A Tangle of Knots (11 page)

26

Zane

Z
ANE TUGGED OPEN A DRESSER DRAWER AND RIFLED THROUGH
the contents. Socks, nothing but socks. He yanked open another. Only sweaters.

Zane could not
believe
Marigold had gone and stuck her nose in his business. What was she thinking, trying to mail his treasures to New Jersey? He’d spent days collecting that stuff, and now Marigold had probably gone and told their mom, and if that were true he’d be in even
more
trouble, especially if his parents ever discovered that he was . . .

WORTHLESS.

Zane slammed the sweater drawer closed and opened another.

His only hope now, he reasoned, was to get enough money from Louie to fix the whole apartment. With the bicycle Zane had found parked against the dying hedge outside, he could be at the pawn shop in less than an hour. Sure, he’d have to create a convincing lie about how he came by so much money, but when his parents saw all that cash, they wouldn’t question him
too
hard. They’d just be thrilled about how thoughtful their son was, offering up his hard-earned fortune to help the family.

Zane moved on to the closet. Whipped his way through the dress shirts and slacks. He’d thought for sure that Toby would have something worth stealing (the quietest ones, in Zane’s experience, always had the best secrets), but it seemed Zane was wrong. There was nothing interesting or valuable in Toby’s room. Just some boring old clothes, a neatly made bed, and a half-full glass of water on the nightstand. The only decoration on the plain white walls was a small, sketchy illustration in a black wooden frame.

What a dud.

Zane hoisted the powder blue suitcase to his side and stepped into the hallway.

* * * 

Had Zane taken a moment to inspect things a little more closely, he would have discovered that there was, in fact, something
quite
interesting about the picture in the black wooden frame.

Beige.

Cracked.

Knobby.

As wide as a rib of celery and as long as a pencil.

On the wall of Toby’s bedroom was a framed illustration of Mrs. Asher’s hairpin.

The Owner’s Peanut
Butter Cake With Peanut Butter Frosting
a cake that is primarily concerned with peanut butter

FOR THE CAKE
:

small sliver of butter (for greasing the cake pan)

2
¹
/
₄
cups flour (plus extra for preparing the cake pan)

1
¹
/
₂
cups granulated sugar

3
¹
/
₂
tsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

¹
/
₂
cup creamy peanut butter, at room temperature

3 large eggs, at room temperature

1 tsp vanilla

1
¹
/
₄
cups milk, at room temperature

FOR THE FROSTING:

3 cups powdered sugar

²
/
₃
cup creamy peanut butter, at room temperature

1
¹
/
₂
tsp vanilla

¹
/
₂
to
²
/
₃
cup milk

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease the bottoms of two 8-inch round cake pans with butter. Using the cake pans as a template, trace two circles onto wax paper and cut them out, placing one wax circle in the bottom of each pan. Grease both pans with butter again, covering the wax paper as well as the sides of the pan. Sprinkle the inside of the pans lightly with flour, and tap the pans to distribute it evenly.

2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and salt, and set aside.

3. In a large bowl, beat the peanut butter and eggs with an electric mixer on medium speed until smooth, about 1 minute. Beat in vanilla and milk until well combined.

4. Gradually add the flour mixture into the peanut butter mixture and beat until combined. Divide the batter between the two cake pans and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool cakes completely before frosting.

5. While the cakes are cooling, make the frosting: In a medium bowl, cream the powdered sugar and peanut butter with an electric mixer on medium speed until smooth, about 2 or 3 minutes. Add the vanilla and
¹
/
₄
cup of milk, and beat until well combined. Gradually add more milk, one teaspoon at a time, until the frosting is smooth and spreadable.

6. When the cakes are completely cooled, place one cake layer on a plate and spread a thin layer of frosting on top. Repeat with the second cake layer, and cover the whole cake with frosting.

27

Cady

T
HE CAKE CAME TOGETHER QUICKLY. AS CADY SWOOPED THE
last curl of peanut butter frosting onto the two-tiered peanut butter cake, she had a whole hour before she and Toby needed to leave for the competition.

She found the Owner slumped at the small desk in the back office, his head in his hands.

“What do you want?” he greeted her.

Cady held out the plate. “I made you some cake.”

“Go away.”

“I . . .” The cake would make him happy, she knew it would. It was the absolutely perfect cake for him. “I won’t leave until you try a bite.”

The Owner grabbed the fork from her so suddenly that Cady almost dropped the cake on the floor. He shoveled a bite into his mouth. “Satisfied?” he said, cake crumbs spewing from his lips. “Now get out of here before I—”

His eyes went wide.

“Where did you get the peanut butter to make this cake?” His words were slow, deliberate.

“You like it?” Cady asked hopefully.

“I
said
”—the Owner rose from his chair, his feet two inches above the ground—“where did you get this peanut butter?”

“I . . .” Cady hesitated. No one had ever reacted to one of her cakes quite like this before. “I made it. I found a recipe and I—”

“Show me.”

Cady blinked. “Sorry?”

“Show me the recipe you used.”

Without another word, Cady pulled the recipe from her pocket. She handed it, wrinkled and brown and fragile, to the Owner. “I only made enough for the cake,” she said meekly. “I didn’t know you’d want—”

She stopped when she saw the look on his face. It was the sort of look that made Cady feel lit up on the inside. The sort of look people always got when they tried one of her perfect cakes.

She had, without a doubt, made the Owner incredibly happy.

28

Will

S
IR WILL HAD BEEN MARCHING FOR A WHILE. HE GRIPPED HIS
sword—the beige and cracked and knobby one that some might mistake for a precious heirloom, or even a hairpin—and plopped himself down on a rock on the banks of River Street. It was awfully tiring, all this marching, especially when you’d gone and lost one of your shoes. And he missed his trusty steed, Sally. And he hadn’t even seen any giants yet. Or monsters. Or cake.

He heard it before he saw it—the loud hissing, like a furious creature sucking in an enormous breath of air. A monster! At last! Sir Will’s eyes darted toward the noise.

But it was no monster, only a boring old bus, doing what boring old buses always did—letting off passengers at the bus stop.

And then off stepped a giant.

* * * 

“Can I help you, young man?”

To Will’s delight, the giant was even more impressive up close. A real-life, humongous giant,
talking
to him. Knots of all sorts poked beneath the bottom edge of the giant’s gray suit jacket.

“Young man?”

Will could barely remember how to blink. “I’m on an
adventure,
” he breathed. He clutched his hairpin sword a little tighter, wishing Sally were with him.

“Life is the grandest adventure one can go on, isn’t it?” the giant said kindly (he seemed to be a very friendly giant). “What else could a person ask for than just to be alive?”

Will knew exactly what else a person could ask for. “Monsters,” he said. “And cake.”

The giant grinned a sideways sort of grin, a grin that suggested he knew more about the world than he was letting on. “Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t know about cake, but . . .” This was the part where the giant was going to ask if Will was lost, if it might be a good idea to try to find his parents. Grown-ups were always trying to find Will’s parents. “I just so happen to know where there are quite a lot of monsters.”

The giant held out his hand, which was nearly as big as Will’s head. “Shall I take you?” he asked. “It’s near the balloon repair shop, not even a bit out of my way.”

Will thought about that, gazing at the man’s mammoth hand. His parents had always been very clear that he should never, ever go anywhere with strangers.

But they’d never said anything about giants.

29

The Owner

F
IFTY-THREE YEARS, AND HE’D FINALLY FOUND IT. AS SOON AS
he touched the wrinkled brown paper, he knew.
PERFECT PEANUT BUTTER.
His throat tightened at the sight of his mother’s loopy scrawl.

The Owner floated to the kitchen, scanning the recipe’s ingredients as he went. Peanuts, oil, sugar, salt. Pretty standard stuff. But he supposed that, in the right quantities, any ingredients could be made magical.

Let’s see who’s the failure now, Dad,
he thought as he shouldered open the heavy kitchen door.