Free The Power of Poppy Pendle by Natasha Lowe Page B

nose. “It was unbearable.” She leaned over and lightly touched a finger to the photograph. “We were all sent to a strict school where the teachers beat us for everything, even smiling. No one listened to us or cared about our dreams.”
    “How terrible.”
    “It was, chérie , and I couldn’t wait to get away, so one night, when everyone was sleeping, I packed my bags and left. Hitched a ride all the way to Paris.”
    “What did you do when you got there?”
    “Like you, I found a job working in a bakery. It was the smell that enticed me. I had never experienced anything like it, certainly not in the orphanage, which always stank of wet socks and boiled cabbage. The bread they used to give us was so stale and dry it scratched your mouth when you ate it. And it had no smell. But standing outside that patisserie in Paris . . .” Marie Claire breathed deeply as if she could still sniff the long-ago air. “The scent was intoxicating. I stood there all morning, smelling fresh bread baking and feeling like I had come home.” She paused for a moment, studying the photograph, and then glanced up at Poppy thoughtfully. “When I finally gathered enough courage to go inside, the owner gave me a job washing pans. I didn’t mind though,” Marie Claire remarked. “Just like you, chérie , I got to spend all my time in the kitchen, surrounded by those wonderful scents.”
    “That makes us sort of the same,” Poppy said, smiling at Marie Claire.
    “Except you have parents and I didn’t,” Marie Claire pointed out in a quiet voice. She flipped over the page to show an elderly gentleman in a long white apron. “That’s Monsieur Claude,” Marie Claire said fondly. “He owned the bakery where I worked, and what a genius the man was. It was Monsieur Claude who showed me how to take flour and water and turn them into something magical.” Marie Claire gave a long, soulful sigh. “Even today I cannot make a baguette to rival Monsieur Claude’s. Warm hands and a warm heart, that’s the key, he used to say.”
    Poppy picked at a piece of dry cookie dough that was stuck to the top of the table. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me this,” she said, not meeting Marie Claire’s gaze.
    “Perhaps,” Marie Claire spoke carefully, “perhaps because I noticed a sadness in your face when you first arrived. Something that reminded me of myself all those years ago. Like you said, Poppy, we are sort of the same.”
    Poppy wished she could tell Marie Claire the truth. It would feel so good to let out all the words crammed up inside her. To explain what it had been like living at home with the shadow of Great-Granny Mabel always hovering overhead. To admit how much she hated magic and how awful Ruthersfield was. How her parents didn’t like it when she made cookie batter instead of spells, and worst of all, how they had banned her from ever seeing Charlie again. Poppy sighed, opening her mouth, but no words would come. She didn’t want to tell too much. After all, Marie Claire was a grown-up, and even though she wanted to help, if she knew the truth, she might feel obliged to send Poppy back home. “Well, I won’t go,” Poppy whispered, biting into a raspberry jam shortbread. “I’m never leaving here,” she added fiercely, speaking louder than she’d intended.
    “Poppy,” Marie Claire began, but Poppy covered her ears.
    “I don’t want to talk about me, Marie Claire. Please, not right now.”
    “Your parents know you are safe, which is good, but I need to talk to them. You did write yesterday, chérie ?”
    “I did,” Poppy said, wishing Marie Claire would stop staring at her. “But I only posted the letter today,” she confessed. “Please don’t be cross with me.”
    Marie Claire didn’t answer. She just took one of Poppy’s hands in her own and squeezed it hard.

Chapter Eleven
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    A Glimpse Through