the temperatures. It wasn’t hard to do. In fact, Luna and Claire had learned hot-and-cold spells last summer. Just a right shoulder roll to go from hot to cold, and a left shoulder roll to go from cold to hot.
Grandy was rolling both her shoulders, double time.
“Is something wrong, Arianna?” Grampy asked Grandy politely.
“Not at all, Fred. I must have pulled a muscle playing golf,” Grandy lied.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” gasped Lord Shrillingbird. “This stew is burning my mouth!”
“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” choked Lady Shrillingbird. “Whatever do you mean? It tastes like ice!”
“That’s odd,” said Mac, “because my stew is a perfect temperature.”
“Mine, too,” agreed everyone else.
Everyone except Daphne. She hardly touched her dinner. Her face dragged so low it nearly rested on the table.
Still brooding about poor popped Percival, Luna figured.
“When I move into Glenn Bly I’m hiring a professional chef,” said Lady Shrillingbird, throwing Grandy a dirty look and pushing away her bowl of stew. “Somebody who can prepare elegant French cuisine.”
“Or Indian,” said Lord Shrillingbird. “Actually, I prefer Indian cuisine.”
“I prefer French,” said Lady Shrillingbird. “C’est magnifique.”
“I prefer Indian,” argued Lord Shrillingbird. Since he did not know how to say any Indian words, he thumped his fist on the table.
“May I be excused?” asked Daphne. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Certainly, dear,” said Mac.
With a heavy heart, Luna watched Daphne leave the room. Poor Daphne. First an orphan. Now, maybe even homeless, thanks to them.
Grandy could cast all the silly, one-star spells she wanted, but zapping the food was not going to keep the Shrillingbirds out of Glenn Bly.
Grandy needed to be told what was really going on at this now unhaunted, but still very troubled castle.
Luna looked at Claire.
Claire looked at Luna.
Their expressions said everything.
It was time for a midnight meeting.
8
Midnight Haunting
L ATER THAT EVENING, THE twins sent a summons to Grandy in scrambled-letters ink, writing it on a card and slipping it under the Peacock Chamber door.
To a nonwitch, the card would nonsensically read: I am testing the mud.
But a witch would unscramble and rearrange the letters to find its secret message:
Meet us at midnight.
When the clock struck midnight, all three witches swiftly instaported themselves into Glenn Bly’s library. The library was the best place, because witches ancient and modern have always known to meet in the room that contains the most books.
Grandy looked grim in her official robes. Around her neck hung an imposing gold medal upon which was inscribed: Seniors Silver Loch Golf Champion.
“Wow! Did you win that medal?” asked Claire, shocked.
“Of course not,” snapped Grandy. “I spell-borrowed it for the night from Hildegarde Bruce, the real Seniors Silver Loch Golf champion. I thought it would be inspirational. The power of positive thinking, and all that piffle. Your grandfather and I have one more shot at the title, and I’ve got to feel like a champ. I also need my sleep, so you girls had better have a good reason as to why we’re here.” Grandy flicked her fingers so that a fire roared up in the cold hearth. “By the way, Claire, where is your robe?”
While Luna had remembered hers, and even her garnet one-and-a-half-star pin, Claire had forgotten to pack her special witch robe. So she’d had to make do with her same old Camp Bliss T-shirt over Luna’s thermal long Johns.
“At home,” Claire mumbled. Then she quickly changed the subject. “Grandy, we’ve got a problem.”
Quickly, she explained about the Shrillingbirds’ plans to move into Glenn Bly and how Percival should not have been popped. “So it’s all a big mess,” Claire concluded. “And it’s kind of our fault. What should we do?”
“Yes, yes,” said Grandy. “It is a big mess. And it’s all my fault. I just didn’t want to
Grandy was rolling both her shoulders, double time.
“Is something wrong, Arianna?” Grampy asked Grandy politely.
“Not at all, Fred. I must have pulled a muscle playing golf,” Grandy lied.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” gasped Lord Shrillingbird. “This stew is burning my mouth!”
“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” choked Lady Shrillingbird. “Whatever do you mean? It tastes like ice!”
“That’s odd,” said Mac, “because my stew is a perfect temperature.”
“Mine, too,” agreed everyone else.
Everyone except Daphne. She hardly touched her dinner. Her face dragged so low it nearly rested on the table.
Still brooding about poor popped Percival, Luna figured.
“When I move into Glenn Bly I’m hiring a professional chef,” said Lady Shrillingbird, throwing Grandy a dirty look and pushing away her bowl of stew. “Somebody who can prepare elegant French cuisine.”
“Or Indian,” said Lord Shrillingbird. “Actually, I prefer Indian cuisine.”
“I prefer French,” said Lady Shrillingbird. “C’est magnifique.”
“I prefer Indian,” argued Lord Shrillingbird. Since he did not know how to say any Indian words, he thumped his fist on the table.
“May I be excused?” asked Daphne. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Certainly, dear,” said Mac.
With a heavy heart, Luna watched Daphne leave the room. Poor Daphne. First an orphan. Now, maybe even homeless, thanks to them.
Grandy could cast all the silly, one-star spells she wanted, but zapping the food was not going to keep the Shrillingbirds out of Glenn Bly.
Grandy needed to be told what was really going on at this now unhaunted, but still very troubled castle.
Luna looked at Claire.
Claire looked at Luna.
Their expressions said everything.
It was time for a midnight meeting.
8
Midnight Haunting
L ATER THAT EVENING, THE twins sent a summons to Grandy in scrambled-letters ink, writing it on a card and slipping it under the Peacock Chamber door.
To a nonwitch, the card would nonsensically read: I am testing the mud.
But a witch would unscramble and rearrange the letters to find its secret message:
Meet us at midnight.
When the clock struck midnight, all three witches swiftly instaported themselves into Glenn Bly’s library. The library was the best place, because witches ancient and modern have always known to meet in the room that contains the most books.
Grandy looked grim in her official robes. Around her neck hung an imposing gold medal upon which was inscribed: Seniors Silver Loch Golf Champion.
“Wow! Did you win that medal?” asked Claire, shocked.
“Of course not,” snapped Grandy. “I spell-borrowed it for the night from Hildegarde Bruce, the real Seniors Silver Loch Golf champion. I thought it would be inspirational. The power of positive thinking, and all that piffle. Your grandfather and I have one more shot at the title, and I’ve got to feel like a champ. I also need my sleep, so you girls had better have a good reason as to why we’re here.” Grandy flicked her fingers so that a fire roared up in the cold hearth. “By the way, Claire, where is your robe?”
While Luna had remembered hers, and even her garnet one-and-a-half-star pin, Claire had forgotten to pack her special witch robe. So she’d had to make do with her same old Camp Bliss T-shirt over Luna’s thermal long Johns.
“At home,” Claire mumbled. Then she quickly changed the subject. “Grandy, we’ve got a problem.”
Quickly, she explained about the Shrillingbirds’ plans to move into Glenn Bly and how Percival should not have been popped. “So it’s all a big mess,” Claire concluded. “And it’s kind of our fault. What should we do?”
“Yes, yes,” said Grandy. “It is a big mess. And it’s all my fault. I just didn’t want to
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