The Courage of Cat Campbell (15 page)

“I quite agree, Marie Claire,” Cat said with enthusiasm.

“You can't imagine what it feels like,” Poppy burst out, sprinkling raisins over the dough, “being full of hatred and darkness.” Cat had never seen her mother look so unwell. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and Cat guessed she had slept in her braid. “I do. I've been there, and it doesn't matter how old you are. You can still do terrible things. I was ten years old and I turned my parents to stone.” Cat flinched at the strength of her mother's words.

“With good reason,” Marie Claire murmured. “You were not to blame, Poppy.”

“It doesn't matter. I did it. And no one has any idea what Madeline Reynolds is capable of doing.”

Cat's stomach flipped over. She wished her mother hadn't said that.

A gentle thud sounded from the bakery. “Was that the postman?” Poppy jerked her head up, glancing toward the shop. He usually came early, before Cat left for school, dropping the mail through their brass letter slot so it landed in a heap on the floor.

“I'll go and look,” Cat offered, hoping that there might be some word from her father. It had been so long since a letter had come from him. She knew her mother was hoping for the same thing, because as Cat left the room she heard her say to Marie Claire, “It's not just Madeline Reynolds, you know. I'm worried about Tristram, too.” Cat stopped to listen. She couldn't help herself. Her mother never worried about her father in front of Cat, but she obviously felt just as anxious. “It's been weeks since we heard any news. I know he can't call because there's no service where he is, but he's always managed to send letters before.”

A weak, sick feeling clutched Cat. What if something had happened to her dad? But she couldn't think that way. “You've got to believe, Cat.” That's what her dad always told her, never saying what it was he believed in exactly. Just that if you did believe, it would most certainly all be all right. And so far he had not been proved wrong, returning from the jungles of Africa, where he had almost been eaten by lions, searching for the big-leafed bilibead plant, and the mountains of Nepal, where he spent three weeks trapped in an underground tunnel living on nothing but worms and water. And now, even though no one had heard from Tristram Campbell in two months, Cat still forced herself to believe that he would be fine. But there were no postcards with foreign stamps on them written in her dad's scrawling hand, and when Cat brought the mail through, she couldn't hide the disappointment on her face.

“Cat?” Marie Claire said, rolling a triangle of dough into a croissant. “Can you put on some nice music,
chérie
? We all need a little cheering up around here, I think. Something to lift our spirits.”

“Lift our spirits,” Cat mused, walking over to the radio. As she fiddled with the buttons, tuning it in to the classical music station Marie Claire loved, a slow smile spread across her face. “I know this is going to surprise you both, but I'd like to make a cake this afternoon,” Cat said, thinking that maybe it wasn't just music they needed to cheer them all up. “Something easy and delicious to make us feel better.”

“What a lovely idea,” Marie Claire said.

Even Poppy smiled. “There's nothing like baking to help you forget your worries,” she agreed.

Cat slipped Boris's container into her backpack, deciding to take him to school. She had to keep working on desensitizing herself, although Boris seemed to be her only friend at the moment anyway. Most of the kids wouldn't go near her, and all everyone talked about was Madeline Reynolds. Even Peter didn't sit with Cat at lunch, so she propped Boris's container on the table to keep her company, wishing she had access to some unicorn milk. There was a simple recipe for a Friendship Repair Hot Chocolate at the back of
The Late Bloomer's Guide
, and Cat would have loved to make some for Peter. Or if she had a jar of pixie laughs handy, she could have whipped up a batch of Shortbread Giggle Bars to get him laughing again. Cat could tell he was still annoyed with her, because he wouldn't even look in her direction, and on his way out of the cafeteria with Adam, he marched over and said, “I'm hoping you've changed your mind, Cat.”

“I haven't.” Cat shook her head. “I'm going to try to let Boris crawl on me tonight. If I shut my eyes, I think I'll be able to do it. Then I can practice the spell again. See if I'm improving.”

“Your mum would be so mad if she knew what you were planning,” Peter hissed, and stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stalked off after Adam.

Cat wasn't too sure how her mother would feel if she knew the sort of cake Cat intended to bake either. But there was so much gloominess in the bakery at the moment, it would be nice to cheer her mother and Marie Claire up. And once Poppy tasted it, Cat reasoned, she would be in such a good mood that maybe they could have a proper discussion about Cat reapplying to Ruthersfield. And perhaps, Cat thought hopefully (it was a wild hope, she knew), her mother might even be a little bit proud of Cat for mastering a proper spell. “Although I haven't mastered it yet,” Cat told herself, assembling ingredients on the kitchen table as soon as she got home from school.

Earlier she had flipped through her mother's old copy of
The Compendium of Witchcraft Cookery
to see what a complicated cooking spell looked like. There was an advanced recipe in it for a Raising Your Spirits Cake, but it was meant for “extremely sad people” and called for things like two cups of self-rising west wind flour, three phoenix eggs, and a dash of butterfly dreams—ingredients Cat hadn't even heard of. She knew she would have to start with something far simpler.

Her mother and Marie Claire were both busy in the bakery, so there was no one to disturb Cat as she worked. Being careful not to spill anything on
The Late Bloomer's Guide to Magic
, Cat mixed sugar and butter in a large bowl and cracked in two eggs. She sifted flour on top, poured in a little milk, and then carefully unscrewed the top of the purple bottle Ms. Bell had given her. “One teaspoon of condensed dragon's breath,” Cat whispered, glancing at the recipe. She tipped the bottle over a measuring spoon and a smoldering red cloud puffed out. It filled the bowl of the spoon, streams of smoke drifting into the air. Cat poured the dragon's breath onto the batter. She watched it float down, evaporating into a red mist as it touched the cake mixture. “ ‘Hold a wooden (not metal) spoon in your left hand,' ” Cat read out loud. “ ‘Making sure you start in a clockwise direction, begin stirring the batter, and in a clear, cheerful voice, chant the following spell.

Sunshine, moonbeams, light as air

Stir three times round without a care.

Warm winds, laughter, spirits rise

Stir back three times, counterclockwise.' ”

Cat stopped halfway through stirring and began again, realizing she had started out counterclockwise, not clockwise. The batter was a pale pink color, and Cat tingled with excitement as she scraped the mixture into a tin and popped it in the oven.

It was as she cleaned up her mess that she realized she had used the tablespoon measure for the dragon's breath and not the teaspoon.
Well, it's too late to worry about that now,
Cat reasoned. Her cake would just make everyone extra cheerful.

“Something smells delicious!” Marie Claire said, limping into the kitchen. She stared at the odd-looking pink cake sitting on the table. “My goodness,
chérie
! You really did bake a cake! Your mother will be so proud.”

“I hope so,” Cat said, cutting Marie Claire a fat slice. “You can have the first piece, Marie Claire.”

Marie Claire closed her eyes and took a bite. “Vanilla, and something else I can't quite put my finger on. Mmmm.” She smiled in contentment. “It's delicious.”

“I thought it might cheer you and Mamma up,” Cat said. “You've both been working so hard.”

“Oh!” Marie Claire started to laugh. “Oh, my goodness.” She giggled as her feet lifted off the ground. “Whatever did you put in here, Cat? I'm floating!”

“Flipping fish cakes!” Cat whispered, watching Marie Claire continue to rise and drift over toward the oven.

“What a wonderful feeling!” Marie Claire sighed, leaning back on the air and kicking her legs up. She grasped her hands behind her neck. “I'm so happy, Cat. I feel light as a feather and free as a bird.” She started laughing again, as if this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to her.

“Marie Claire, I'm so sorry,” Cat said, panicking. “This is all my fault. It was meant to be a simple Raising Your Spirits Cake, but I obviously got the spell a bit wrong.”

“My spirits have never been better, Cat. But you should probably take me into my bedroom before your mother discovers what has happened.”

“Oh, please, don't tell her,” Cat whispered, reaching up to give Marie Claire a gentle push into the hallway. Luckily the door to the bakery was shut, so Poppy couldn't see Cat nudge a floating Marie Claire up the stairs. “Mamma would be so mad if she knew what I've done.”

“Then I'd get rid of the rest of that cake pretty quickly,” Marie Claire said, laughing, as she wafted into her bedroom. “Before your mother has a slice!”

Leaving Marie Claire hovering above her bed, Cat raced back downstairs, and while Poppy finished closing up the shop, she chucked the remains of the cake outside. “I put too much salt in it,” Cat told her mother when Poppy finally appeared in the kitchen.

“But how nice you're taking an interest in baking,” Poppy replied, plopping down in a chair and rubbing her feet. “Gosh, it's been like a zoo out there all day. I'm exhausted.”

“So is Marie Claire,” Cat said quickly, not meeting her mother's gaze. “She's having a little rest. I said I'd take her up some soup later on.”

Marie Claire was still floating at dinnertime, but only an inch or two above her bed. She had managed to slide under the covers, which helped weigh her down a little bit, and was singing away happily in French.