“Really?” Dylan held the plate up to the light. “Who would decorate with this? A blind guy?”
This time, I snatched away what was in his hands. “Obviously, it’s not finished yet.” I turned to Caleb. “Is it?”
He shook his head, then blushed. “But if you want, I can show you what I’m working on.”
I smiled. “Sure!”
“I’ll pass,” said Dylan. “When can I make my armor?”
Caleb raised an eyebrow. “We’re making bracelets, Dylan.”
“Bracelets are for wusses.” Dylan picked up a knobbed handle with a sharp needle attached. “What’s this?”
“An awl,” said Caleb. “It’s used for punching leather.”
“And maybe people?” Dylan turned toward me and reeled back the fist clutching the awl. I smacked him in the face with the metal plate.
“Owww!” he cried, dropping the awl and rubbing his nose.
I handed the plate over to Caleb. “Warped metal meets warped cousin.”
He examined the disc. “Actually, other than the greasy face print, it looks okay.”
“I think my nose is broken!” said Dylan.
“You weren’t using it for anything besides a finger warmer anyway,” I said, but inspected his face. “You’re fine.” Then I turned to Caleb. “So, what are you working on?”
He grabbed a sketchbook off a worktable and showed me the contents. “Family crests.”
“These are awesome!” I said, flipping the pages. “And you can do this on metal?”
“Of course,” he said. “Watch.”
Caleb approached the fire pit and reached to one side, picking up a bellows and pointing the nozzle at the coals. With a few squeezes, he managed to shoot enough air onto the coals to reignite a small flame.
“All right!” said Dylan. “Armor time!”
Caleb fished a scrap of metal out of his pocket and tossed it to Dylan. “Here’s what you have to work with. Maybe you can make a pinky shield.”
He fished another scrap of metal out of his pocket and placed it between two tongs.
“Before we can engrave anything on the metal, we have to flatten it,” he told me, pushing the tongs directly into the coals. “And before we can flatten it, we have to heat the metal to a bending point.”
When the metal was glowing bright orange, Caleb removed the tongs from the fire and rested the scrap on an anvil. Then he took the hammer that Dylan had been using and struck the metal, making sparks fly. After a few hits, he offered the hammer to me.
“Want to try?”
I took it and hoisted the hammer over one shoulder, bringing it down hard on the metal.
Which promptly split in half.
“Shoot,” I said.
“Ha!” Dylan said.
“Careful,” Caleb said. “You’re trying to flatten the surface, not destroy the One Ring.” He took another piece of metal from his pocket and held it up. “Let’s try again. And this time, hammer from here.”
He wrapped a hand around mine and lowered my arm down by my side, making a less violent swinging gesture. Even though it was a billion degrees in the hut, Caleb’s hand felt even warmer on mine.
“Yep,” I squeaked, and cleared my throat. “Got it.”
He stepped back, and I almost stepped back too, just to keep the closeness between us. But when I glanced up, Dylan was watching with a measured stare.
On my second attempt, I was able to hammer the metal flat, and then Dylan took a turn with his piece. Caleb showed us how to use a hammer and graver to etch the metal and then pierced the sides so we could run leather strips through them.
When we left the craft hut, Caleb shook both our hands, but it felt like he held on to mine a little longer. Or . . . at least I liked to think so.
As soon as Dylan and I were back in the house, I faced him and scowled.
“I know you have no interest in making bracelets,” I said. “So why did you—”
“Crash your little ‘date’?” he asked with a smirk. “Your mom stole my shoes. And I’m the vengeful type.”
“Yeah?” I crossed my arms. “The fire wasn’t enough?”
“Chicks are too sensitive,” he scoffed.
I scanned his face. “I think your nose looks a little flatter since I smashed it. Try not to snore and wake your dad.”
I headed up to the room that Mom and I were sharing and found her sitting on the floor with a ball of yarn.
“Please tell me we have an invisible cat and it’s not just you batting that thing around,” I said.
“Don’t mock.” She waggled a finger at me. “Without electricity or books or you, this was the only thing I could find to entertain myself. I came up with two games. Roll the Yarn and Stare at the Yarn.” She bounced to her feet and smiled. “But now you’re back to tell me about your exciting date!” She nudged the yarn away with her toe.
“Hey, look at that,” I said. “Kick the Yarn. And my exciting date . . . wasn’t.”
Mom grimaced. “He turned out to be a bore, huh?”
“No, he was fine,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Dylan was not.”
“Say what now?” Mom raised her eyebrows.
I told her about the evening, and Mom just shook her head.
“On the plus side, I have a cool new bracelet.” I held it up, and she smiled.
“Your dad’s initials.” Mom leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “If only he could’ve seen the amazing creation you turned out to be.”
She scooted off the bed and opened the trunk. “What nightgown do you want? Not-so-pretty in pink? Or garish gray?”
“Depends.” I wrinkled my nose. “What makes it gray?”
Mom lifted the gown and took a whiff. “Smells clean.”
I took it from her warily. “I’ve seen you apply the same sniff test to clothes on your bedroom floor.”
I switched into the nightgown but couldn’t quite jump into bed.
“I can’t brush my teeth.” I ran my tongue over them. “And I really need to.”
“Rub them clean on your nightgown,” Mom said, demonstrating with the hem of hers.
“Gross! Stop it!” I smacked the cloth out of her hand. “You don’t know who died in that thing.”
I picked up my modern-day street clothes and used my T-shirt instead. “So why didn’t you hang out with Aunt Zoe instead of the yarn?” I asked as I cleaned.
Despite my warning, Mom put the nightgown back in her mouth. “They all went to bed early. Something about breakfast.”
“Ugh. Porridge,” I said. “Well, at least there’re no weird ingredients.”
I draped my shirt over a towel rack in the bathroom and climbed into one side of the bed.
“Tomorrow’s our first official contest day,” I said. “Are you ready?”
“Sure,” said Mom, snuffing the candles around the room. “We can handle whatever they throw at us.”
Except, as it turned out, waking up at the crack of dawn.
It felt like my eyes had been closed for just a few seconds when someone banged on our door and threw it open.
“Wake up, lazy layabouts!” Eli boomed.
I sucked in a sharp breath and scampered backward, disoriented, until I was against the wall. Mom continued to snore beside me.
“What time is it?” I asked. The only light came from the hallway.
“Time for you to be downstairs working!” Eli shot back. “Ten minutes or home you go.”
He backed out of the room, slamming the door, and a moment later I heard him rousing someone else. I turned to Mom and shook her.
“Wake up! We have to move.”
Mom shoved my face away and rolled over. “The roaches are more afraid of you than you are of them,” she mumbled.
“Mom!” I shook her again. “We’re not at home. We’re in Massachusetts.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Mom.” I leaned closer. “Funk is downstairs.”
Her eyes
shot open. “What?” She threw back the bedsheets and sat up, wild haired. “He can’t see me in this gown that doubles as a toothbrush!”
Mom jumped out of bed and promptly collided with something. She muttered a string of words that definitely weren’t colonial or ladylike.
“Mom!” I called out. “Funk’s not really here. I just wanted to wake you.”
There was silence and then . . .
“Geez, Tori!” she shouted, and smacked into something else. “Where the heck is the light switch?”
“There isn’t any power,” I said to the darkness. “Remember? Colonial times? You snuffed out all the candles last night.”
“Because I thought we’d be up after the sun,” Mom growled. “Not before it!”
I drew back the curtains, which helped some.
“Open the bedroom door,” I told Mom. “There’re lights on in the hallway.”
She did so, and instantly everything was illuminated.
“Now I’m guessing we have about five minutes,” I said, grabbing my alternate dress out of the wardrobe and changing into it. Mom did the same, and we both calmed our hair with our fingers before sprinting downstairs.
Thankfully we weren’t the only ones who looked shell shocked, and after I did a quick headcount there was one couple missing. Angel and her parents, though, were already seated at the dining table, sipping from clay mugs.
“Mint tea?” asked Angel, offering hers.
“No, thanks. Room service already brought some up,” I said.
Eli paced the floor and stared at a candle on the center of the table.
“The wax drips past the final minute,” he said. “And not all parties are present.”
There was a thundering of footsteps on the floor above, and two people appeared on the landing, out of breath and disheveled.
“Hasten not your footfalls,” said Eli. “You no longer have involvement in this contest.”
The couple slumped in unison.
“But—” one of them said.
“Prepare your things for the journey home.” Eli turned his back to them and faced us. “The rest of you will notice no meal awaits. We will no longer feed you but will provide instruction so you may feed yourself.”
“Teach a man to fish . . . ,” said Uncle Max.
“In fact, teach a man to make porridge,” said Eli. “Your first challenge: to cook an acceptable gruel to be judged by myself and my kin.” He gestured to his wife and Caleb, who stepped forward holding a stack of yellowed paper. I ducked behind Mom.
“Here are your instructions,” Caleb said, not even bothering with an accent. “Since there’re so many people, everything you need is set up outside.”
“You have until the sun rises. Good luck,” chimed in Felicity.
We all approached Caleb for our instructions, except me.
“I look like I got dressed in the dark,” I whispered to Mom.
“You did,” Mom whispered back.
“Well, I can’t let Caleb see me like this. Grab the instructions and meet me outside.”
I crouched and made a beeline for the kitchen door. Ten different fires were blazing, so there was plenty of light to see by, and over each fire hung a large pot. Beside each fire stood a table with what l assumed were the ingredients to make porridge. I chose a station and studied what was on the table: six dried ears of corn, a bowl of sugar, a wooden spoon, a knife, a mortar and pestle, and a bucket.
“Oh, this already looks delicious,” I said.
Mom walked over with the recipe and held it up to the light of our fire.
“Looks like we need to turn this corn into cornmeal, find a milk source, and find a water source.”
“There’s a water pump by the servants’ quarters,” I said. “And I think there are some cows in the barn.”
Mom nodded and reached for the bucket. “I’ll milk the cow and get the water while you grind the cornmeal.”
Considering Mom usually bought our chicken in the canned-food aisle, I couldn’t help feeling impressed at how quickly she’d come up with an action plan.
Grabbing an ear of corn and the knife, I sawed off the kernels and scooped a few into the mortar. Then I squashed them with the pestle and pushed them around the container until a layer of white powder appeared. I poured the powder into the extra bowl and grabbed another handful of kernels.
By the time I’d filled the bowl, both of my arms ached from turns at the grinder, and I realized Mom hadn’t come back yet with the water. I decided to take a break and wandered over to Angel’s table.
“Hey!” she said.
“Hey, how’s it . . .” I looked past her to her table. “No way.”
Her corncobs were gone, her bowl of sugar was gone, and something was bubbling in the pot over the fire. Aunt Zoe gave it a stir with the spoon and smiled at me.
“It’s a little thick, I know, but we didn’t want any of the bowls of cornmeal to go to waste.”
“Bowls . . . plural?” I repeated, glancing at the single bowlful on Mom’s and my table.
“Think fast!” said Uncle Deke, tossing me an ear of corn. “We had an extra.”
“Oh, Deke, she’s probably already done if she’s over here visiting,” said Aunt Zoe with a chuckle. “How did yours turn out, sweetheart?”
“Mine?” I repeated. “Well, when I’m making porridge . . .”
“You’re not done,” said Angel.
“Not even close.” I pressed my lips together and looked at the sky, which was starting to lighten. “I should find my mom.”
“Good idea,” said Aunt Zoe with a frown.
I could see from where I stood that Mom wasn’t at the water pump, so I headed for the barn. Where I found her snuggling with a cow in one of the stalls, fast asleep.
The milk bucket was completely empty.
“Are you kidding me?! Mom!” I shouted, startling the cow to its feet. It dumped Mom on the ground, and she glanced around in confusion.
“Wha . . .?” She rubbed her eyes and then widened them once she saw the bucket. “Oh . . . no.”
“The sun’s almost up!” I grabbed the bucket and crouched next to the cow. “Where are the milk dispensers?”
“This is a male. They don’t tend to do that.” Mom took the bucket and entered another stall. The cow there stared at me remorsefully while Mom milked it.
“How could you fall asleep?” I asked.
“I guess I’m just . . .” Mom yawned. “Not used to being up so early. Sorry.”
She walked back around with the bucket and helped me to my feet. “Let’s go fetch that water.”
“We don’t have another bucket,” I said. “You were supposed to get the water so we could boil it and then get the milk.”
We had to pump the water directly into the milk, which I had a feeling was a bad idea, but the sky was turning orange, so we couldn’t afford to be picky.
“How’d the corn grinding go?” asked Mom as we walked back to our table.
“I filled an entire bowl with cornmeal,” I said. “And didn’t take a break until after I was done.” I shook Uncle Deke’s ear of corn at her, but she ignored me.
“Sweetheart . . . I don’t want to be a pessimist,” said Mom, “but that bowl looks more than half-empty. Like . . . completely empty.”
“Huh?” I looked to where she was pointing and gasped. “No! It was full! I swear it!” I ran to the table and picked up the bowl. “See? It still has some residue left!”
I ducked my head under the table and gasped even louder. “Someone dumped it!”
“Maybe it fell,” said Mom.
“No!” I stood up straight, feeling an angry heat in my cheeks. “If it fell, there’d be a single pile, but someone deliberately poured it out and mixed it in with the dirt so it’s unusable.”
We both looked in the direction of Dylan and Uncle Max’s table. Uncle Max was taste testing the porridge, but Dylan stared straight at us and smiled, rubbing his nose ever so slightly.
This must have been his revenge for a plate to the face.
“We have to tell Eli!” I said to Mom.
She shook her head. “We can’t prove it was deliberate. Let’s just focus on doing what we can with what we have.” Mom poured the water and milk mixture into the pot. “Get the kernels off that ear of corn and I’ll grind them.”
I sawed at the corn with ragged, angry strokes. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d come back with the water and milk on your own. I never would’ve—”
“Don’t start, Tori.” Mom stirred the liquid with a spoon and poured in the sugar. “I already apologized.”
She passed the spoon to me and started grinding the corn, although as angry as I felt, I probably could have pulverized the entire ear in five seconds flat.
Eli strolled by and peered into our simmering pot. “Your porridge seems watery.”
“That’s because it is water,” I snapped.
“Manners, Tori!” Mom shouted in a harsh voice I’d never heard her use before.
I instantly clammed up and stirred the pot.
“We had some . . . technical difficulties,” Mom told Eli. She put down the pestle and poured the contents of the mortar into the pot. “But we’re fine now.”
Eli nodded. “Good. Because you have roughly”—he gazed at the sky—“fifteen stirs of the spoon before sunrise.”
“What if I stir really slow?” I asked.
Mom gave me another look, but Eli laughed and continued to another table.
I stirred the porridge until Eli called time, then scooped a little to study it.
“I’m not a psychic, but I’m pretty sure we aren’t going to score high on this challenge,” I said.
And we didn’t.
Angel and her family scored the highest, Dylan and Uncle Max scored somewhere in the middle, and Mom and I came in dead last. Apparently, our porridge was too sweet, too watery, too chunky, and had an acorn in it.
“Heh. It’s just like a cereal-box prize,” said Mom, plucking it off Eli’s spoon.
When the results were announced, I groaned and buried my head in my hands. Mom hugged me close.
“So we’re not off to a strong start,” she said. “But we’ll rally and win this whole thing.”
I nodded into her shoulder but didn’t say what I was thinking.
Colonial Madness Page 6