Free The Power of Poppy Pendle by Natasha Lowe Page A

said, following behind her friend.
    “Yes, I can,” Poppy said, getting to her feet and brushing flour off her knees. “I’m never leaving Marie Claire’s.”
    “Where do you sleep?” Charlie asked, and Poppy pointed to the camp bed in the corner. Soft flannel-covered pillows and sheets gave it a cozy feel, and her cookbooks were stacked on a little wooden shelf beside it.
    “In the kitchen?”
    “Oh, I love it, Charlie! It’s warm and it smells so good.” Poppy took some butter that was softening on the counter and emptied it into a mixing bowl. “The best part is, I get to cook all day long.”
    “No more magic?” Charlie said a little wistfully.
    “Nope!” Poppy shook her head. “Never again. I threw my wand away.”
    “You did?”
    “Don’t look so shocked, Charlie. You know I hated doing magic.” Poppy started to giggle as she spooned powdered sugar into the bowl. “Raspberry jam shortbreads, I think.” As she stirred the butter and sugar together, a swirling rainbow cloud formed and rose out of the bowl. It hovered above the table for an instant before popping and sending down showers of multicolored candy sprinkles.
    Charlie laughed. “I thought you said no more magic! How do you do that?” she asked, pressing a finger into the sprinkles and tasting them. “Mmmm, sweet.”
    “I can’t help it.” Poppy shrugged. “It doesn’t happen much. Usually when I’m feeling really happy about something.” She smiled at her friend. “It’s probably because you’re here.”
    “Except I’ve got to go in a minute, because we’re having supper with my gran,” Charlie said. “She lives over in Ribbleswold. But can I come back and see you tomorrow, after school?”
    “Come whenever you like. Marie Claire won’t mind, and I’d love it.” Poppy was silent for a moment. “Charlie, could you do me a favor?” she said, pulling a creased envelope out of her pocket. She offered it to her friend, who took the sticky paper gingerly in her fingers, trying to avoid the streaks of frosting.
    “What is this?”
    “It’s a letter,” Poppy explained. “To my parents. I told Marie Claire I would write to them. The only problem is, I can’t post it, can I, because if I do, they’ll see it’s been mailed from Potts Bottom. Then it won’t take them long to find me, not with a private investigator looking. So I’m thinking you might post this from Ribbleswold if you’re going? It’s a much bigger town than Potts Bottom.” Poppy hesitated a moment. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Charlie. It’s just an idea.”
    A wide, gap-toothed grin spread slowly across Charlie’s face. “Of course I’ll mail it for you, Poppy. It’s a brilliant idea! And I’m sure that private investigator will have a lovely time looking for you all over Ribbleswold!”

    Later, when Charlie had gone home and Marie Claire was sitting in the kitchen with Poppy, sampling the raspberry jam shortbreads, she pushed an old photo album across the table. “I thought you might like to look through this, chérie . Mmmmm, by the way, these are superb!” Marie Claire said, kissing the fingertips of her left hand. “Maybe a touch more vanilla, n’est-ce pas ?”
    “Yes, you’re right,” Poppy agreed, opening the leather cover of the photo album and breathing in an old-fashioned smell of dust and lavender water. “Who is that?” she said, staring at a black-and-white picture of a sad-looking young girl. The girl was dressed in a tartan school uniform and had a beret perched on top of her tightly braided hair.
    “That’s me,” Marie Claire murmured. “Before I ran away to Paris.”
    “You ran away?” Poppy looked up, startled.
    “I was brought up in an orphanage in Bordeaux,” Marie Claire explained. “My parents were both lost in a boating accident, you see, so I was put in the orphanage because there was no one else to take me. It was an awful experience, and the food—” Marie Claire wrinkled up her