The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox by Nigel Quinlan Page A

it’s all quite simple really!”
    When he finished, we sat in silence. Full night had fallen. A million billion stars had come out. None of them cared about us or what we said or did, but still it made me feel better to see them all up there, twinkling seriously, as only stars can.
    â€œWhat about the man?” Owen said.
    â€œThe man?” asked Ed Wharton.
    â€œThe laborer who told you the story. What happened to him?”
    Ed Wharton said nothing for a moment. He turned his head very slightly so he was looking down at the grass and not at us.
    â€œHe, uh. He was dead, I’m afraid. He’d frozen to death at that bus stop one night years before. After we talked, I put his ghost in a bottle and I brought him back to Ireland and buried him next to his granny. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to lie down and rest under the mountains where he was raised.”
    Owen nodded thoughtfully, then looked up at Mum and Dad.
    â€œThe Tourist is OK,” he said. “Let him stay.”
    Mum and Dad looked at each other.
    â€œOK,” Mum said.
    â€œOK,” Dad said.
    I was staring at Ed Wharton, thinking about what he’d told us. Everything was swirling around in my head, and even though it was crazy, when the thought surfaced I just said it out loud.
    â€œIs Mrs. Fitzgerald their sister?”
    Ed stared thoughtfully back at me. “How old is she?” he asked.
    â€œShe looks as if she’s in her late twenties,” Mum said.
    â€œShe’s looked like that since I was Neil’s age, when I first saw her,” Dad added.
    Ed Wharton lifted his head to look at the stars, moving his lips silently, as if counting them all.
    â€œYeah,” he said finally. “It’s possible.”
    Mum and Dad looked at each other for a very long time. Finally Mum gave a nod.
    â€œIf her sisters want her to go home with them, maybe we should help them out. If she’s stirring and singing to a black pool in a giant snail shell, she can’t very well be bothering us, can she?”
    â€œMum,” said Liz, “I don’t think they’re very nice.”
    â€œWe don’t want nice,” Mum said. “Nice is the opposite of what we need.”
    â€œYeah,” Dad said heavily. He sighed, and, for some reason, looked over at me.
    â€œWe need the club, if it still exists,” he said, and paused. “And we need the Shieldsmen, too.”
    â€œDad—” I began, but Liz had jumped to her feet and was doing one of her dances.
    â€œYes, yes, yes! The Shieldsmen! We need the Shieldsmen, yes, we need the Shieldsmen!”
    â€œFirst priority is the Autumn,” Dad said. “Then … well, then…”
    His shoulders slumped, and he looked tired and depressed and worried, and so did Mum.
    â€œMr. Wharton,” she said. “I’ll understand if you want to leave—with a full refund, of course…”
    â€œNo, no, no,” said Mr. Wharton heartily, shaking his head. “Not at all. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
    â€œâ€¦ but perhaps we could ask a favor of you.”
    â€œMy dear lady, anything, anything at all.”
    â€œWould you take my husband to Dublin tomorrow? After the ceremony, when the Autumn is safely here.”
    â€œTo Dublin?”
    â€œTo the Weathermen’s Club.”
    Mr. Wharton pursed his lips.
    â€œAnd, uh, would I be allowed to enter the club itself? As an escort? A bodyguard? A guest?”
    Mum shrugged and looked at Dad.
    â€œMm? Oh, yes, I’m sure. I’m sure, yes…” he trailed off. Mr. Wharton beamed.
    â€œIt would be my pleasure, then! My absolute pleasure!” He clapped his hands with delight.
    â€œCan I go? Can I go?” Liz danced and whirled in front of Dad, and he held up his hands and waved her quiet.
    â€œWe’ll see, we’ll see!”
    â€œWhat about tonight?” I asked. “What about tomorrow? What about the