The Power of Poppy Pendle (17 page)

Charlie carefully positioned a plastic shopping bag full of Marie Claire’s Twirlie bars right outside the cottage door. By this time the light had begun to fade, and she knew she would have to get home before her mother began to worry. There was no sign of Poppy, and Charlie didn’t want to look through the window again. So instead she knocked on the door and quickly ran away, planning to return the following morning to check if the Twirlies had been taken.

Chapter Twenty-One

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

An Oven to Cook With

W
HEN CHARLIE ARRIVED HOME, HER MOTHER MET HER
at the front door, looking worried. “Where were you?” Mrs. Monroe burst out. “Your teacher just called.” She gave Charlie a penetrating look. “Apparently, you weren’t in school today, which is odd considering how early you left the house.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie apologized. “I missed the bus because I had to go and see Poppy. I was worried about her. She’s, well, she’s been having trouble lately.” Charlie found that her eyes had filled with tears. “And I forgot my lunch and I hate walking into class late.”

“So you took the whole day off?” Mrs. Monroe said more gently.

“I’m really sorry, Mum. It won’t happen again, I promise. I was just trying to help Poppy.”

Mrs. Monroe gave her daughter a tight hug. “Is everything all right with her?”

“I don’t think so,” Charlie said. “Which is why I’m trying to help.”

After supper that night Charlie left a piece of buttered soda bread by her goose. In the morning the bread was gone, and he had waddled around to the other side of the apple tree. She didn’t understand why he should move about at night, but Marie Claire said it was probably because Charlie and Poppy had been such good friends. “You girls have a special connection,” she told Charlie, who had gone straight to Marie Claire’s after breakfast. “The goose can sense that. Besides, if it’s food and love that will melt away Poppy’s anger, and that’s what you’re giving your goose, well, it makes sense,
n’est-ce pas
? You soften his heart enough so that he can walk a little at night. And let us not forget that those dark hours are a time when magic is at its most powerful.”

“Do you think I could make him real again?” Charlie wondered, and Marie Claire shook her head.

“Only Poppy can do that, but perhaps our Twirlies have worked,
chérie
? Why don’t you go and see?”

Thank goodness it was a Saturday, so there was no school for Charlie. With a churning stomach, she headed over to the canal, anxious about what she would find. At the bottom of the grassy track that led down from the road, Charlie stopped. She stood quite still, staring in the direction of the cottage. The door was opening and she watched as Poppy appeared, blinking in the sunlight and shielding her eyes from the early morning glare. It had worked! Charlie was just about to shout something out when she noticed the plastic bag of Twirlies still lying on the grass where she’d left it the night before. So Poppy hadn’t seen them yet. Well, she would now, but Poppy paid no attention to the bag at all. She ran down to the canal and jumped in fully clothed, clutching her magic wand. Now Charlie was worried. No one went swimming in the canal. The sides were straight and steep and the water was a dark, murky green. She could see a family of ducks floating down, and Charlie watched in distress as Poppy whipped out her wand and yelled, “Consticrabihaltus.” The ducks immediately turned to stone, and Poppy picked them up, throwing them onto the bank. They landed among the reeds with a succession of dull thuds. Then, after dunking her head under the water, she climbed out again, shaking herself vigorously like a dog. Looking neither left nor right, Poppy stormed up the bank. Even her walk was filled with a fury that made Charlie nervous just to watch. With a massive leap, she vaulted over the stone wall and marched straight back to the cottage, ignoring the bag of Twirlies as she stomped inside.

“Oh no!” Charlie groaned softly. Poppy hadn’t even tried one. For a brief instant she considered trying to talk to Poppy again, but the thought of that blank face and those dull, unseeing eyes stopped her. There was no point in going back to the cottage just yet, not unless she wanted to be turned into stone. Charlie didn’t actually believe that Poppy would use the Stop It Now Spell on her, but she wasn’t going to risk it.

Marie Claire sighed with disappointment when she heard what had happened to the Twirlies. “And they were so good too,” she said. “I just know Poppy would have loved them.”

“So, what next?” Charlie questioned, slumping over Marie Claire’s butcher-block worktable. “I’m so worried that Poppy’s going to turn someone else into stone, and then it’ll be too late. I’ll have to tell the police where she is, and poor Poppy will end up in jail.”

“No, no, we cannot let that happen,” Marie Claire said, pummeling a mound of bread dough. “Last night I couldn’t sleep, and so I did a lot of thinking. Too much thinking,” she added, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving it streaked with flour. Charlie noticed that Marie Claire had dark, bluish circles under her eyes, and her skin looked puffy with tiredness. “I believe that what Poppy needs is an oven,” Marie Claire said, shaping the dough into baguettes. “Once she starts baking again, she won’t be able to stay angry for long.”

“But that’s impossible,” Charlie said, squishing a piece of dough between her fingers. “There’s no electricity in the cottage, and how on earth would we get an oven hooked up?”

“Yes, it won’t be easy,” Marie Claire agreed. “But it’s not impossible, either. I have a small gas oven we can use that runs from its own little canister of propane gas. I cook with it when the electricity goes out so I can still bake my breads.” Marie Claire thought for a moment, then continued. “We could deliver it at night when Poppy is sleeping. She may be a witch, but she still needs to sleep. I’ll put together a box of baking supplies, the best Normandy butter, some of my special bittersweet chocolate, flour and sugar of course, and some fresh local eggs.” Marie Claire sounded excited, and Charlie couldn’t help thinking that it just might work.

“Let’s give her a cookie sheet and some cake pans,” Charlie added, beginning to feel enthusiastic about the plan.

“The only problem,” Marie Claire murmured, chewing on her lip, “is how to carry it in. I couldn’t lift an oven, and neither could you.”

“We could ask my dad,” Charlie suggested. “I’m sure he’d help. He has a pickup truck, and he’s really strong.”

“Mmmm.” Marie Claire pondered this for a moment. “He’d have to know about Poppy,” she said at last. “We couldn’t lie to him about that. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, he won’t mind. I know he won’t. Not if it means helping my friend.”

“Then we shall ask him together,” Marie Claire said, taking Charlie’s hand and giving it an optimistic pat. “Come on. No time to waste. But you must tell your father everything that has happened.”

After listening to the full story from Charlie and Marie Claire, Mr. Monroe sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t think I can do this. It’s a police matter now, by the sound of things.”

“Dad, you’ve always taught me to trust my instincts,” Charlie said, “and Poppy is a good, kind girl. I can’t abandon her.”

“Mr. Monroe,” Marie Claire said quietly. “Your daughter is right about Poppy. And everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

“Please?” Charlie pleaded, pressing her hands together hard.

Mr. Monroe looked at his daughter for a long moment. Then he smiled and said, “Very well, Charlie. If your mother agrees, I’ll help you move the oven. Poppy Pendle can have her second chance.”

Mrs. Monroe took a little more convincing. “I’ve heard about witches who cross over to the dark side,” she worried aloud. “I know Poppy was your friend, honey—”

“Is my friend,” Charlie corrected.

“Is your friend, but this makes me nervous. Getting an oven into that cottage without disturbing her will be like trying to step over a sleeping dragon. What if she wakes up and turns you all to stone?”

“Mum, we have to do this,” Charlie begged. “It’s our only chance. When Poppy sees the little oven and all the wonderful ingredients, she won’t be able to stop herself from making cookies. I know her so well, Mum, and once Poppy starts baking, she’ll stop being angry. It’s the only way we can reverse the spell and get her back.”

“Do you really think so?” Mrs. Monroe looked skeptical.

“She’s my friend,” Charlie stated. “Poppy helped me the first day I met her. She rescued my sneakers from a tree. That’s what friends do. They help each other.”

“Well, this is a little more risky than rescuing a pair of sneakers,” Charlie’s mum pointed out, but she couldn’t help thinking it would be nice for her daughter to have a real friend again. As far as she was concerned, Charlie was spending far too much time talking to a stone goose.

So later on that afternoon Charlie’s dad drove his truck down to the patisserie. He maneuvered Marie Claire’s small white oven and a canister of propane gas onto a handcart and pushed them outside. Then, with the help of Charlie and Marie Claire, he loaded the things into the back of his truck. Charlie had helped Marie Claire assemble an enormous box of baking supplies. There were fat, moist vanilla beans from Madagascar, powdered sugar with which to make frosting, juicy organic lemons, as well as bags of flour and sugar and pots of local cream. Marie Claire had also put in two cookie sheets, three cake pans, a cupcake tin, and mini brioche molds. She even remembered a mixing bowl, wooden spoons, measuring cups, and a wire whisk. “There!” Marie Claire said with a nod of satisfaction. “How can Poppy resist when she sees all these wonderful goodies.”

They planned to wait until early the following morning for delivery. Around three a.m., Mr. Monroe decided, when it would still be dark and Poppy should be sleeping. Mrs. Monroe had sent Charlie to bed early that night, insisting she get some rest. “You still need your sleep, Charlie,” she had said. “Especially if you plan to go chasing around Potts Bottom later on.”

“But I’m not the least bit tired, Mum,” Charlie had grumbled as she climbed into bed. She was sure she would never get to sleep, but at some point Charlie did doze off because the next thing she knew her father was gently shaking her awake, whispering for her to get dressed.

Marie Claire stood waiting outside the patisserie for them, wearing a long black cloak and a black wool hat. “I know this will work,” Charlie said as they bounced along in the truck. There were no other cars on the road, and it felt strange to be out at such an early hour. As they turned toward the canal, Mr. Monroe cut the truck’s engine.

“We can coast down here,” he said. “No need to make unnecessary noise.” They rolled down the bumpy pathway and came to a stop at the bottom. “Now, you two can wait in the truck.”

“No, Dad, I’m coming,” Charlie whispered. “You need help.”

“I’ll be fine, Charlie. You and Marie Claire are to stay in the truck. This isn’t a game.”

“But how will you get the oven over the wall without Poppy hearing?” Charlie questioned softly. “You can’t go through the gate, Dad. It’s surrounded by nettles.”