“… and Beauregard is the most important. I adopted him when my memory went spotty. He even follows me into rooms when I forget where I’m going. I hoped a big dog would keep folks from bothering me, but he isn’t too good at being scary yet. We’re working on it.”
I feel Lazlo’s huff of a tiny laugh. “His tail wags too much to be mean.”
“Remember, my boy, there are lots of things more dangerous than storms out there. Like vet bills. Or memory loss. Or the Widow Witch.”
“Or Gertha Fudge,” Arna Jean mutters.
Ms. Buchanan shuffles away, presumably to bother Arna Jean. If she can find her.
When we’re again alone as we can be in a root cellar, Lazlo tugs on my elbow. “What happens when you cure me?”
When. Not if. Bless him. “What do you mean?”
“Will you still live with us? Or will you leave?”
I don’t answer. His question makes me feel like spoiled milk. Sour, useless, clogged with clumpy unpleasantness. A pang of hunger hits me so suddenly I can feel my heartbeat in my stomach.
I wish the Warlock were here with us. I miss him. But that thought feels very Big Wish tier, not Small, and the man’s magic doesn’t work like that anyway.
Or itshouldn’t.
A sudden commotion beyond the cellar doors shatters the silence.
I hustle to the doors, Arna Jean’s chunky heels behind me, the two of us tripping over what I think are old canning jars. We get as close as we dare, in case the old doors might still collapse inward. Slowly, I begin to make out a pair of voices, right outside. Three voices? Three male voices. Arguing.
“There’s no way the three of us can lift that tree—” The exchange is muffled but heated.
“Speak for yourself, I do my calisthenics four times a week.”
“—have you seen us? At least I lift heavy boxes.”
Arna Jean’s voice travels from the left. “Is that my brother?”
An indignant shout from the surface: “You are nothitchingto my truck. Her name is Stamp of Approval and she’s a United States Postal Service vehicle, not a trailer. That would ruin my bumper—”
“That’s him,” she mutters. “Jesus, I’ve always hated that name. Like some kind of racehorse in the Derby.”
“If you gentlemen won’t take your argument elsewhere, kindly back up or shut up. I need someone to make a clear wish.”
My heart flutters. It can’t be…
“I wish you’d be useful and move the tree.”
“I am not agenie, Mr. Key. What did I say?The Language of Small Wishes.”
“I’ve got it,” says someone who sounds like Rett. “I wish I could tell my sister her perfume is too loud.”
Arna Jean huffs. “It isnot.”
All at once, there’s the sound of something heavy lifting off the doors, and the clatter echoes through the cellar. With much heaving, the doors at last fly open. The dim sunset makes me squint as I blink away the darkness.
Then I’m staring up into a familiar set of hazel eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MONDAY, MAY 30 (STILL)
22 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
