Not far from the gas station, I intercept Arna Jean. Winds threaten to upturn the more anemic carports we pass as I floor it out of town and up into the hills. The sound of a train in the clouds grows louder, chasing us, the skies a dark bruise everywhere we look.
We abandon the truck just inside the Manor’s gates, and I follow Arna Jean into the overgrown maze of greenery bordering the property’s long drive. The farmhouse itself is a ghostly monument in the distance as torrential winds and overcast light smudge any familiar shapes into blurs.
The old tobacco barn I never paid much attention to until nowlooms just beyond the unkempt tree line, in a clearing that was likely once wide-open farmland. As we hike toward the barn’s open-mouthed entrance, all I can think about is howsmallLazlo is; he’s likely to just float away in the storm.
This feels like all my fault.
Finally, Arna Jean and I stumble into the barn, its skeletal structure just barely keeping the wind from tearing my friend’s glasses right off her face.
A dog barks.
Luckily I missed lunch, because I almost vomit with relief.
There, nestled together in a mound of damp hay, are Lazlo and Beauregard. Next to them, Ms. Buchanan perches on the top flat beam of a rusted disc harrow. Everyone’s hair looks like it’s been through a blender, but otherwise they seem unharmed.
“Honey!”
Before I even see him move, Lazlo is by my side, his little hands making fists in my shirtfront.
My arms go around him and I squeeze. And squeeze. Arna Jean was right. “How—” I start, but just then, the barn shakes, groaning under the stress of the gale.
Ms. Buchanan wraps her arms around Beauregard to keep him still, no leash in sight. “I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but I gather we don’t have time to get up to the farmhouse.”
I lock eyes with Arna Jean and see the same thought in my mind shivering across her face. Now would be a great time to be any Witch other than a Bookwitch or Farewitch.
The old woman reads us as well as any tarot deck and wags a finger at me. “I’m no Witch, but even I know magic can’t protect a foolish girl from a tornado.”
But before anyone can panic, Arna Jean shouts something about shelter, pointing back to the entrance.
There. Canted, in-ground doors just outside the barn. A root cellar.
Somehow, in a handful of seconds, Arna Jean and I corral Ms. Buchanan, her poodle, and Lazlo into the cellar at the front of the building. I seal the doors behind us as best I can.
By the meager light of a tiny camping lantern Lazlo brought with him, I count heads in the musk of the underground cellar. Judging by the short aisles of old wooden shelving, this place was once used for storing perishable food goods and canned stock.
Another endless minute later—it could be an hour, it could be just seconds—the tornado hits. The Widow Witch has arrived, and she’s angry.
The barn groans, along with the sound of glass shattering somewhere. I taste electricity on the air. I don’t recall that lovely side effect during the Widow Witch’s previous attacks.
A horrendous cracking noise rips through the air outside the cellar. There’s the sound of what has to be wood shrieking as it splits, and then a crash as something large falls against the cellar doors, like heaven felled a giant beast right onto our little plot of earth.
The doors bulge inward but don’t give way.
Our heads turn skyward, and the last thing I see is the gold flash of Arna Jean’s octagonal glasses before Lazlo’s lantern coughs out and the cellar sinks into darkness. As Ms. Buchanan begins panic-humming church hymns, I wade through the dark emptiness toward where I last saw my little runaway. I’d take the most stressful day at the shop over this.
The root cellar is small, so I find him quickly and hold him to me again, tighter, like he’ll just evaporate through any gaps in the cellar if I can’t see him. Soon, the chaotic thrall outside is right on top of us. One hand in Arna Jean’s and the other in Lazlo’s, I hold my breath.
Please don’t cave in. Please don’t cave in.
Ms. Buchanan stops humming long enough to grumble. “As God is my witness, I’m not going to die in a root cellar. I should be nursing a Long Island iced tea on my own porch. That’s the way to go.”
Not helping, Beulah.
“It’s okay, Ms. Buchanan,” Lazlo says. I feel him move around me, closer to the old woman. “We’ll keep you safe.”
The poodle yips.
Then, all at once, my ears ring with a sudden, unholy silence. The noise stops.
