of joy wafted up from other kitchens. Rohit Mansukhani, the baker from India, did a victory dance. Wei Wen, the slight baker from China, nodded courteously. Dag Ferskjold, the tall Norwegian, pounded his fists on his cutting board and broke down in tears of relief. Miriam and Muriel, the French twins Desjardins, jumped up and down like schoolchildren.
Ty jumped with them.
“You’re supposed to be rooting for our team, Ty,” said Rose.
“I am!” he said. “But I’m also rooting for Miriam and Muriel.”
Finally, Jean-Pierre paused and looked out over the crowd. “I have named the eight contestants who will be advancing in the competition. Other than the victor, only one name remains,” he said.
Rose shook her head. She knew she was finished.
“Bliss.”
Rose’s eyes darted around the room. Was there another competitor named Bliss? Or had she, by some miracle, been allowed to continue on?
“Oh, thank goodness!” Purdy screamed, hoisting Rose up in the air.
“The rest of you,” Jean-Pierre continued, “may pack up your spatulas and leave the premises.” Irina Klechevsky from Russia threw her hands up in the air, while Malik Hall from Senegal dropped to his knees and cursed the sky. Victor Cabeza from Mexico hung his head, while Peter Gianopolous stormed out of the expo center. Fritz Knapschildt and the others simply collected their utensils and walked off toward the door, sighing.
That could have been me, Rose thought.
Jean-Pierre cleared his throat. “Congratulations to the nine bakers, though I use the term loosely. Some of the so-called sweet desserts were an abominable, dismal mess. I have been forced to allow these people to pass through to day two only because half of our contestants didn’t finish their baked goods in time. Those of you who’ve barely skated by—and you know who you are—will be shown no mercy tomorrow.”
Rose pictured Jean-Pierre slicing her head off with a guillotine made out of sheet cake.
“Our winner for today,” Jean-Pierre went on, “is a woman whose decadent chocolate creation managed to tickle even myself, the world’s foremost expert on chocolate. The magnificent woman who has rescued the morning from insignificance is . . . Lily Le Fay!”
Rose peered into Jean-Pierre’s eyes as he announced the winner. His blue eyes had darkened so that Rose couldn’t tell where pupils ended and irises began, just as Leigh’s eyes had darkened when she ate the entire Pound-for-Pound Cake tainted with Lily’s Magic Ingredient. Jean-Pierre hadn’t eaten quite that much, and his body was considerably larger than Leigh’s, so Rose hoped that the effects would be short-lived; but still, they were unmistakable. Lily could have made instant mashed potatoes with her Magic Ingredient and he would have proclaimed it the most genius thing he’d ever eaten.
I don’t stand a chance against her magic, Rose thought.
Lily ran to the stage, where Jean-Pierre placed a silver tiara on her head. Dozens of cameras swarmed, bulbs flashed, and Lily smiled.
“How does it feel to win, Lily?” one of the cameramen asked.
“Oh, I’m humbled just to be here,” she said.
That’s when Rose spotted the tiny man in the harlequin costume. He cocked his bald head to the side and peered up into the crowd from beneath the bushy black caterpillars of his eyebrows. His eyes flashed green, and Rose could swear she saw him wink at her from all the way down on the stage.
“Ty,” Rose said, pulling on his sleeve. “Do you see that? Who is that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The little guy standing next to Lily.”
Ty peered down over the stage. “There’s no little guy, mi hermana .”
Rose checked again. Ty was right. There was no longer anyone standing next to Lily except reporters and cameramen.
Ty patted Rose on the head. “I think you need a nap.”
When they got back to the family’s suite at the Hôtel de Notre Dame, Rose locked herself in the room she was sharing with
Ty jumped with them.
“You’re supposed to be rooting for our team, Ty,” said Rose.
“I am!” he said. “But I’m also rooting for Miriam and Muriel.”
Finally, Jean-Pierre paused and looked out over the crowd. “I have named the eight contestants who will be advancing in the competition. Other than the victor, only one name remains,” he said.
Rose shook her head. She knew she was finished.
“Bliss.”
Rose’s eyes darted around the room. Was there another competitor named Bliss? Or had she, by some miracle, been allowed to continue on?
“Oh, thank goodness!” Purdy screamed, hoisting Rose up in the air.
“The rest of you,” Jean-Pierre continued, “may pack up your spatulas and leave the premises.” Irina Klechevsky from Russia threw her hands up in the air, while Malik Hall from Senegal dropped to his knees and cursed the sky. Victor Cabeza from Mexico hung his head, while Peter Gianopolous stormed out of the expo center. Fritz Knapschildt and the others simply collected their utensils and walked off toward the door, sighing.
That could have been me, Rose thought.
Jean-Pierre cleared his throat. “Congratulations to the nine bakers, though I use the term loosely. Some of the so-called sweet desserts were an abominable, dismal mess. I have been forced to allow these people to pass through to day two only because half of our contestants didn’t finish their baked goods in time. Those of you who’ve barely skated by—and you know who you are—will be shown no mercy tomorrow.”
Rose pictured Jean-Pierre slicing her head off with a guillotine made out of sheet cake.
“Our winner for today,” Jean-Pierre went on, “is a woman whose decadent chocolate creation managed to tickle even myself, the world’s foremost expert on chocolate. The magnificent woman who has rescued the morning from insignificance is . . . Lily Le Fay!”
Rose peered into Jean-Pierre’s eyes as he announced the winner. His blue eyes had darkened so that Rose couldn’t tell where pupils ended and irises began, just as Leigh’s eyes had darkened when she ate the entire Pound-for-Pound Cake tainted with Lily’s Magic Ingredient. Jean-Pierre hadn’t eaten quite that much, and his body was considerably larger than Leigh’s, so Rose hoped that the effects would be short-lived; but still, they were unmistakable. Lily could have made instant mashed potatoes with her Magic Ingredient and he would have proclaimed it the most genius thing he’d ever eaten.
I don’t stand a chance against her magic, Rose thought.
Lily ran to the stage, where Jean-Pierre placed a silver tiara on her head. Dozens of cameras swarmed, bulbs flashed, and Lily smiled.
“How does it feel to win, Lily?” one of the cameramen asked.
“Oh, I’m humbled just to be here,” she said.
That’s when Rose spotted the tiny man in the harlequin costume. He cocked his bald head to the side and peered up into the crowd from beneath the bushy black caterpillars of his eyebrows. His eyes flashed green, and Rose could swear she saw him wink at her from all the way down on the stage.
“Ty,” Rose said, pulling on his sleeve. “Do you see that? Who is that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The little guy standing next to Lily.”
Ty peered down over the stage. “There’s no little guy, mi hermana .”
Rose checked again. Ty was right. There was no longer anyone standing next to Lily except reporters and cameramen.
Ty patted Rose on the head. “I think you need a nap.”
When they got back to the family’s suite at the Hôtel de Notre Dame, Rose locked herself in the room she was sharing with
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