“Yessir.”
“You may call me Boss,” said Fidelou. “Hiram, take him to the garage. And bring me a rabbit. I am hungry.”
U ncle Gabe was looking for Nick with a flashlight. He must have been drunk, because the light flashed across Nick’s eyes as he swung it every which way. In his hiding place, Nick breathed as softly as someone whose heart is thudding like a piston can breathe.
It wasn’t softly enough. The light swung into his eyes and held. Uncle Gabe’s hand, big as a giant’s, spread over his head and . . .
Nick struggled upright, panting. Sunlight streamed through the blue-checked curtains onto the pillow. He wasn’t in Beaton at all. That was a good thing. Except that he’d missed morning chores and breakfast wasn’t ready and Smallbone was very particular about breakfast being ready when he came downstairs. The last time he’d overslept, the old man had made Nick’s teeth grow until he couldn’t eat anything at all.
Stupid dreams. It wasn’t like Uncle Gabe was going to come after him. Uncle Gabe considered him a waste of time, space, and Dinty Moore stew. The only reason he put up with him was because he’d promised his sister he’d take care of her little boy. No, Nick thought as he scrambled into his clothes, he was free from Uncle Gabe. He had Smallbone instead, who was probably downstairs planning something special.
When Nick got to the kitchen, a pot of porridge was plopping gently to itself on the black stove. Smallbone had added a long mud-colored muffler to his black coat and top hat and was packing a small basket. He closed the lid and gave Nick a long-toothed and, under the circumstances, sinister grin.
“Land o’ Goshen, Foxkin, you look like somebody left a dead mouse in your bed. That’s no way to look on New Year’s Day! I’m going fishing. Seeing as I already seen to the animals and you worked near half the night, you can take the day off.”
Nick looked at the calendar. It had a new picture — of a covered bridge this time — and January 1 was circled in red pencil.
Smallbone slung the basket over his shoulder and collected a long rod from the corner. “Stay clear of my tower,” he said. “If I find out you’ve been near it, I’ll turn you into a slug and salt you.” Then he whistled to Mutt and Jeff and followed them out into the bright coldness. Through the back window, Nick watched him trudge toward the wood, the dogs bounding ahead of him, black as licorice against the drifts. As the old man walked, the snow fountained out of his way as if he were using a snowblower.
I want to do that
, Nick thought. Maybe he could learn from one of those books he’d seen in the bookshop when he was cleaning it. In any case, he’d like to get a look at
100 Uses for a Dead Man’s Hand
.
He ran into the bookshop and looked at the MYSTERY section, where he thought he’d seen it. It wasn’t there. Nor was
Recipes Every Witch Should Know
in COOKING or
How to Catch a Leprechaun
in FOLKLORE . Even ARCANA was stocked with nothing but books on the kind of magic that includes card tricks, disappearing handkerchiefs, and pulling rabbits out of hats.
Disgusted, Nick pulled
The Hobbit
out of SPECULATIVE FICTION and looked around for somewhere to read it. There wasn’t one. And the bookshop, though clean, was cold, bare, and gloomy. He could just hear his mom saying it needed some cozying up. A rug, curtains, a chair or two, some lamps and tables to put them on would make it into a place you’d actually want to hang out in.
Evil Wizard Books had lots of rooms. There had to be stuff in them he could use.
Nick was not a kid to let grass grow under his feet. He ran upstairs and started opening doors. Most of the rooms were furnished like his, with a bed and a chest of drawers and not much else. Pushing his explorations farther, he found a little sitting room with a flowery rug, which he rolled up, dragged down to the shop, and spread in front of the counter.
He ran back up
“You may call me Boss,” said Fidelou. “Hiram, take him to the garage. And bring me a rabbit. I am hungry.”
U ncle Gabe was looking for Nick with a flashlight. He must have been drunk, because the light flashed across Nick’s eyes as he swung it every which way. In his hiding place, Nick breathed as softly as someone whose heart is thudding like a piston can breathe.
It wasn’t softly enough. The light swung into his eyes and held. Uncle Gabe’s hand, big as a giant’s, spread over his head and . . .
Nick struggled upright, panting. Sunlight streamed through the blue-checked curtains onto the pillow. He wasn’t in Beaton at all. That was a good thing. Except that he’d missed morning chores and breakfast wasn’t ready and Smallbone was very particular about breakfast being ready when he came downstairs. The last time he’d overslept, the old man had made Nick’s teeth grow until he couldn’t eat anything at all.
Stupid dreams. It wasn’t like Uncle Gabe was going to come after him. Uncle Gabe considered him a waste of time, space, and Dinty Moore stew. The only reason he put up with him was because he’d promised his sister he’d take care of her little boy. No, Nick thought as he scrambled into his clothes, he was free from Uncle Gabe. He had Smallbone instead, who was probably downstairs planning something special.
When Nick got to the kitchen, a pot of porridge was plopping gently to itself on the black stove. Smallbone had added a long mud-colored muffler to his black coat and top hat and was packing a small basket. He closed the lid and gave Nick a long-toothed and, under the circumstances, sinister grin.
“Land o’ Goshen, Foxkin, you look like somebody left a dead mouse in your bed. That’s no way to look on New Year’s Day! I’m going fishing. Seeing as I already seen to the animals and you worked near half the night, you can take the day off.”
Nick looked at the calendar. It had a new picture — of a covered bridge this time — and January 1 was circled in red pencil.
Smallbone slung the basket over his shoulder and collected a long rod from the corner. “Stay clear of my tower,” he said. “If I find out you’ve been near it, I’ll turn you into a slug and salt you.” Then he whistled to Mutt and Jeff and followed them out into the bright coldness. Through the back window, Nick watched him trudge toward the wood, the dogs bounding ahead of him, black as licorice against the drifts. As the old man walked, the snow fountained out of his way as if he were using a snowblower.
I want to do that
, Nick thought. Maybe he could learn from one of those books he’d seen in the bookshop when he was cleaning it. In any case, he’d like to get a look at
100 Uses for a Dead Man’s Hand
.
He ran into the bookshop and looked at the MYSTERY section, where he thought he’d seen it. It wasn’t there. Nor was
Recipes Every Witch Should Know
in COOKING or
How to Catch a Leprechaun
in FOLKLORE . Even ARCANA was stocked with nothing but books on the kind of magic that includes card tricks, disappearing handkerchiefs, and pulling rabbits out of hats.
Disgusted, Nick pulled
The Hobbit
out of SPECULATIVE FICTION and looked around for somewhere to read it. There wasn’t one. And the bookshop, though clean, was cold, bare, and gloomy. He could just hear his mom saying it needed some cozying up. A rug, curtains, a chair or two, some lamps and tables to put them on would make it into a place you’d actually want to hang out in.
Evil Wizard Books had lots of rooms. There had to be stuff in them he could use.
Nick was not a kid to let grass grow under his feet. He ran upstairs and started opening doors. Most of the rooms were furnished like his, with a bed and a chest of drawers and not much else. Pushing his explorations farther, he found a little sitting room with a flowery rug, which he rolled up, dragged down to the shop, and spread in front of the counter.
He ran back up
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