The Apple of Discord
THE KNIFE IN THE GLASS CASE GLINTED, CATCHING SYLVIE’S EYE like a beacon of light, drawing her in. An eight-inch polished Santoku blade with a golden ironwood handle. It was ever-present, but always just out of reach.
Not once in her life had Sylvie touched this knife. The strangeness of that had never really crossed her mind, until now.
That’s what too many hours stuck in a car with your thoughts can do.
Now the irony hit her. She’d spent her life watching her mom use it. To chop onions. To cut away gristle… . To cook up spells.
With each recipe, Sylvie dreamed of standing by her mother’s side, her own Blade in hand, whipping up magic.
She swallowed hard. But would that dream come true? For the first time in her life, Sylvie wasn’t sure.
Sylvie’s mom, Abby, glanced over as the car slowed. “You all right? Sorry. Silly question … I know you’re not. But you’ve still got a shot at your dream.”
Sylvie forced a smile. “I know.”
An unruly lock of auburn hair flopped onto Sylvie’s brow. She brushed it away and ripped open another bag of potato chips, stuffing a handful into her mouth. A layer of grease and salt coated her tongue as she stared out the car window. The fading mansions of Montmarte, Louisiana glowed like a fleet of ghost ships as they sailed past.
Just like Montmarte and its misspelled name, Sylvie had missed her mark.
Correction. She hadn’t missed anything, which was worse. It’s not like she’d failed the test or turned out a disastrous recipe. Instead, she’d been labeled a cheat, found guilty by association—or, more accurately, by blood. After all, the Council of Culinary Sages, or CCS for short, wasn’t after Sylvie. It was after her mom.
They were the gatekeepers to the world, and school, Sylvie wanted to belong to. Unfortunately, Sylvie and her family were now caught in the crosshairs of the CCS’s latest policy: Anyone accused of cheating in a major cooking competition must prove their innocence, or hand in their knife and never cook up magic again.
Sylvie shoved another greasy shard into her mouth. But Mom didn’t cheat. I’m sure of it. Now, everything was riding on what happened next.
Abby shook her head. “Would you stop with the chips? I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”
were part of the deadly nightshade family. Toxic if you eat too much. But Sylvie knew. In fact, she knew most things when it came to food. She stuffed another chip into her mouth, praying this would be the bite that finally did her in. If she got sick, maybe her mom could convince the CCS to give her a grace period before starting Brindille’s preparatory program?
Of course, she was grateful for the opportunity they were giving her. Sylvie still had a shot at testing into her mom’s old school. But Sylvie needed more time. To cook. To study. Outshining the other hopefuls at Brindille wasn’t going to be easy. Competition was steep. Now, Sylvie had to outperform them all if she wanted to test into Brindille and learn to cook up magic.
The car slowed as they pulled into an old truck stop.
“Remember what I told you about Brindille?” Abby asked. She looked around, trying to find a parking spot. “Avoid the garden—”
“At night. Unless I want to get doused in spice clouds by the ghost peppers,” finished Sylvie.
Her mom nodded. “And the stairs …”
“Are unfriendly, unless you give them chocolate peppermints.” That rule still seemed the strangest.
“Last but not least”—Abby pulled into a parking spot—“try to ignore the gossip. People at Brindille are going to be talking about the Golden Whisk … and me.”
Sylvie nodded. The disastrous match at the biggest magical cooking competition was still the stuff of legend. But mostly because of the cheating rumors that swirled around the former winner: Sylvie’s mom. For years, outlandish stories had spread, fueled by jealous competitors and gossipy bloggers, like Rumor Wheeler. Now, on the cusp of Golden Whisk All-Stars, tongues were wagging once again.
in her knife and stop cooking up spells, she had to redeem her name by winning Golden Whisk All-Stars.
The whir of the engine died.
Her mom finally turned to face her. “There will be kids at Brindille who think this is justice. They’ll say our family is finally getting what we deserve. It’s not going to be easy, but I believe in you. I know you can do it, Sylvie.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Sylvie shoved the empty bag of chips into the cup holder. “But this isn’t justice! I was little when you won; so were the other kids at Brindille. Now, they’ve read the papers and think they’re experts? This whole thing is ridiculous! You didn’t cheat.”
Abby sighed. “I know. Trouble is, plenty of people never believed me. Bass campaigned on his policies of reform and won.”
Bass’s policies were more a convoluted grocery list than a course of action. Ranking protocols. Monitoring of schools and education. Banning anything or anyone that felt dangerous. Still, her mom was right. People wanted change, and Bass was delivering it.
“Now that he’s president, the whole thing has been dredged up. Everyone is under scrutiny. You have to rise above the gossip, Sylvie. Godard is on our side. That counts for something.”
Sylvie had only met Madame Godard once. She was the headmistress of Brindille, the school Sylvie had been dreaming of attending since she was old enough to reach the stove.
“I just wish I had more time to study. The six-week program covers everything from cake charms to bewitched breads … even mycology! I should’ve cooked more with mushrooms.”
Abby raised a hand. “I know it’s a lot. Finishing first in your class won’t be easy, but you’re going to do great. It’s in your blood.”
Sylvie smiled for real this time. Her mom was right. This was her destiny. In fact, going to Brindille was the only future she’d ever imagined. When she cooked, something deeper came to life. Soups glistened like lakes bathed in moonbeams. Cakes sparkled like fireflies. Not everyone could bring that out in food. For example, Sylvie’s dad could barely work a toaster. But Sylvie was different. To prove it, she was prepared to cook her heart out, do whatever it took, to finish first in her class.
Of course, Sylvie wasn’t the only one standing on the precipice. She glanced at her mom. “I wish I could go with you … cheer you on at the competition.”
Her mom smiled. “Thanks, sweetheart. I wish you could too. But we each have something to prove if we don’t want to get banned. Besides, I can’t protect you in Paris. At least at Brindille, there are enchantments in place. I need to know you’re safe… .”
Sylvie caught Mom looking at her hand and stuffed her fist into her jacket. She didn’t need to be reminded of why she needed protection. When Sylvie was six, she had a run-in with a basket of muffins delivered to the house by a fan. She could still smell them, sweet like summer pie. Naturally, Sylvie dove in. The next thing she knew, an overwhelming pain sliced through her.
They’d been laced with butcher’s-broom. Instead of a mouthful of muffin, Sylvie got a dozen stitches and a tetanus shot that day. Ironically, she’d been lucky. It had ended much worse for her mom’s Golden Whisk teammates.
“Now, come on. We don’t want to be late.” Her mom fastened a small bronze pin that looked like a dot of ink onto her blouse and stepped out of the car.
“After you.” Abby pointed to an old diner.
Here? Sylvie grabbed her backpack and hopped out. The sensation of pins and needles hit the soles of her feet. It had been a long drive to get here from their home in Los Angeles. Sylvie gave her legs a shake, trying to get rid of the annoying feeling.
dominoes. A small building lined with low windows was tucked into the corner. Inside, Sylvie could see people sitting in booths, sipping coffee and eating eggs. A neon sign in the window caught her eye: WELCOME TO NOWHERE.
Sylvie didn’t know what she’d expected Brindille’s entrance to look like, but this place didn’t seem the least bit magical.
“How about I buy you a slice of pie?” said Abby. “Banana cream used to always cheer you up.”
Sylvie’s stomach gave a pleading grumble. She did love a good slice of pie. A flaky and buttery crust was key. Plus, she always got her best ideas over dessert. “Banana cream sounds great.” If she was going to outsmart the other kids, she’d need a killer plan. Hopefully the pie would inspire her.
An old Datsun charged out of the parking lot, kicking up dirt and sputtering fumes. Sylvie waved the dust away. A man wearing a thick hoodie suddenly materialized. He stared at Sylvie intently as she passed. Sylvie quickly checked her face for potato chip fragments. Clean. She turned around to see if he was still looking at her, but he’d disappeared.
Weird.
Sylvie pushed the stranger from her thoughts and followed her mom into the diner.
A portly waitress in a mustard-colored uniform stood near the entrance. Her eyes settled on Abby. “Just one?”
“Two,” said Sylvie, stepping out from behind her mom.
Sylvie still hadn’t hit her growth spurt. As a result, she was smaller than most fourteen-year-olds. Her mom always tried to put a positive twist on it. Tiny but mighty.
Embarrassing.
Truthfully, Sylvie didn’t mind being short. It came with some benefits. She slipped through crowds unnoticed and flipped on her skateboard without whacking her head on the sidewalk.
“Right.” The woman grabbed two menus and headed toward a table near the back. “Special today is shrimp gumbo.” She plopped the menus down. “Name’s Marge. I’ll come back to take your order.”
Abby smiled. “Thank you.”
Sylvie dropped her bag and slid into the booth. The scent of old grease hung in the air.
The man at the table next to them burped loudly.
Ugh!
Abby set down her purse. “I need to let someone know we’re here. Choose something to eat. I’ll be back.”
“I already know what I want.”
“Rule number five.” Abby gestured toward the man who’d let out the burp. “It’s about blending in. We don’t want Scullery growing suspicious.”
Scullery was the word Sages like her mom used to describe people with zero magical culinary talent. People who had no clue that spells were real and ready to be served up to you on a dinner plate.
“Fine.” Sylvie picked up a menu. Maybe she’d get a slice of apple pie instead of banana cream … or both. Yes, definitely two slices!
A man sitting in the corner caught Sylvie’s eye. It was the same guy she’d seen outside. His tan face was still partially concealed by the hoodie, but now Sylvie could make out a few details. Wooden beads were woven through the strands of dark locs peeking out by his ears. He had a large ring on his right hand. Once again, his gaze was fixed on Sylvie.
Sylvie felt her heart thrum in her chest like a guitar string.
First of all, no one wore a thick sweatshirt with the hood pulled up in late summer. Not unless they’re trying to keep their identity a secret. Second, the man had an old metal lunch box resting in his lap. Who brings their own food to a diner?
straight toward her.
Sylvie craned her neck, eyes roaming, as she searched for the emergency exit.
Someone had tried to destroy her family once before with a basket of hexed muffins. Now with her mom ready to compete in All-Stars, fans and enemies were in a frenzy.
Sylvie grabbed her bag, ready to run, when the man sat down across from her.
“I must warn you, Sylvie Jones.” His eyes sparkled like drops of amber in sunlight.
Sylvie paused. “How do you know my name?”
He lifted the lunch box onto the table. “What I know isn’t important. It’s what you don’t know that matters.”
Sylvie couldn’t help but notice the peculiar ring he was wearing. It looked like a grape leaf, with a pinpricked circle in the center. He opened the lunch box’s lid.
Inside, nestled in a silk handkerchief, was a sphere of solid gold—and yet, it didn’t seem solid at all. Sparks of light erupted in the center. Tiny leaves unfurled at the core, radiating life and magic.
“What is that?” Sylvie asked.
“A fiercely guarded treasure … the Apple of Discord.”
Sylvie had read a few things about the Apple in one of her mom’s botany books. Supposedly, the CCS had a secret tree that only produced fruit in times of great danger. But an Apple hasn’t bloomed in more than a century.
Maybe it’s a fake, she thought. Though it certainly looked real. Or … this whole thing is some sort of weird test?
“Is this a lesson for the preparatory program?” Sylvie asked, still trying to make sense of things. “Will I be graded on my answers?”
“What? No.” The man lowered his voice. “The Apple of Discord is a sign. A reckoning is coming. As soon as Bass was elected”—he pointed—“this bloomed. Of course, there are people at the CCS who don’t want anyone to know. That’s why I had to take it. When all eyes are focused on the same point, I’ll show everyone the truth.”
Sylvie quickly made up her mind. She wanted nothing to do with this guy, or his stolen apple. She stood up to leave. “Well, it’s been nice chatting, but—”
The man caught her hand. “You don’t understand. The Apple chooses the one who can make things right. Look!” He turned the nestled sphere over. Something was written on the back.
Sylvie’s eyes burned as the letters grew brighter. She tilted her head, trying to read. It’s a name.
But it wasn’t just any name… . It was her name. ...
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