Free Bite-Sized Magic by Kathryn Littlewood Page B

more?”
    â€œSure.” Rose sighed as she moved to the row of ovens. She’d have to make a fresh batch to show Mr. Butter—otherwise he’d never let her leave the factory. “Why did the Directrice want to help Mostess, anyway?” What was in it for Lily?
    â€œThe Directrice—may her cakes never fall! May her pie crusts always be the flakiest!—worked for Mr. Butter, and Mr. Butter works for—” Marge stopped herself. “I can’t say any more!” she cried, shoving a fistful of flour into her mouth. She plumped down onto a stool and sat silently.
    â€œMarge!” Rose said sharply. “If you want any of the Moony Pyes I’m about to make, you better keep talking!”
    Marge spat the flour into the sink. Her face dusted in white, she blurted, “Mr. Butter works for the International Society of the Rolling Pin!”
    Rose had heard that name before, but where? “The International what?”
    â€œThe International Society of the Rolling Pin,” explained Marge fearfully, glancing around the kitchen to make sure no one else was listening. “The dark order of bakers who rule the world through what we eat. Obesity? Their evil work. Diabetes? One of their secret plans. Cavities? Never known until they got busy. They’ve caused kids to drop out of school, incomes to fall, and nations to go to war.” Marge blinked at Rose. “Shouldn’t you be preparing the Marshmallow Cream?”
    â€œIn a moment,” Rose said. “But how do these Rolling Pin guys connect up with Mostess?”
    â€œMr. Butter and Mr. Kerr work for the Society, and they’re using Mostess to create a nation of Dinky-addicted zombies.”
    Rose thought there could be no one worse than her scheming, self-serving Aunt Lily, who was the worst kind of kitchen magician. She used the recipes and spells in the Bliss Cookery Booke to make people adore her and to make herself rich and famous. But what Mr. Butter and the Mostess Corporation were doing was far, far worse: They were trying to enslave an entire nation.
    It was a horrible vision—a country full of obese, Moony-Pye–eyed drones who ate only Mostess Snack Cakes. Mr. Butter and his Society had to be stopped, and Rose knew she was the only person who could do it.
    â€œMarge,” Rose said, squeezing the older woman’s hand, “I am a baker.” Saying it, Rose felt it to be true. She was a baker—and a kitchen magician—down to her bones. “I come from a long line of bakers, who try to improve the lives of people through our . . . special baked goods. That Moony Pye recipe today, it reminded me a lot of one of the recipes in my secret family cookbook. Now, are you sure that that Directrice didn’t use a book?”
    Marge looked guilt-stricken once more. “She did use a book,” she whispered. “Not a whole book, more a book let . A skinny book. A book of old paper and smudgy writing. One night I glimpsed her through the windows up in that room, flipping its delicate pages, reading the recipes aloud to herself.” Marge mimed tiptoeing. “I tried to get closer to see what it was, but I was walking in the dark and bumped into a stack of metal bowls. Such a clatter!”
    â€œWhat did she do then?”
    â€œShe fussed about with the dresser and then came downstairs and told me to go to sleep.”
    Rose’s heart thumped in her chest. “I’ll be right back,” she said and hurried up to her room.
    Â 
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that chocolate-covered woman?” asked Gus, yawning.
    â€œShe’s addicted to Moony Pyes,” Rose muttered, distracted. “Because I fixed the recipe for Mr. Butter, who is trying to enslave America on behalf of the International Society of the Rolling Pin, which is evil.”
    As she talked, she opened each drawer in the dresser, checked under the clothing, and felt the bottom.