Theodore jerked his eye away from the bottle and looked up, his face showing how badly he wanted to see inside. “Can I?”
Muddy uncrossed his arms—a stupid stance that some moron back at the beginning of time thought was geniesque. May Allah save him from the ludicrousness of ritual.
He looked down at Theodore, who had begun to fidget from anticipation, and extended a palm. “Just take my hand, master.”
Theodore ran over and took Muddy’s hand. A second later purple smoke began to swirl like a small whirlwind, and they both levitated up with the smoke.“Holy cow!”
They circled over the bottle like a bird of prey. Theodore giggled, then laughed, and Muddy took him for an extra few laps around the bottle, the smoke following in their wake.
They had just made the last lap and were hovering over the bottle when Lydia came walking around some rocks.
“Look, Leedee! Look! It’s me! I’m flying into the bottle!” And they disappeared inside.
* * *
“Where’s the kid?”
Margaret placed a sleeping Annabelle into the trunk-bed and looked up.
Hank was scowling at her.
“Theodore? I haven’t seen him.”
“Me either.” Hank turned, his gaze scanning the area. “Where’s the other one, Lydia?”
“She wandered off a few minutes ago.”
“For Christ’s sake! Can’t you keep an eye on them?”
She turned slowly, her hands clenching into fists. “Now wait just a minute—”
“Go get her.”
She counted very slowly to twenty-five, then she said calmly and reasonably, “I can’t leave the baby. She just fell asleep.”
He swore loud enough to wake the baby. And he did.
Annabelle began to cry.
His expression turned cocky. “Well, now she’s awake.”
Margaret looked from him to Annabelle, and she took one short step backward. “Fine.” She spun on one foot and marched off toward the rocks. “I’ll go look for Lydia.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
She never looked back, just grabbed her flannel skirts and broke into a full run.
“Smitty! You can’t leave this kid with me! Goddammit! Come back here!”
She tightened her grip on her nightdress and took a runner’s shallow breaths. Now here was a natural talent she hadn’t lost. No, siree! Her long legs ate up the ground like an antelope—her nickname on the ladies’ field and track team at college.
“Smitty, dammit!”
She laughed with wicked glee and hot-footed it the last hundred feet, then whipped around the bend before one could say Hank Wyatt was a sucker.
18
Annabelle stared at Hank from over the rim of the trunk with a look so serious and intimidating she should have been a judge. He ran his hand through his hair and swore under his breath.
