The Power of Poppy Pendle (11 page)

“I thought you didn’t like going out front,” Charlie said.

“Well, I don’t usually, but I hate Marie Claire having to do everything by herself.”

“I’ll help,” Charlie offered, grabbing a broom. “I don’t mind sweeping.”

As Poppy followed Charlie out of the kitchen, she tried to ignore the sense of uneasiness that wouldn’t, however much she wanted it to, quite go away.

Chapter Twelve

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Back Home

A
FTER MAKING SURE THAT THE CLOSED SIGN WAS UP
and the door locked, Poppy
started to wipe down the counter. It had been a busy day and there was nothing left in the display case except for a single misshapen croissant. Marie Claire was singing softly to herself, one of her favorite French songs, and Poppy and Charlie had just joined in when there came a sudden pounding of fists on the front door. It sounded like a hailstorm smacking against the glass. Poppy froze, gripping her dust cloth and staring at the clenched-up fist banging on the door. She couldn’t move, and when the knocking got so aggressive it was clear that the glass might break, Marie Claire walked slowly toward it.

“No, please,” Poppy begged. “Don’t!” But Marie Claire was already sliding back the bolt. Before she had even removed her hand, the door was shoved open and Edith and Roger Pendle burst into the shop.

“Poppy,” Edith Pendle cried out, her pale face crumpling like a squashed dinner roll. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Has she hurt you?” she sobbed, hurrying over and pulling Poppy hard against her. Poppy didn’t answer, but her eyes filled with tears as she stood there being hugged by her mother. Marie Claire was staring at the Pendles in astonishment. You couldn’t mistake Roger and Edith Pendle, not even after ten whole years. She had wondered for so long about the baby born in her shop that distant May afternoon, and now it all made perfect sense. Of course Poppy was that baby, and even though the air was thick with unpleasantness, Marie Claire found herself smiling.

“We should have known you were behind this,” Edith Pendle accused Marie Claire, shaking with anger as she held Poppy close. “You, of all people. I hold you fully responsible. You stole our child.” She wept. “Making us think she had run off to Ribbleswold. It’s you who’s been filling her brain with all this cooking nonsense, isn’t it? From the very beginning you’ve been planning this, haven’t you, just because, just because . . .” But Edith Pendle couldn’t finish. She started to heave with fresh tears, hugging Poppy so tightly it was difficult for the girl to breathe.

“You think you have some sort of a special claim on my daughter,” Roger Pendle said. “Well, I’m—I’m tempted to call the police and press kidnapping charges.”

“NO!” Poppy burst out, pushing her mother away. “No, please don’t. Marie Claire didn’t kidnap me. I came here on my own. This has nothing to do with her.”

“Oh, my poor lamb,” Mrs. Pendle said. “You’ve been brainwashed, as well. Come on, sweetheart, we’re taking you home.”

“No, please.” Poppy panicked, looking pleadingly at Marie Claire. “Don’t let them take me. I don’t want to go.”

“Of course you do,” her mother crooned, gripping Poppy’s arm and tugging her toward the door.

“No, please, I’m begging you, let me stay here.” Poppy’s voice wobbled with hysteria.

“Come on, Poppy,” Roger Pendle coaxed, shuffling about in discomfort. “This isn’t where you live, pumpkin. You need to come home.”

“Can’t you do something?” Charlie cried, turning to Marie Claire for help. “You mustn’t let them take her.”

“So you’re involved in this too, are you?” Edith Pendle said, pointing at Charlie. “See what I mean, Roger? A bad influence.”

“I’m sorry.” Marie Claire shook her head sadly. “There is nothing I can do. You have to go with your parents, Poppy. And I’m sorry you have been so worried,” Marie Claire said, addressing the Pendles. “Did you not get Poppy’s letter?”

“Oh, we got it all right,” Edith Pendle said. “Filled with a lot of nonsense.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell them where I was,” Poppy confessed, looking at Marie Claire. “Because I knew this would happen.”

“Oh, I hate this place,” Poppy’s mother sobbed. “Always have done, right from the very beginning. All I ever wanted was a nice hospital bed for the delivery, just like every other woman in Potts Bottom.”

“It’s all right, Edith,” Roger Pendle murmured, putting his arm around his wife and handing her a handkerchief.

“No, it’s not all right, it’s not. I never want to see this awful bakery again.” Edith Pendle blew her nose. “And did you tell her, did you?” She seethed, glaring at Marie Claire. Poor Poppy had no idea what her parents were talking about, and she looked helplessly over at Marie Claire.

“It is not my job to tell Poppy that marvelous story; it’s yours. But you should,” Marie Claire said. “We all need to know our beginnings. Poppy is a wonderful cook,” she continued. “There are not many young girls who have such a passion and a talent for baking. You should be proud of her,” she finished bravely, her voice starting to quiver. “It has been a real pleasure getting to know your magnificent daughter.”

“Proud of her,” Roger Pendle spluttered. “We’re proud of her, all right. She’s top in her class at Ruthersfield Academy.”

“That’s right,” Edith Pendle said. Her jaw trembled with emotion as she spoke. “My daughter has been blessed with the gift of magic, and nobody, nobody is going to take that away from her, especially you.”

“I wouldn’t dream—” Marie Claire began, but Mrs. Pendle had already yanked open the patisserie door and was pulling Poppy outside.

“Wait.” Charlie raced after them. “Can I at least say good-bye?”

“No, you can’t,” Edith Pendle fumed as she hustled Poppy into the back of a waiting car. “And if I ever find you communicating with my daughter again, I’ll have you arrested for, for, for interference with a witch.”

All the strength had seeped out of Poppy’s body, and she slumped on the car’s backseat like a rag doll. Charlie was knocking against the window, but Poppy turned her head away and covered her face with her hands.

“I thought it was you this morning,” a familiar voice said, and peeking through her fingers, Poppy saw Auntie Viv sitting beside her. “Scaring your parents half to death like that,” she tutted, leaning over to plant a kiss on Poppy’s cheek. “Still, we’re just glad you’re okay, aren’t we? Home safe now, sweetheart.” Poppy didn’t answer. She wrapped her arms around her knees and dropped her head forward, wishing she could disappear.

Chapter Thirteen

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A Fresh Coat of Paint and a New Wand

W
HEN THE PENDLE FAMILY ARRIVED HOME,
Maxine from next door was
waiting in front of their house. As Poppy got out of the car, Maxine trotted right over. “So glad you’re safe, lovey. We’ve all been worried sick about you.”

“She’s fine, she’s fine,” Edith Pendle said, putting her arm around Poppy. “Roger wants to press kidnapping charges.”

“Kidnapped, ohhh!” Maxine shivered with the thrill of such juicy news. “Never, Edith, really?”

“Kidnapped, brainwashed. It’s been a nightmare, honestly.” Edith Pendle squeezed her daughter. “We’re just so pleased to have Poppy home again, so if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to tuck her up in bed.”

“A good night’s sleep,” Maxine called after them. “She’ll be right as rain.”

Poppy let her mother lead her into the house, her father and Auntie Viv following behind. “Now, you’re not to worry about a thing,” Edith Pendle said, hustling Poppy up the stairs. “You’ll make up the work you’ve missed in no time, and just look at this room,” she chattered on. “Surprise, surprise!” Poppy stared at her bedroom in dismay. Her Young Chef of the Year poster had been taken down, and so had the framed photographs of cakes and breads she had bought with her birthday money last May. In their place were posters of famous witches, highlighting the spectacular achievements they had each accomplished. And this was not all. The walls were no longer yellow. Instead they had been painted a purplish-plum color, and the picture of Great-Granny Mabel that had always sat on the hall table was now perched on top of her bureau. Stars and moons had been stenciled all over the ceiling, and a new handwoven rug with the Ruthersfield crest on it was spread out beside the bed.

“Where are my things?” Poppy asked in shock, noticing that her bookshelf of cookbooks had all been replaced with magical study guides.

“This room hasn’t been redecorated in years,” Edith Pendle said cheerily. “And it’s completely our fault. I’ve been reading all about it. A good study environment is essential to young witches. It took us the whole weekend.” She smiled at Poppy. “Now I’ll bring you up some soup, lamb.”

“And did you notice your new magic wand?” Roger Pendle asked his daughter. He pointed to a shiny black wand, tied around with a purple ribbon, that was sitting next to Great-Granny Mabel’s picture. “It’s the latest model,” he said proudly. “Very sensitive, that is. Ms. Roach only recommends them for her star pupils.”

Sinking down on her bed, Poppy surveyed the room in silence.

“Well, go on, Roger,” Edith Pendle hissed. “This is a good time. Talk to her.”

“So, Poppy,” Mr. Pendle began, walking over to his daughter. He cleared his throat and glanced at his wife.

“Say it,” Edith Pendle instructed. “You’re her father.”

“We do need to talk about the fact that you ran away,” Mr. Pendle said, hovering next to Poppy. “We were worried sick.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it over his forehead. “I was worried sick.”

“Taking off like that in the middle of the night. In the middle of our favorite show,” Mrs. Pendle added.

“You knew I was safe,” Poppy whispered. “I called you. And I wrote you a letter explaining.”

“Not an ounce of consideration for our feelings,” her mother continued. “Honestly, Poppy. Why would you do such a thing? I was out of my mind with worry. And having to lie to the school like I did and tell them you were sick.” Edith Pendle took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “We won’t talk about it anymore, though. Daddy and I love you, but you just need to know how much you scared us.”

“Did you even read my letter?” Poppy said, looking up at her mother.

“I did, and I forgive you, sweetheart.” Edith gave a quivery smile. “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re under stress, but everything’s going to be fine now. Come on, Roger,” she clucked. “Poppy’s exhausted, poor thing. Look at her sitting there, all pale and droopy.”

“What did Marie Claire mean when she said everyone needs to know about their beginnings?” Poppy asked in a small voice. “What marvelous story should you tell me about?” Her mother’s mouth narrowed into a tight line.

“I’ll be right back with your soup,” she replied. “That’s just what you need.”

Alone in her bedroom at last, Poppy realized that it wasn’t just the walls and ceiling her parents had redecorated. They had also put up some new window treatments especially for her return. Covering the pane of glass were thick iron bars that broke up the sunlight and made opening the window impossible.

When her mother tiptoed in with a bowl of lukewarm canned soup, Poppy pretended to be asleep. She had crawled under the covers in her clothes, not bothering to put on pajamas, wash her face, or brush her teeth. “I’ll leave this here in case you want it later,” Edith Pendle whispered, putting the bowl down and tugging new purple velvet curtains across the iron bars. “Now sleep tight, sweetheart. We’re so glad you’re back home. Get a good night’s rest because it’s school tomorrow.” And as her mother left the room, Poppy heard the click of a key turning shut. So even if she wanted to run away again, it would be impossible to escape from this fancy purple prison.

In the morning Poppy woke early. She was used to getting up at four to start the bread doughs and croissants, and even though she wasn’t at the bakery anymore, Poppy still got out of bed. She decided to go downstairs and make some orange currant scones. Her parents could take her away from Marie Claire’s, but they couldn’t stop her from baking. Except that Poppy had forgotten about the door. It wouldn’t open when she turned the handle, and only then did she remember that her mother had locked her in. It was seven o’clock before she heard her father fumbling about with the key, and as soon as Mr. Pendle opened the door, Poppy raced past him and down the stairs. He immediately dashed after her.

“Don’t worry,” Poppy called over her shoulder. “I’m only going to the kitchen. I thought I’d make scones for breakfast.” But to her horror she discovered that the oven had disappeared. There was a gaping hole in the middle of the counter where the stove had once been.

“Your mother didn’t think we needed it anymore,” Roger Pendle said sheepishly. “She thought it was a distraction for you.”

“A distraction.” Poppy stared at the hole. “It’s an oven.”

“That’s right,” Edith Pendle agreed, bustling into the kitchen. “But it kept you away from your studies, Poppy. All that baking when you should have been practicing your magic,” she said. “I thought it would be simpler for you not to have it around. You know, take away the temptation. We can easily put it back in later, after you graduate. And anyway,” she finished, “I hardly ever used it myself. The microwave is all we really need.”