Bite-Sized Magic

  DEDICATION

  For Katherine Tegen,

  who makes magic with books

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue: Whatever Will Be, Will Bee

  Chapter 1: The Cat’s in the Bag

  Chapter 2: Making the Mostess of a Bad Situation

  Chapter 3: FLCP

  Chapter 4: The Moony Pye of Insatiability

  Chapter 5: In an Apricot Jam

  Chapter 6: Cheesy Home Videos

  Chapter 7: The Bunny and the Hag

  Chapter 8: Gorging on Glo-Balls

  Chapter 9: Two Brothers, with Sprinkles

  Chapter 10: Little House on the Blacktop

  Chapter 11: Dinky Doodle Donuts of Zombification

  Chapter 12: On the Wings of Squirrels

  Chapter 13: King Things of Revulsion

  Chapter 14: Love Is in the Jars

  Chapter 15: A Dinky Bit of All-Consuming Greed

  Chapter 16: Skirting the Issue

  Chapter 17: Let’s Give the Boy Eight Hands

  Chapter 18: Boys Do Cry

  Epilogue: Lady Rosemary Bliss

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Whatever Will Be, Will Bee

  Rosemary Bliss’s dreams had come true.

  She was the most famous baker in all the world. She was the youngest chef ever to have won France’s famed Gala des Gâteaux Grands. She was the twelve-year-old girl who’d out-baked celebrity TV chef Lily Le Fay and stopped her aunt’s nefarious schemes. She was the local kid who’d saved her hometown and rescued the Bliss family’s magical Cookery Booke.

  So why wasn’t she happy?

  On the thirteenth morning after returning from Paris, she got up and pulled open the curtains of her bedroom.

  Snap. Flash. Click. Click.

  That was why.

  “Look, up there, it’s Rose!” Click. Flash. Snap. “Rose, how do you feel about your victory?” Click. Flash. Flash. Snap. “Rose! How does it feel to be the best baker in the world?” Snap. Flash. Click. “And at only twelve years old?” Click. Flash. Snap.

  Ugh, Rose thought. They’re still here. Gone were the soothing sounds of morning, the wind chimes, the rope of the tire swing creaking against the branch of the old oak outside her window. Instead, the new sounds came courtesy of the group of paparazzi that had taken up permanent residence outside the Follow Your Bliss Bakery. Each morning they waited for Rose to open her curtains and then snapped hundreds of pictures, while calling out for a quote about her prodigious victory.

  Rose had always harbored a secret curiosity about what fame would feel like, and now she knew. It felt like being a goldfish: hundreds of big googly eyes staring in at you, leaving you nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, except maybe a little plastic castle.

  Rose snapped the curtains shut, and wondered if she’d had enough of baking. It wasn’t worth it, not if it meant this.

  “I wish I never had to bake again,” Rose said to no one in particular.

  A furry gray head, its ears flattened, appeared from a mound of dirty clothes at the foot of her bed. “Be careful what you wish for,” Gus said. “Wishes before birthdays have a strange way of coming true.” The Scottish Fold cat raised a paw and began licking carefully between each sheathed claw.

  “That’s just silly,” Rose said. “My birthday isn’t until the end of summer. Anyway, I didn’t really mean it.” She scratched his head and he purred. “I’d just like to not have to bake for a little bit, you know?” She’d become a baker because she loved her family and her town, and baking was in her blood—but thanks to her victory at the Gala des Gâteaux Grands, everything had been turned upside down.

  She knew it had only been a measly two weeks, but the past fourteen days had been the longest of her life. No peace and quiet. No time to enjoy the summer. Baking wasn’t fun anymore; it was something she was expected to do—like homework.

  And that was no fun at all. As far as Rose was concerned, unless something changed this summer, she was done with baking for good.

  Downstairs, inside the kitchen of the Bliss Family Bakery, the situation was no better. Camera flashes burst through the drawn curtains like stuttering flickers of lightning, and the barking of reporters outside the door made it sound like there were a thousand people outside instead of just a few hundred. Why wouldn’t they leave her alone?

  The mail was almost worse.

  Rose’s brothers, Sage and Ty, were already sitting in the bakery kitchen, tearing through yesterday’s mail, throwing the unimportant letters into a giant black trash bag and placing the ones that needed answers in a pile. Rose knew the letters were for her (“Your fans love us—I mean, you,” Ty liked to say) but she was tired of having to read them. She didn’t want to look at another letter now—or ever. She just wanted to get back to a normal life.

  “Junk,” announced Sage, throwing a stack of balled-up paper into the trash. Rose’s pudgy-cheeked younger brother had just turned ten, but he didn’t look a day older than eight. He had curly, strawberry-blond hair, and the only thing that had grown on him over the past year was the number of freckles on his nose.

  “What was in it?” asked Ty. Rose’s handsome older brother had grown, but not enough—lately he had confided in Rose that he was worried that his dreams of NBA superstardom were out of reach.

  “The president of Spain wants a cake,” Sage said, flipping through the letters, “Warren Buffett wants an enormous pie-chart pie, with a different flavor for every section.”

  “What’s a pie chart?” Ty asked.

  “Who’s Warren Buffett?” Rose asked.

  “Some nobody who likes pie, I guess,” Sage said, and read another letter. “The United Nations General Assembly wants us to make a cupcake for every ambassador to their next meeting—frosted with the country’s flag, and—listen to this—‘the flavor of each ambassador’s homeland in every single nibble.’”

  “Ugh,” Ty replied. “When is someone important gonna write to us?”

  Sage opened the next letter, a heavy pink envelope that wafted out a gentle breath of sweet perfume. He fell to the floor and clutched his chest like a man dying of heartache.

  “Now!” he cried, handing the letter to Ty and Rose.

  Rose scanned the delicate sheet of stationery:

  Dear Wonderful Rose and the Rest of the Follow Your Bliss Bakery!

  Please send me a cake. Please. I don’t care what kind. I have to have one of your cakes. I will die without it. I will pay you anything. You can even play in the band on my next tour. Send the cake soon.

  Katy Perry

  “No!” Ty gasped. “She must have been watching the competition, seen me, and fallen in love. The cake is just a way to get to me.”

  Rose sighed. She knew she should be excited, but all these letters from famous people just made her tired. Baking wasn’t about getting notes from celebrities. It was about mixing and stirring and folding, about flour and butter and sugar and heart, and love, and—

  “We’re rich!” cried Ty, holding up a letter embossed with the cartoon image of Kathy Keegan, the name of a big baked-goods conglomerate.

  “Rose,” Ty said, “they’re offering seven hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars just for doing a single thirty-second commercial endorsing their products.”

  “Why all the sevens?” Sage asked.

  “All you have to do is eat a Keegan Kake and say, ‘I’m Rosemary Bliss, youngest winner in history of the Gala des Gâteaux Grands,’ and, um, ‘Kathy Keegan is my inspiration!’” Ty handed her the letter and stared moonily at the ceiling. “If
I were married to Katy Perry, and you signed this endorsement deal . . . none of us would ever have to work again!”

  “Kathy Keegan isn’t even real,” Rose answered. “The Keegan Corporation was founded by a group of businessmen. How can I say someone is my inspiration when she isn’t even an actual person? Besides, I would never eat a Keegan Kake. You know what Mom says about cakes that come wrapped in plastic.” She stuffed the letter into her pocket and turned away. She’d had enough of letters.

  That’s when she noticed that every available surface in the kitchen was covered in cookie sheets lined with parchment.

  Her mother, Purdy Bliss, burst through the saloon doors from the front room of the bakery, her arms laden with grocery bags. She was a sturdy woman with a sweet face and curly black hair and bangs that flopped wildly over her forehead.

  “Boys, the buttons!” she cried. “I told you to pipe the buttons and not stop until all these cookie sheets are filled!”

  The boys grumbled as they each picked up a pastry bag. Purdy tousled their red hair as they set about piping little blobs of chocolate dough onto the sheets in tidy rows.

  “What’s going on?” Rose asked.

  “Those reporters,” Purdy said, kissing Rose on the forehead. “We’ll never get on with our lives until they vamoose.”

  “I’ll help,” Rose said, feeling enthusiastic for the first time in days. Maybe she could actually be useful.

  “Rose, honey,” said Purdy, unpacking the groceries, “you should probably go back upstairs. You’re the one who really sets them off.”

  “Am I just supposed to stay in my tower, like Rapunzel?” Rose asked, throwing up her arms. “I don’t think so.” She seized a pastry bag filled with chocolate dough and squeezed out a few orderly blobs as her brothers finished the rest.

  “Three hundred buttons,” Purdy said, counting. “Just enough. Children, come here.” She drew Rose and her brothers close to her, gently settling her arms on their shoulders.

  The door to the walk-in fridge swung open, and Rose’s great-great-great-grandfather Balthazar emerged carrying a massive blue mason jar lined with chicken wire. From inside it came a sound like ten thousand electric toothbrushes all buzzing at the same time. “You ready?” he asked.

  Purdy nodded and cried, “Release the bees!”

  Balthazar set the jar down in the center of the kitchen floor, then cracked open the lid. A swarm of bees tumbled forth, filling the kitchen like a horrible fuzzy cloud of buzzing black-and-yellow smoke.

  “Behold, the Dread Swarm of the Tubertine!” Balthazar cried, tugging at his beard.

  “The cookies are Mind Your Own Beeswax Buttons,” explained Purdy over the sound of the buzzing. “If you eat a cookie imbued with one sting from the Dread Swarm of the Tubertine, you’ll mind your own business. They were first used on the Trappist monks; as a matter of fact, before the fateful day when the monks in the order feasted on these, you couldn’t shut them up. Gab gab gab! After devouring these buttons, the monks took the first vows of silence in the history of monkdom.” Purdy pulled a kazoo from the pocket of her apron. “Behold!”

  She pursed her lips and puffed out a rhythmic tango. The swarm of bees immediately stood perfectly still in the air, then scrambled around until each bee hovered over a tiny mound of chocolate dough. The bees looked to Purdy, wide-eyed and ready. Rose could feel a steady flutter of wind from their buzzing wings.

  At Purdy’s next blast on the kazoo, each of the three hundred bees plunged their stingers into their mound of dough. They seemed to sigh, and their buzzing grew quieter, and then they looked away from Purdy and one another and flew single file back into the jar.

  Balthazar snapped the lid closed.

  Ty and Sage crawled out from beneath the table in the breakfast nook, sighing with relief.

  “Ew,” said Sage. Rose noticed that the walls and floor were smeared with yellow goop. Sage swiped his finger through a patch. “They slimed the place.”

  Balthazar scratched his bald head, and his finger came away dripping with the sticky yellow stuff. He held it to the tip of his tongue. “It’s honey,” he grumbled.

  Purdy and Rose shoved tray after tray of the newly stung chocolate buttons into the oven. A few minutes later, they transferred the hot cookies onto a serving tray, and soon after that, Ty and Sage were outside distributing the buttons to the teeming mass of reporters and photographers.

  As each reporter bit into a cookie, his eyes flashed as gold as the scruffy neck of a bee, and he quickly hurried off the lawn. Within ten minutes, the flock had vanished from the backyard—cameras, boom microphones, flashbulbs, and all.

  Ty and Sage reentered the kitchen with their empty serving trays. Ty’s hair, which he’d started to gel into three-inch spikes since the Gala, was wilting like a patch of broken weeds, and Sage had a bright pink welt across his forehead.

  “Someone hit me with a microphone,” Sage said, fuming. “Those people are animals. Animals, I say!”

  Ty held up a sheet of orange paper and said, “Once they’d cleared out, I found this on the front door—they’re taped all over the building.” The edges of the orange sheet trailed bits of tape.

  Purdy took the paper from him and read it out loud. “By Order of the American Bureau of Business and Congressional Act HC 213, this Place of Business is CLOSED FOR BUSINESS immediately.”

  “Can they do that?” Sage asked. “Don’t they have to talk with us first?”

  “We only just hit the big-time!” Ty said, exasperated. “Katy Perry wants cake!”

  Purdy furrowed her brow and read further. “The American Big Bakery Discrimination Act states that bakeries employing fewer than a thousand people must cease and desist operation. Big bakeries are suffering due to the unfair advantages of mom-and-pop bakeries throughout the United States. You are to cease and desist selling baked goods for profit henceforward. Violations will be punishable to the full extent of the law.”

  Rose gulped and felt something soft butt against her ankle. She looked down and found Gus the cat, who looked up at her. “A wayward wish is a bitter dish,” he said, then threaded himself around her legs. “Told you so!”

  CHAPTER 1

  The Cat’s in the Bag

  Exactly twenty-seven days later, Rose woke to find her bedroom toasty warm like the inside of a sock fresh from the dryer.

  She had suffered through twenty-seven days of waking to morning cold throughout the house, the ovens turned off, the front windows shuttered, the bakery closed for business. Twenty-seven days of living with the guilt that she, Rosemary Bliss, had brought a chill onto her town just by making a simple little wish.

  She stretched in her bed and listened to her bones creak and was thankful that it was a warm Saturday in June. There was no need to drag herself through the sad-sack halls of Calamity Falls Middle School. Like everyone else in town, her fellow students had taken a turn for the worse since the Follow Your Bliss Bakery had closed. The teachers lost their pep, the sports teams lost their matches—even the cheerleaders had lost their enthusiasm. “Rah,” they’d mumble at games, halfheartedly shaking their pom-poms.

  Worst of all, Devin Stetson was affected too, his blond bangs sitting lank and greasy on his forehead. Rose wondered what she’d ever seen in him at all.

  And Rose was droopier than anyone: Alone among all the people in Calamity Falls, she knew that she was the reason the bakery had closed.

  “Just another week,” she muttered to herself as she lay there.

  “Shhhhhh!” a little voice cried from beside her. “Sleeping!”

  Rose whipped back the covers, exposing the snoring bundle of pajamas that was her younger sister, Leigh, curled up like a comma in the space where the bed met the wall.

  “Leigh,” Rose said, “you’ve got to stop sneaking into my bed!”

  “But I get scared,” Leigh said, batting her dark eyelashes, and Rose felt guilty all over again. Her four-year-old sister’s sudden night frights were probably Rose’
s fault, too.

  “Another week of what?” someone else purred. Curled up in a tight comma against her sister’s chest was Gus. He opened one green eye and glared at her. The cat had been able to talk as long as Rose had known him—ever since he’d eaten some Chattering Cheddar Biscuits her great-great-great-grandfather had made, in fact. But she was shocked anew every time he opened his tiny whiskered mouth and spoke. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked.

  “Until school is out for the summer,” Rose said. “I can’t take it anymore. Everyone’s so mopey!” She sucked in a deep lungful of air and felt comforted by the soft scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Someone’s baking!” she exclaimed.

  Gus stretched out his front paws and leaned forward, his tail rising straight like an exclamation point. “This is a bakery, you know.”

  “But, but, but—we’ve been closed! By order of the government!”

  Leigh blinked and scratched Gus’s rumpled gray ears. Since being freed from Lily’s awful spell that caused her to praise her aunt incessantly, Leigh had taken on a Buddha-like serenity, and rarely opened her mouth except to speak the simple truth.

  “Closed,” the little girl said calmly, touching the wrinkle in Rose’s forehead, “is just an opportunity to be open in a different way.”

  Rose scrunched up her face. “Well, open or closed, if we’re baking, we’re breaking the law,” she said. “We’d better get downstairs.”

  Dressed in a red T-shirt and tan shorts, Rose arrived in the kitchen with Leigh and Gus just as Chip entered from the bakery—Chip was an ex-marine who usually helped customers in the store. Rose didn’t know what they’d do without him.

  “I don’t understand why I’m here,” he said. “The sign on the front still says CLOSED. The blinds are still drawn. The lights are still off.”

  “Good, Chip,” Purdy said. “Now take a seat so I can explain to everyone what’s going on.”

  He sat on a stool at the head of the table in the breakfast nook, where Rose’s parents, brothers, and Balthazar were huddled around the table, with its overflowing pile of fan mail. Rose’s father, Albert, held the official letter that had come from the United States government, reading it over and over, as if he expected to find some tiny footnote that negated the whole thing. “This law makes no sense—no sense at all!” he muttered under his breath. Leigh crawled under the breakfast table and reemerged in her mother’s lap. Rose slid in beside her brothers.