giant wall timer dinged, Marco came around and loaded the silver cart with the five AIRY desserts. Rose’s stomach turned. Only three contestants would be moving on that afternoon.

  Rohit Mansukhani had made a sculpture of Jean-Pierre Jeanpierre’s bald head out of white chocolate mousse, which Jean-Pierre seemed to think was both flattering and creepy.

  Dag Ferskjold had made a wedding cake covered with coarse black fur. “How does this relate to today’s theme, AIRY?” Jean-Pierre asked.

  “Airy?” Dag Ferskjold repeated. “AIRY? I thought you said the theme was HAIRY!”

  Jean-Pierre reached Wei Wen’s plate. He had made some sort of sugary orb that looked to be hollow in the middle. Even though Rose knew the orb wasn’t magical, it looked airy enough to give her a run for her money. Jean-Pierre cracked into the orb with a spoon and tasted the fluffy stuff inside.

  “Incroyable!” he said.

  Jean-Pierre moved on to Lily’s Springtime Soufflé. He poked at the top of the soufflé, and it sprang back like an expensive mattress.

  “I already love it,” he gushed.

  Let’s see what he thinks without all those Lily-loving chemicals, Rose thought.

  He took a spoonful of the pale-green cloud and his eyes rolled back in his head. He put down his spoon. “What a phantasm! I feel like I am a young man again!”

  Rose’s eyes went wide. Jean-Pierre had gone gaga for the dessert without any of Lily’s Magic Ingredient.

  Jean-Pierre moved on to Rose’s plate and stared doubtfully at what she had created.

  “A slice of white cake?” he said with a sneer. “First a blackened cookie, then an orange ball, and now a slice of plain white cake?”

  But Jean-Pierre’s face changed from disgust to wonder as soon as he swallowed his first forkful. “It is . . . so airy!” he exclaimed. “It feels like . . . a ghost! In my mouth!”

  “Old family recipe,” Rose said with a smile.

  Smacking his lips and murmuring, Jean-Pierre waddled back to the stage and his microphone.

  “We have, today, a tie. Our winners
are Lily Le Fay and Rosemary Bliss! And joining them in competition tomorrow will be Mr. Wei Wen.”

  Rose jumped in the air and threw her arms around Ty. She’d won! Of course, so had Lily—and she’d done it without any of her Magic Ingredient. Rose had to hand it to Lily—she was a great baker. The addition of Lily’s Magic Ingredient was a cheat, but her victories were always backed by considerable talent, a talent Rose wasn’t sure that she herself possessed.

  Rose’s parents ran down from the balcony with Balthazar, Sage, and Gus, while Jacques stayed hidden in the front pocket of her sweatshirt, where he’d been hiding the entire time.

  “Oh, honey, you did it!” said Purdy, wrapping her arms around Rose. “You were so great.”

  “Not bad, kids,” said Balthazar. “I guess you spent your time before the bake-off really studying that recipe.”

  “Studying? HAH! The children may speak for themselves. I got to visit Miss Lily Le Fay’s hotel suite!” Leigh bragged. “Oh, the luxury! Oh, the resplendence! What a bright spot in this otherwise dreary so-called holiday I’m having.”

  “What is she blabbing about?” Purdy asked, suspicious. “Did she go into Lily’s room?”

  “Um, no!” Rose laughed. “How could she have? You heard Jacques—it’s impossible to get into! Maybe the effects of Lily’s Magic Ingredient are worsening?”

  Purdy’s brow lowered, and she looked suspiciously at Rose. “Maybe. At any rate, your father and I have collected what we needed for the PHYLLO Born Yesterday Baklava and the CHEESY Sublime Danish, but we’re having difficulty locating a magician’s secret for the CHOCOLATE Disappearing Devil’s Food Cake. We don’t know any magicians here in Paris, let alone ones who are willing to give up a secret.”

  “You know how magicians are,” said Albert. “Greedy.”

  Albert and Purdy kissed the kids good-bye and went off in search of a loose-lipped magician. By then most of the expo center had emptied out, and a cleaning crew had descended upon the kitchens.

  “We’re leaving,” said Rose, and she ushered her family down the black-and-white aisle and onto the steps outside the expo center. The sun had come out in full force after the previous evening’s storm.

  “I’m still working on the last recipe, the ROLLED Ravishing Rugelach,” said Balthazar. “I should have it done by suppertime. How are you kids doing with ingredients for the FLAKY Crazed Croissants?”

  Rose pulled out the recipe that Balthazar had written up for the FLAKY category:

  Crazed Croissants, offering Mental Clarity to the disordered.

  It was in 1815, in the crowded tenements of London’s garment district, that the good lady Larissa Bliss did rescue the hatter John Deveril from the delusions brought on by the mercury fumes that were a hazard of his trade. He had begun to think that his children were characters in nursery rhymes, but after eating one of Lady Larissa’s Crazed Croissants, he saw clearly once more.

  Lady Larissa Bliss did combine two-and-one-half fists of white flour, the egg of a chicken, one fist of white sugar, two cups of cow’s milk, and the blush of a TRUE QUEEN, dabbed with a handkerchief.

  “The blush of a true queen?” Rose asked, quickly noting the time and temperature for the recipe. “How do we get that?”

  “Beats me,” said Balthazar. “I could never figure out how to get one of those. The only queen I know of lives in England, and I would assume she doesn’t let just anyone make her blush.”

  Rose’s shoulders slumped. “This is impossible.”

  “I have an idea,” said Gus.

  “The cat has an idea? Since when?” Balthazar asked incredulously. “Usually he just sits around and eats and avoids water.”

  “I find I can be very helpful when I’m appreciated,” said Gus. “And I think I know where we can find a queen’s blush.”

  “Pray tell, gato,” said Ty. “You know a real, live queen? Within walking distance?”

  Gus purred. “No one said the queen had to be alive.”

  Rose was a bit annoyed to find herself back in the hall of bones known as the Catacombs of Paris. From the pocket of her sweatshirt Jacques played “Frère Jacques” on his flute; after a moment, Rose felt a chill on the back of her neck. She whirled to find Ourson standing in the corner.

  “Ah! My new friends! You return!” said the see-through ghost.

  From across the room, Sage and Ty waved nervously. But Leigh strode forward, Gus perched atop her head.

  The cat raised a paw to address the ghost. “Hello, ghoul friend!” he said with real warmth and enthusiasm.

  “What is this?!” said the ghost. “A cat that speaks? Merveillieux!”

  “Yes, yes,” Gus continued, “I am marvelous, I know. But that’s not why we’re here. We’ve come back because we need your assistance.”

  “Anything for my friends!” Ourson replied.

  “We need your help contacting a certain . . . nonliving person.”

  “Ah!” The ghost put his hand where his heart would have been. “Who? I have so many friends!”

  “You see,” Gus explained, “we are in a baking competition. And we need to capture the FLAKIEST thing on this sweet earth, which in my experience happens to be the . . . blush of a queen.”

  Ourson laughed. “Queens, yes. They do tend toward flakiness!”

  “Yes!” Gus said. Rose could tell the cat was nervous, but about what? He’d spoken to ghosts before. “And naturally, we want to capture the blush of the flakiest queen in history, one who happens to reside in Paris. . . .”

  As Gus went on, Ourson’s pallid, sepia-toned face grew pinker and pinker, his strong black eyebrows drew down into a knot, and his upper lip pulled back in a snarl.

  Oh no, Rose thought, suddenly understanding why Gus was so nervous.

  “And so,” Gus finished, “we were wondering if you might happen to know the whereabouts of one . . . Marie Antoinette.”

  At the mention of the name Marie Antoinette, Ourson flew into a rage—literally. The ghost grew big and frightening, his eyes black holes and his mouth wide as he moaned “Noooooooooooooooo!” He darted around the room of bones, roaring and flitting this way and that until, his rage spent, he sank listlessly to the floor.

  From the pocket of Rose’s sweatshirt, Jacques shook his fist at Gus. “Fanged One! Creature of Claw and Tooth, how could you? You know how touchy Ourson is about the regime overthrown by the French Revolution! To ask him for the whereabouts of the worst queen in history . . . it is just bad manners!”

  With a last glare at the cat, Jacques ducked back into Rose’s sweatshirt pocket.

  Ourson raised his head up off the ground. “She is incapable of blushing,” he said weakly. “She didn’t blush when she presided over the starvation of thousands while her wretched husband grew fatter and fatter. Why would she blush now?”

  “She is our only hope,” Gus said. “We have nowhere else to go.”

  Ourson dragged his transparent body along the floor like an inchworm until he reached a wall and could prop his head up against the bones. “She sits on the ledge of the central fountain in the gardens at the Palace of . . .” He stopped, as if choking on the words. “I’m sorry, it still makes me sick to say it.”

  “Versailles.” Gus dipped his head in thanks. “We’ll be going now.”

  As Rose led them out of the room, Jacques called back, “I’m sorry, my friend! I did not know they were going to ask about you-know-who!”

  The garden at the Palace of Versailles was a sprawling labyrinth of lawns and flower beds that seemed to take up more space than Calamity Falls itself. In the center of it all was a fountain as big as a baseball diamond, with water jetting from a stack of round tiers like a seven-layer wedding cake.

  On their way through the gardens, Leigh stopped to admire a piece of sculpture and couldn’t be torn away. “Leave her with me,” Ty said. “You can pick us up on the way out.”

  By the time Rose, Sage, and the animals filed up the main path toward the fountain, it was four in
the afternoon, and the sun was bearing down so furiously that most of the visitors had started to trickle toward the exit.

  Rose perched on the lip of the fountain as Sage unhooked Gus from the BabyBjörn. She motioned for the cat to join her.

  Gus looked mildly taken aback. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten my adversarial relationship with water? You’ll forgive me if I wait over by the DRY shrubs.”

  Sage sat beside Rose. “When’s she gonna come out? Do we have to wait until it’s dark? Like with lightning bugs?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rose answered. “Maybe if Jacques plays something on his flute?”

  “Worth a try,” Jacques said from her sweatshirt pocket. He pulled out his tiny flute and piped the familiar strains of the “La Marseillaise.”

  As the last note faded away, Rose felt a cold breeze on the back of her neck. She turned to find a ghost standing in the water, a furious-looking woman with powder-white skin, a toothpaste-white wig of hideous curls, and a frilled dress that pinched her mercilessly at the waist, then puffed out into a skirt as wide as the giant trampoline in the Bliss backyard that Sage loved jumping on.

  “How dare you play that revolutionary anthem here!” the ghost said.

  As nicely dressed as the woman was, there was something odd about her head. It was sitting crookedly on her shoulders. Then Rose remembered how Marie Antoinette had died: she had been beheaded.

  The ghost gazed at Rose and Sage, and then spied Jacques leaning out of Rose’s sweatshirt pocket.

  “A mouse!” she screamed, and disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

  “Would you mind sitting this one out?” Rose asked the mouse.

  “I am universally despised,” Jacques moaned, before ducking deep into Rose’s sweatshirt pocket.

  After a moment, Marie Antoinette rose cautiously from the water. “Has the mouse gone?”