Authors: E.G. Foley
As for food, well, most of the world had long since concluded that the French beat everyone in that category, except for maybe the Italians. Ah, but the British were better at sports and
bred better horses, and, at least in their own opinion, told funnier jokes.
It was true
the French were traditionally better at dealing out a witty insult with devastating style. But when it came down to a fight, Jake thought, ha! His country was better at war, as evidenced by the fact that they had trounced the French in the last one.
Ah, b
ut of course all that was long before he was born, those bloody days of Napoleon versus England’s Iron Duke. And as an avid fan of all things edible, Jake was quite prepared to let bygones be bygones. He drifted through the cramped, crowded aisles of Marie’s shop, marveling at the exotic French sweets on offer.
H
e read the dainty placards with all the unfamiliar foreign names. The pastries were all such exquisite little artworks it almost seemed a shame to eat them.
T
here were rows of
Mont Blancs
, small whipped cream mountains with a candy perched atop each crest. There were
Opéras
with many thin layers of sponge cake held together by coffee syrup and topped with shiny chocolate ganache.
There was
Strawberry Savarin
dusted with powdered sugar and
Tarte Tatin
, a glossy puff pastry cradling caramelized apples. There were individual lemon soufflés and something called
Canelé:
tiny golden-brown bundt cakes. There were
éclairs
and
Napoleons,
Fondant au Chocolat
and
Forêt Noire
. There were macaroons and
Lunette aux Abricots,
danishes that looked like pastry blankets wrapped around sleeping golden apricot babies.
But w
hat stood out in glory, second only to the gingerbread Versailles, were the magnificent edible “Christmas trees” capping the ends of each aisle.
Jake heard a lady explaining to her husband that these were called
Croquembouche
, though she had never seen them made so large before. Creampuffs had been stacked up into pyramids like edible pine trees, held together by long ribbons of caramel.
His mouth watering at the splendid sight,
Jake was wondering if his stomach had enough capacity for him to eat one all by himself. Probably yes, he mused, when suddenly, he noticed a whiz of motion from the corner of his eye.
The barest hint
of a sparkle-trail followed as something went speeding along the top shelves of the shop, flush against the walls.
Startled, he looked twice
, turning to catch a better glimpse, but he was too slow. It was already gone, the red-and-green sparkle-trail fading so fast that he wondered if he had imagined it.
Intr
igued, he took a few steps out of the aisle and scanned the upper shelves, brow furrowed. Whatever it was, it had disappeared, but he was sure he had seen something.
Indeed,
now that he noticed it, he could feel the slight tingling sensation at his nape that usually alerted him when something supernatural was close by.
Obviously, his first thought was to wonder if
the shop was haunted. To be sure, there were ghosts all over London. It wouldn’t have surprised him.
But as far as he knew,
only fairies left sparkle-trails. Not even their nearest cousins, the pixies, had that particular trait. He knew because he had just met some in Wales.
Hold on—!
An astonishing question suddenly filled his mind.
Is that how she’s doing this—baking such amazing things? Has this French pastry lady got fairies helping her?
Unfair advantage! Jake huffed in surprise
, instantly indignant on British Bob’s behalf. Well, typical, he thought. Leave it to a Frenchwoman to make her own rules.
His instant suspicion of Mademoiselle Mar
ie would have to be forgiven.
T
hough he was only twelve, all British males were warned from an early age to resist as best they could those magnificent, impossible French ladies, who were famous worldwide for doing whatever they pleased.
Humph
. Nobody liked a cheater.
He shook his head in disapproval,
determined to even the odds in British Bob’s favor—and to learn the secret of Marie’s exquisite skill. He started prowling around the small, crowded shop, on the hunt for the fairy or whatever it was that had made that sparkle-trail.
Small as fairies were—five inches tall or so—
it could be hiding anywhere. Jake searched the high shelves, the back of his neck tingling away, but he never saw anything—and yet he got the feeling after a few minutes that the fairy had definitely noticed
him
hunting for it.
Aye, h
e could feel it watching him. The creature must’ve realized he was on to its trickery.
I am going to find you…
H
e searched the shop for several minutes more while his companions bought a few goodies to eat. Stalking down the middle aisle, he sensed that he was closing in. It was close, very close…
Determined to take it by surprise, he suddenly
jumped out of the middle aisle and spun in midair like a startled cat, facing down the next aisle. “Ha!”
The o
ther customers looked at him strangely.
Alas, the fairy was already gone.
Once again, he saw nothing but the green-and-red sparkles already fading.
No worries. You’re a fast little devil, but you’re mine.
Hmm.
As he continued his hunt, collecting a couple of treats to buy along the way, he mused on the fact that although he had met his share of fairies, he had never seen a sparkle-trail in those strong colors before.
The royal garden fairies
he knew usually had gold or silver or pastel-colored sparkles.
Was there some specific kind of Christmas fairy? he wondered.
Burning with curiosity, he crept down the aisle, and then stood on his toes to peer warily behind one shelf’s display of cherry-laced
Clafoutis.
The creature he was hunting must’ve started getting nervous about the danger of being caught, for suddenly, without Jake e
ven noticing, it struck back.
Apparently, it hoped to get rid of him by causing a distraction.
“Timberrrr!”
a small voice taunted.
And with that
, the
Croquembouche
Christmas tree behind Jake started tipping over. He whirled around as the unseen speaker sped off with a snicker, red-and-green sparkles in its wake.
Jake
gasped when he saw the
Croquembouche
toppling, sending a snowstorm of sugar-dusted cream puffs and macaroons flying through the air.
He started forward
automatically, lifting his hands to use his telekinesis to try to save it—but thankfully, he stopped himself in time. It would have been a disaster for him to use his magical powers in public.
And so, there
was nothing he could do but stand there and watch the beautiful, edible Christmas tree go crashing to the ground, destroyed.
It then occurred to him
that, as the person standing closest to it, he was about to take the blame.
Aw, crud.
Jake let out a sigh.
Story of my life.
CHAPTER TWO
The Way the Cookie Crumbles
Jake hated being blamed for things he didn’t do, but for some reason, that always happened to him.
Customers shouted and everyone leaped out of the way of the falling pastry tree
. There were cries of dismay, then everybody in the shop turned in shock and glared at him.
H
e stepped back, wondering if there was any point in telling them it wasn’t his fault. It was the fairy.
Right.
They’d haul him off to Bedlam.
A woman with dark eyes,
a sharp nose, and a smudge of flour on her cheek came rushing out of the back with a look of horror on her face. “What have you done?” Her accent promptly informed him that this must be Marie, the
artiste
herself. “You will pay for zis!”
“
Excuse me, it wasn’t my fault,” Jake said sternly.
He couldn’t help it.
Perhaps it was ungallant of him to refute her, but facts were facts. Besides, she was a cheater anyway, with her secret fairy helper. Unfair advantage over poor British Bob.
“
Mon Dieu!
Do you have any idea how many hours my staff and I have slaved over zat?”
“A
ha, your staff, right,” he drawled.
“What?
” she spat. “Where is your mozeur?”
“My what?”
“Your mamma!”
He stiffened. “I don’t think t
hat’s any of your business, madam.”
“
Garçon horrible
! Not even an
apologie
? Give me back those boxes. You are not worzy to eat my creations!” She snatched the treats he’d chosen out of his hands.
“Ma’am, I did
not knock over your…thing.”
(He was not sure how to pronounce it.)
“Ha!” She snapped her floury fingers in his face. “Get out of my shop, and don’t come back until you learn how to walk upright like a
personne
, not a shimpanzee!”
“Now, look here,
” he started in lordly high dudgeon. “I will pay for this mishap, even though it wasn’t my fault.” He took out his small coin purse with a look of reproach. “But I
don’t
appreciate your calling me a liar.”
Mademoiselle
ignored him, suddenly glaring past Jake toward the doorway of her shop.
“You.”
Jake turned and saw British Bob leaning against the doorframe
, looking amused by all the commotion.
“You put him up to zis!
”
“My dear, I have no
idea what you are talking about,” Bob said with a mild smirk under his mustache.
“You sent this little
monstre
in here to wreck my shop!”
He folded his arms across his chest and said calmly,
“Nonsense, you daft harpy. I told you the
Croquembouche
was a bridge too far, but no, you had to best me. Well, there you have it. Right again.”
Marie
unleashed a stream of angry French verbiage on him; Bob replied with maddeningly cool British sarcasm, and the two rival pastry chefs proceeded to spread the Christmas cheer by hollering at each other in the middle of the shop, ignoring all their customers—and unbeknownst to them, attracting the attention of a passing constable.
Jake’s friends ran
to him.
“
What did you do now?” Dani exclaimed.
“Oh, thanks
a lot,” he retorted.
“I say! What is going on in here?” a deep voice boomed from the doorway behind
British Bob.
Everyone looked over; Jake blanched.
Blimey.
Of all the bobbies to respond,
Jake saw it was none other than his old mustachioed nemesis from his pickpocket days, Constable Arthur Flanagan.
The policeman’s
stare homed right in on Jake; recognition flashed in his eyes, then he brushed his way past the angry bakers. “Well, well. I should’ve known I’d find this one smack in the midst of all the trouble.”
“Good afternoon, Constable
Flanagan,” Jake said courteously through gritted teeth. Ah, the memories.
“Why, l
ook at you, all dressed up like a gentl’man. Never thought I’d see the day!” Flanagan declared as he stepped in. “Got a whole new life these days, from what I read in the papers, don’t ye? But I see you’re still the same young rascal I remember. Up to your old tricks, eh, Jakey boy?”
“It wasn’t me!”
The bobby laughed heartily. “Ah, how I’ve missed hearin’ you say that.” Then he quit laughing and resumed his usual warning glower. “What did you steal from this lady’s shop?”
“Wot?” Jake
cried, sounding like his old pickpocket self once more. “Nuffin’!”
“
Non
, Constable,” Marie snapped. “He did not steal from my shop; he only half destroyed it.”
“Tempe
st in a teapot as usual, constable,” Bob said. “But that’s the French for you, innit? Look, the lad already got out his coin to pay for the trouble—”
“He
’d better pay,” she retorted.
“Ah, leave him alone
, Marie. He’s just a kid and it’s nearly Christmas,” Bob grumbled. “I’m sure ’twas an accident.”
“Fine. Just get him out of
my shop. And don’t come back!” she added, glaring at Jake.
“I
said I was sorry!” Jake exclaimed, tossing the coin in her direction as Constable Flanagan took hold of his ear.
“Come on, you.”
He led him firmly out of the shop and deposited him in the snow outside.
“Ow!”
“You might be quite the fine young lord now, laddie, but I’m on to you,” the bobby warned, wagging a finger in his face. “You’d better watch your step. The rest of the world might bow and scrape to ye now, but I don’t care in the least if you’re the Earl of Griffon or the Prince of Siam, mark me? You’ll not be goin’ about causin’ trouble like you used to.”
Dani elbowed Jake hard in the ribs to shut him up before he gave
the tart rejoinder on the tip of his tongue.
“Happy Christmas, Constable Flanagan,” she offered.
The bobby tipped his dark helmet to her. “Miss O’Dell. You look after ’im. He’s not so grand nowadays that I won’t still toss him in the Clink if he earns it.”
“I will, sir.
Er, give our best to your family?”
“
Move along, children.
His Lordship
has caused enough mischief for one day.” The bobby waved them off, raising a bushy red eyebrow at Jake, who, scowling, righted his coat and harrumphed.
Dani took his left arm and Archie took h
is right, and they both steered him away from there before he was tempted to say something he’d regret.
Constable Flanagan kept an eye on them until they had gone off safely down the lane, then he moved along, on patrol
once again.
“What just happ
ened in there?” Archie demanded.
“I’ll have you know, it wasn
’t me who knocked over that what-cha-call-it tree thing.”
“Then who did?”
Dani asked.
He pulled his arms indignantly out of thei
r grasps. “A fairy or something,” he muttered.
“What?”
they exclaimed in unison.
“There’s someth
ing weird going on in that shop—and I intend to get to the bottom of it,” he declared. “How dare that woman yell at me like that? I do
not
deserve to be publicly humiliated for something I didn’t even do!”
“A fairy,” Archie repeated.
“Aye! That French lady’s using magic as an unfair advantage over Bob, and that’s not right! So, you know what I’m going to do?”
“
Um, nothing?” Dani suggested.
Jake shook his head
. “I’m coming back here tonight when the shop is closed, and I’m going to catch that meddling little creature and remove it. That’ll teach Miss Hoity Toity Mademoiselle how we deal with cheaters here in England!”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Dani said.
“She told you never to come back. If you get caught in her shop a second time, she could have you arrested.”
“Especially after hours, when it’s closed,” Archie added.
“Well then. I won’t get caught,” he said.
“And w
hy do you want to do this?” Isabelle asked.
“Obviously—
it’s a matter of honor!” Jake declared. “I am the Earl of Griffon and she called me a liar in front of all those people! Intolerable! Then Flanagan insulting me, too, when I didn’t even do anything. I am not a pickpocket anymore! I never cause trouble!”
“Welll
l,”
the others said in response.
Jake glowered
. “Are you with me or not? Well, do as you like,” he said, waving them off impatiently. “I can catch that rotten fairy by myself, if need be. But you’re mad if you think I’m just goin’ to take this. I will
not
be insulted and unjustly accused. A gentleman has to defend his honor. Right, Archie?”
“Uh, I guess so.”
“Besides, Marie’s a cheater, anyway. British Bob deserves a fair fight in that contest of theirs. A matter of honor, I say. My own—and England’s!”
Isabelle shook her head with a sigh. “You’re daft.”
Jake ignored his oh-so-mature elder cousin, and held up his fist to rally his two most reliable followers, the younger pair. “For England!”
Well, it was
worth a shot, anyway. But Archie and Dani merely exchanged a dubious glance.