“There you go. Now you look a little more lively,” Gina said, holding up a mirror. I grinned. Somehow she’d managed to make me appear as if I’d just returned from a long weekend in the South of France. The whites of my eyes popped, the circles beneath them banished. My lashes looked dark and thick, and I had a healthy glow from whatever wizardry Gina had enacted. She added a pink gloss to my lips and ran a brush through my long, dark hair then pulled it into a simple pony tail.

  “Perfect,” she said and then whispered into my ear, “Now go win this round.”

  I thanked her and rushed over to my workstation where Robbie was waiting to mic me up. Gerry had briefly returned last night and admonished me for not agreeing to try his recipe, but I’d come too far with my ginger and white chocolate concoction to follow the whim of a frustrated ghost. I’d asked him if he was getting anywhere with discovering who might have written that warning note but so far, nothing. I tried to keep up my hopes, though. If anyone could find me some answers, it would be a snooping spirit.

  I lined up my equipment on the sparkling white surface and took a few deep breaths.

  I glanced around the tent, intrigued to see what ingredients the rest of the contestants were using. I knew that Maggie was sticking to tradition, but she wasn’t the only one. Daniel had announced he was sticking to the basics, too. I wondered how those two would fare, going head-to-head. I couldn’t see what Amara was making or Priscilla, but Florence was doing a fruit-and-nut-style scone, with her special chestnut flour, currants, and pistachios. Euan had a medley of chocolate propped alongside his pack of caster sugar.

  A familiar rush of nerves coursed through my body. I touched my amethyst necklace, hoping for a little magic to come through and make my scones a success. But as soon as I had the thought, I felt terrible. What was the one thing Elspeth had warned me not to do? Use magic for my own good. What if I had upset the magical world with my wish? Oh man, Poppy, way to make myself feel worse. I hurriedly took the thought back. To the powers that be. Ignore that wish from me. I’ve still a lot to learn. Your trust I wish to earn.

  Would that do it? I sincerely hoped so. I really needed more time to learn about being a witch. I’d always seen ghosts, which was no picnic, especially when they kept trying to get my attention, like Gerry, who’d floated up onto Florence’s workstation and was jumping up and down on her special chestnut flour.

  I had instinctive urges that had proved powerful, especially when fueled by strong emotion, but I had no structure to my magic. I wanted a file box like I had for recipes so I could call on the appropriate spell whenever I needed it.

  And then it was lights, camera, action, and the two hosts, Jilly and Arty, came in, followed by Elspeth and Jonathon, who walked into the tent, arms linked and smiling.

  Showtime.

  Elspeth was wearing a floor-length plum skirt that sat high on the waist with a belt of the same color, a crisp white shirt tucked into its folds. She looked so elegant and poised, her eyes carefully lined and her cheeks flushed with just a hint of blush. Next to her, Jonathon looked the maverick in a loose blue shirt with dark jeans and a thick silver bracelet I’d never noticed before on his wrist.

  Arty and Jilly did their usual warm-up banter. Arty turned to Jilly. “I hear the competition is fierce to create the perfect scone. Look at the bakers, ready for battle, determined to stake their claims to the baking crown and crush their opponents. Today’s going to be bloody, Jilly. Not everyone will survive. We’re calling this episode Game of Scones.”

  We all laughed dutifully because we were here to entertain the home viewers as well as trying to win the baking contest.

  But they weren’t done. Jilly shook her head sorrowfully. “Scones will roll. And you know what they say about a rolling scone?” She looked at Artie.

  He answered, “It gathers no mousse.”

  Oh, that was a groaner, but the corny schtick was part of the fun of the show.

  Jilly took over. “So, bakers, it’s biscuit week and your first challenge will be to craft the perfect scone. Jonathon, you rode to fame on the back of a scone. Could you tell the bakers here today a bit about what you’re looking for in the perfect bake?”

  Jonathon drew himself up to his full height, as if preparing himself for a difficult speech or, even weirder, as if he had to defend his special scone recipe. “I happen to think that my recipe will give you the best scone you’ll ever make. But I’m more than happy to be challenged by our bakers today.”

  We all let out a nervous giggle. As if anyone would ever dream of challenging Jonathon.

  “For a traditional scone, it’s all about the quality of your basic ingredients. You want a nice crunch when you first bite into it, and then the firm but moist crumb on the inside.” He paused and looked round the room, smiling a cheeky smile. His blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “I have an outrageous appetite for scones, so I can’t wait to try everyone’s take on this classic. Will they play it safe and wow Elspeth and me with an excellent rendition of the classic?”

  Elspeth spoke up now. “Or will they play a wild card and astonish us with some interesting and unusual flavor combinations?”

  Jonathon paused and rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I can’t wait to find out.”

  Elspeth smiled, obviously impressed with Jonathon’s speech, though to my ear, he sounded a little stiff.

  “Well, then, I think it’s high time we put these bakers to the test,” she said.

  Jilly was wearing a leopard-print shirt-dress that was definitely eye-catching. “Contestants, best of luck to you all,” she said. “You have one hour.”

  Arty was in tight black trousers and a purple paisley shirt. “On your marks, get set… Bake!”

  And there was that familiar feeling. Legs like jelly. Stomach dropping. Sweat breaking out. Get a grip, Poppy. You know the drill. You know the recipe. Now get the eggs and butter out of the fridge and get on with it.

  Wow. Turns out I have a pretty bossy inner voice.

  I took my ingredients from the fridge and store cupboards and reached for my favorite mixing bowl. To my total horror, I could sense the cameras coming closer, and I knew that when I turned around, there would be Jonathon, ready to question my methods.

  Why, oh why, did he have to pick me to terrorize first? I hadn’t even started yet. But then I had a flashback to the other week, when I’d found Jonathon reciting lines from his own cookbook in the rose garden. He was human like the rest of us. I just had to remember that and keep my cool. And besides, Jilly and Arty had teamed up and were heading for poor Hamish. Maybe I’d get off lightly.

  “Poppy,” Jonathon began, “I can see you’ve got your basic ingredients ready. Will you talk me through what your first steps are?”

  I liked how Jonathon posed it as a question, as if I could say, Actually, yeah, I do mind. Can you go ask someone else?

  “Sure, I’d be happy to,” I replied, trying to grin through my nerves. “As you said earlier, the key to getting things off to the right start is to break down the butter and flour into a crumble-like mixture.” I’d weighed out my ingredients and began mixing them with my hands. “Do you see how it’s going lumpy? Well, that’s a good thing in this case. Now I’m going to add my sugar, eggs, and baking powder and sort of turn the mixture, trying to incorporate the liquid into the flour.”

  I stopped my little monologue to actually concentrate on what I was doing. The last thing I wanted was to tell the people at home how to make a great scone and then mess up by not paying attention.

  Jonathon peered into my bowl and made some ambiguous noises as I stirred. Was he encouraging me or just clearing his throat? I really didn’t have a clue. But he made no signs of leaving me to it either. I guess witch-to-witch solidarity did not exist when it came to the show. Unless he was trying to telepathically improve my scone making.

  I swallowed and continued my own practiced speech. “At this stage, it’s time to start adding the milk. Just half to begin with. And see how I’m turning the mixture gently? It’s all about being slow and thorough. There’s no wiggle room for nerves here.” I laughed at my own joke half-heartedly. “And then you add the rest of the milk.”

  Jonathon did a little whistle through his teeth. “That’s an impressive technique, Poppy. You’re sure to get the inside of the scones nice and soft and fluffy like that. I’d love to stay and find out if you’re adding your own twist to this recipe, but we should move on. I’ll have to wait till the taste test.”

  Phew. Music to my ears.

  I thanked Jonathon and then turned my focus to the next step.

  It was time to add my white chocolate chunks and crystallized ginger, both of which I’d bought from the tiny organic store near my cottage. The chocolate was the creamiest white chocolate I’d ever tasted, not overly sweet like so many brands, and real vanilla pods lent it a rich and layered texture. Pairing it with tiny chunks of crystallized stem ginger gave the whole mix an amazing fiery sweetness, with just the right amount of depth. Or so I hoped.

  I sprinkled some of my remaining flour on my work surface, tipped the soft dough out, and then used my hands to fold the dough until it became smooth. I had to be careful not to overwork it.

  I stole a quick look at the rest of the contestants. Jilly and Elspeth were talking to Euan, who was talking about chocolate. Everyone else had their head down, working with real concentration. We all seemed to be at the same stage. No dramas. No mess-ups. Not great TV drama, but on this side of the camera it was such a relief. Soon I saw the cameras turn to Maggie, who was about to start rolling out her dough. She showed Jilly her recipe and laughed her comfortable grandmother’s laugh. “Look at my recipe. It’s so old the paper’s going yellow. But I’ve been baking this recipe since my mother first taught me. Tried and true it is and that’s what I’m hoping Jonathon and Elspeth will like.”

  I heard a buzzing in my ears and could barely breathe. Okay, she wasn’t super close, but when she held up her recipe for the camera I could see the neat block printing. Exactly like that on the note telling me to go home.

  Could grandmotherly Maggie be trying to terrify the other contestants? I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. I had to put my suspicions out of my mind for now and get on with my baking.

  The final stages of the scone challenge went by in a flash. I used my special pastry cutter to stamp out the scone rounds from the pastry, and then I prepared my special glaze. To give my scones a sweet, crunch topping, I brushed a little milk over the top of each scone, then dipped it into a shallow plate of demerara sugar before carefully placing it on the baking tray. And that was it. I’d done everything I could do make these perfect. It was up to the oven to do its thing.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and I washed up and added some fine shavings of white chocolate to a ramekin of clotted cream. I’d planned to serve my scones with a little pot of homemade ginger marmalade, but I was worried that Jonathon was such a purist, he’d hate the deviation from traditional jams. But I spooned a little out anyway. Better to be ambitious, I figured. And confident. And then hope that no one noticed you were faking it.

  When the scones were golden, I took them from the oven and placed half a dozen of the best-looking treats on a pretty amber glass plate I’d found in a charity shop. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. They looked lovely, but the real test would be in the taste.

  The timer clanged, and Arty ordered us to stop what we were doing.

  I joined the rest of the contestants as we made our way, trembling, to the judging table.

  I surveyed the scene. Each plate of scones looked delightful. The basic shape was the same for everybody, but the colors and embellishments varied from person to person, and I could really see how each of us had put our own stamp on the recipe. It seemed as though everyone had baked to perfection. But they had to taste as good as they looked. And if the last couple of days in Broomewode Village had taught me anything, it was that everyone and their dog thought that they knew the secret to the perfect scone.

  I held my breath as Jonathon and Elspeth took turns slicing the scones in half and examining their texture. But despite being famous for his scones, Jonathon kept stealing sideways glances at Elspeth to see if she approved of each bake. Was he having a confidence crisis? It didn’t make sense. But my thoughts didn’t linger on Jonathon for much longer, as soon it was my turn to be judged.

  I watched Elspeth spread my clotted cream with white chocolate shavings onto the still-warm scone and spoon a minimal amount of ginger marmalade on top. I gulped. Had I gone too far with the marmalade business?

  I watched as they both took a modest bite…and then turned pink as Jonathon said it was delicious. “Moist, but with a good crumb, spicy from the ginger but sweet from the chocolate. I’m sold,” he said. I beamed.

  But Elspeth was less convinced. “There’s some excellent baking here, that can’t be denied. But for me, there’s a little too much ginger in the scone mix. That being said, the white chocolate is a perfect pairing, and I can’t fault the scone base itself. But your ginger is a little overpowering.”

  They moved on, and I tried not to feel like I’d failed Elspeth. Stop being so sensitive, Poppy.

  I tuned out of the rest of the judging, too concerned about whether I’d just blown my chance to spend another week with my new coven and continue searching for my family with the aid of my new friend Eileen.

  So it was to my surprise that suddenly I saw everyone clapping Florence on the back. Had she won with her fruit and nut scone? From the theatrical curtsey she was now taking, I could only assume: yes. Wow. I felt kind of bad about how surprised I was. I hadn’t really taken her love of chestnut flour seriously, but it had obviously been impressive. I joined with the congratulations, happy just knowing how ecstatic this would make Florence. Maggie came second with her perfect, traditional bake. I would have been happy for her but I had my suspicions she wasn’t quite as genuine as she appeared. I was pleased when Hamish came third. He’d used buttermilk in his scones and claimed it was a Scottish tradition. He’d gone savory instead of sweet with a cheese and dill combination. I was hoping to get a taste of his scones before the crew scarfed up all the goodies. Poor Daniel came in last. Both Elspeth and Jonathon had agreed his traditional scone was dry and lacking flavor.

  I came fifth, which was good enough for me. My ginger had overpowered my recipe but not my chances. I’d take that as a win.

  After cleanup, it was time for lunch. I couldn’t face the canteen-style tent lunch with the cast and crew. I needed to get away. I decided to clear my head with a walk before the next round. Maybe I’d even have lunch with Eve in the pub.

  Gerry appeared beside me and I’d never been more happy to see my annoying ghost of a friend. “Fifth isn’t bad,” he said, obviously misunderstanding my mood. “Not saying Moroccan influences wouldn’t have given you the win…” Though he obviously thought I’d been a fool not to use his recipe.

  Quickly I told him about Maggie’s recipe and how I suspected she might have written the note. He was ready to believe I was being sabotaged by another contestant. Well, it had happened to him!

  “I’ll search her room, Pops,” he told me. “Don’t worry. If she’s behind this underhanded ploy to get rid of you, she’ll be exposed. You can count on me.”

  His ability to pass through doors was a real bonus where snooping was concerned. “Check all the rooms. See if anyone else has a note like mine.”

  “Would they bring them back to the inn?”

  I looked over at him. “I did.”

  Reginald McMahan was coming out of the gift shop and directly in my path. I told Gerry to vamoose and he did, turning backflips past—make that through—Reginald.

  And there was Sly, bounding toward me from the path that led to Susan Bentley’s farm.

  “Hello, boy!” I said, bending down to give Sly a friendly pat. “Good to see you.”

  A man came from the same path, a stranger, carrying Sly’s slobbery red ball in his hand. He was young, maybe early twenties, with a tuft of reddish-blond hair, and was wearing gardening clothes. He emitted a kind of buzzy energy.

  Sly immediately abandoned me and went into crouch mode, ready to chase that ball. “You want this, do you?” the guy said, with a northern accent I couldn’t quite place.

  Then he lobbed the ball across the field and Sly was off.

  “Poppy, how did you make out this morning?” Reginald asked, reaching us.

  Elspeth didn’t like my scone, I came in the bottom half and I suspected a fellow contestant of sabotage. Not the best morning. But, I didn’t want to sound churlish, so I told him that it’d been fine but I hadn’t won the round. I watched Sly leap in the air for the ball and catch it in his mouth. I could learn a lot from Sly about focus and sticking to a goal.

  Reginald said, “I really should have given you my mother’s scone recipe. It’s a winner.”

  “Oh, you don’t even know what a good scone is until you try my granny’s,” the stranger piped up. “Cold hands. That’s the secret. And she puts everything in the bowl, and everything in the fridge before she starts.”

  Would family scone recipes follow me around for the rest of my life?

  “Poppy, this is Edward,” Reginald said. “He’s a new gardener at Broomewode Hall.”

  I gave him my best smile––any employee of Broomewode Hall was a friend of mine––and we chatted for a few minutes, then I excused myself. If I was going to have any stamina for this afternoon’s baking, then I’d have to get some lunch into my belly.

  Chapter 8

  I checked my watch; I only had forty minutes before I was due back at the tent, so I tried out a light jog to get me there faster. Hopefully no one would see me attempting to be sporty. Denim skirts were not made for getting anywhere fast.