The cellar doesn’t crumble inward.
When the world outside seems stable, all my terror about losing Lazlo comes tumbling back. I aim my full attention at him. “How in theworld…?” I gasp, not even able to finish. If this is what being a parent is like, no wonder the Frost women are big fans ofone and done.
When Arna Jean said the kid’s favorite place to take Beauregard for a walk whenever Ms. Buchanan visits is down by the old barn, I almost didn’t believe her. I was willing to bet the old woman’s precious poodle had not once set paw in a barn. Shows what I know.
“I ran after Beauregard,” Lazlo says, zero regret in his voice.
“We pulled up to the Manor just as the boy was running out,” Ms. Buchanan chimes in.
“I was going to go visit them, I wasn’t running away, promise, I just didn’t tell anyone—”
“Then the thunder hit us and my poor old Beauregard lost his marbles. In the frenzy, he ran right off without his leash down the drive. I caught up with them just a few minutes before you two stumbled in looking like feverish hill people.”
Of course. The dog ran off to the safe place he remembered, and Lazlo followed, without question. Jesus, I’m not sure how Ms. Buchanan trekked her way down here, with her bad ankles and dislike of sweating.
The only downside to finding Lazlo is that now my brain hasplenty of energy to focus on our other big problem: the Widow Witch. If she wants her curse to inflict as much suffering on the Warlock as possible, she’d let him watch Lazlo perish on the solstice. Why would she hurt the kid now? Has she decided to trade marital disasters for natural disasters?
Arna Jean pulls out her phone, turning on the flashlight. “No signal. Phone lines are down, or we’re too far underground.”
In the white-blue halo of her phone, Arna Jean and I try pushing against the cellar doors. Even Ms. Buchanan joins in, arthritis be damned. The doors don’t budge. Now wouldreallybe a stellar time to have someone like a Tombwitch in our friend group. They’re good at unearthing things, intentionally or unintentionally buried.
“One of those big oak trees probably fell right across the doors,” Ms. Buchanan determines. “We’re going to have to wait for the fire department to get over here. If they weren’t swept away, that is.”
Lazlo gulps, and Beauregard whimpers.
I send a useless glare through the dark. The old woman has terrible bedside manner. “Save your battery,” I whisper to Arna Jean.
After surviving a literal tornado, are we really going to rot away with dwindling air, forgotten in a cellar? Someone has to know we’re here. See Ms. Buchanan’s car. Ms. Zeen! She knew I was coming from town. But will she tell the Warlock? She doesn’t even know I found Lazlo yet. The chances she’d leave me missing are low, but not zero.
There’s nothing to do but wait until someone realizes we’re down here.
The air gets muggy real quick. We only know how much time passes because of Arna Jean’s phone. I left mine in the pickup. Right now, I’d give anything for one of the Warlock’s silly formal texts.
Despite everything, Ms. Buchanan won’t stop muttering about the church ladies, and howBlanche wasn’t going to cancel the Memorial Day potluck, even with the forecast. She’s spoiling for a fight. Or a distraction. At least she’s keeping Lazlo entertained.
After a full hour goes by, even Ms. Buchanan is too tired to complain or argue with imaginary neighbors.
Beauregard pants next to Lazlo, whose hand is glued in mine. “I’m sorry I ran off,” he whispers to me.
My heart cracks at his small voice.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. I’m sorry Mr. Knight and I didn’t listen.”
I hear the softest sniffle. “Sometimes I get mad and… I don’t know.”
“Lonely? Mr. Knight does, too. Then he says things he doesn’t mean.”
“I don’t think he does. Get lonely, I mean. Not really.”
“Trust me, he does. And he doesn’t want you to grow up like him.”
A hobbling clutter comes from our left, along with a strong whiff of perfume. “Mr. Lazlo,” Ms. Buchanan says in the darkness, “I wanted to thank you for keeping my Beauregard safe. I don’t have the strength to chase him myself.”
“You’re welcome,” Lazlo mumbles from where he’s slumped against me. He needs cheering up, and Ms. Buchanan can sense it.
“You know, my boy, I have a few simple pleasures in life as ninety comes along…”
“Like her evening bourbon,” Arna Jean whispers from somewhere on my other side.
