"That does look good," Sarah said, ashamed of her earlier pettiness. Her mother's efforts to please her were becoming embarra.s.sing.

"I wish you'd gone out with Kyra and her friends," Rosemary said, setting the bowl on the bedside table next to the crystal ball. "It could have been the start of a social life. Ted says Eric Garrett is a real key to meeting people. He comes from a prominent family, his father is a lawyer, and his great-grandfather, Samuel Garrett, was founder of this town. Besides that, Ted says he's very popular and is involved in everything."

"I couldn't afford to go out tonight," Sarah said.

"But Ted offered to pay!"

"I won't take Ted's money," Sarah said. "Besides, I'm tired and didn't feel like it" She gestured toward the crystal ball. "Changing the subject, where did that thing come from?"

"Out of one of the crates in the garage. It was right on top."

"I don't remember ever seeing it before."

"I didn't have it out when we lived in the apartment."

"Then where-?"

"It belonged to your father's mother," Rosemary told her. "She died right after your father and I became engaged. The paperweight was one of the few things your dad brought back with him after the funeral. After his death it got packed away in a box with the other stuff from his desk. I forgot all about it until we were packing to move here and discovered the box on a shelf at the back of the coat closet."

"I don't think I've ever even seen a picture of that grandmother," Sarah said.

"You look quite a bit like her," said Rosemary. "You have the same coloring. She was Hungarian and very exotic-looking. Of course your father had black hair and dark eyes too. I always felt sort of pallid and washed out next to him."

"Rosie?" Ted called from the hall. "Brian's ready for bed. Do you want to come tell him good night?"

"I'll be right there," Rosemary called back. "Good night, Sarah, honey. You'd better get started on that ice cream. It's already melting."

Sarah dutifully ate the ice cream, letting Yowler lick the bowl clean afterward, and then, overcome by fatigue, crawled into bed, almost too tired to make the effort to turn off the light. She fell asleep immediately, but despite her exhaustion it was a restless, dream-haunted sleep. When she awoke in the morning, she could not remember much about the dreams, but was conscious of a rancid mental aftertaste, as if her head had been filled with an unpleasant substance.

The house was so quiet that she knew n.o.body else was up yet. The thought occurred to her that this would be a good chance to peruse the cla.s.sifieds in the Sunday paper. There was no getting around it, she had to find a job; she couldn't go through a whole year here without any spending money, and she was determined not to lower herself to accepting a handout from Ted.

She got dressed and let herself out of the house into a crisp autumn morning that should, under normal circ.u.mstances, have been invigorating. Instead she was struck by the same odd sense of foreboding she had experienced when she and Rosemary had crossed the peak of Garrett Hill and gazed for the first time at the tiny town of Pine Crest nestled in a hollow at its base. "What a sweet little town!" Rosemary had exclaimed in delight, and Sarah had been forced to agree that the neat little tree-lined streets and pitched-roof houses had the charm of a picture postcard designed by Grandma Moses. There had been no valid reason for the words that had leaped into her mind, as sudden and stark as if somebody else were dictating them: This is a frightening place, and I don't want to live here.

Now she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had put on a jacket, as she glanced around the yard for the paper. As if on cue, an elderly-looking van pulled up in front of the house and a middle-aged woman with short brown hair turned awkwardly in the driver's seat to dump a newspaper out the window. It didn't make it as far as the yard, and landed with a slapping sound on the sidewalk.

Sarah moved to retrieve it, and the woman called, "Sorry about that! I'll never make it to the majors!"

"Don't worry about it," Sarah responded. The woman's round, pleasant face looked familiar, and she knew immediately who she must be. "Are you Charlie's mother?"

"Yes, I'm Lola Gorman," the woman said. "I'm filling in for Charlie today, but he's going to have to find himself a subst.i.tute pretty quickly, because I work on the weekdays and don't have time for this. The doctor said it will be at least three months before he can throw papers again."

"What happened?" Sarah asked in surprise. "I just saw him last night!"

"He was leaving the carnival and tripped coming down the steps in front of the school," Mrs. Gorman told her. "In trying to break his fall, he broke his right wrist."

CHAPTER.

FIVE.

AT SCHOOL ON MONDAY Sarah found herself the object of more attention than she had received since her arrival at Pine Crest. Instead of the sensation that she was invisible, she felt as if there were a neon sign on her forehead that caused all eyes automatically to turn in her direction. It wasn't exactly as if she were engulfed in friendliness. Students whose fortunes she had told greeted her cautiously (except for Bucky Greeves, who averted his eyes and charged past her as if she were Typhoid Mary). But at least there was an obvious awareness of her existence, which was more than she had encountered before. And, better than that, when she stopped at her locker to do a book exchange midway through the morning, she found Eric Garrett there waiting for her as if he had memorized her schedule.

"Guess where I spent the last half hour?" he said with a grin. "In the princ.i.p.al's office, getting chewed out by Mr. Prue. He said the carnival was only supposed to have games and things, and he's now been informed that it was a hotbed of spiritualism."

"A hotbed of spiritualism!" Sarah repeated incredulously. "What in the world is he talking about?"

"Not to worry, I was able to sweet-talk him out of it," Eric said easily, seeming to relish this sort of challenge. "I told him you and I had miscommunicated and that each of us thought the other had gotten permission. Then he switched gears and started in on the witch's cauldron, how it was a symbol of the occult and had no place at a school function. I told him he'd gotten it wrong and that the kettle with the dry ice in it was meant to represent Jack Frost's paint pot. That calmed him down."

"What's wrong with him?" Sarah exclaimed. "Is he some sort of fanatic?"

"It seems that some kid's parents complained to Reverend Morris, and he got on Prue's case after church service yesterday," Eric said. "Like I said, not to worry, I was able to handle it. You did a dynamite job. The whole school's talking about it. You should have heard all the comments when we went out afterward. Everybody was raving about the incredible Madam Zoltanne."

"I forgot to give you back your radio," Sarah said. "I'll bring it to school tomorrow along with the Gypsy costume."

"That's not too great an idea," Eric said. "Somebody might see it and realize how we faked things."

"What difference would that make now?" Sarah asked, bewildered by his reaction.

"I'd like to keep everybody mystified for a while," Eric said. "At least until I've had a chance to talk to you about something. If you don't have anything planned for right after school, I'll give you a ride home and pick up the radio at your house."

"That would be fine," Sarah said with a rush of pleasure.

"I'll meet you in the parking lot. Do you know which car is mine?"

"I think so," Sarah said, almost laughing aloud at the question. She couldn't count the occasions on which she had watched wistfully as that bright red Charger shot off down the street with its cargo of laughing young people, headed for the Burger Barn, or the bowling alley, or the rec hall at the church, or whatever the scene of that afternoon's action. More often than not, the person in the seat beside Eric had been Kyra Thompson.

In history cla.s.s she glanced about for Charlie Gorman. He was exactly where he had said he would be, two rows over and three seats back from her own seat. When she caught his eye, he gave her a wry half smile and lifted his right arm high enough for her to see the cast that covered his wrist and a large part of his hand. There were holes for his fingers to come through, and he wiggled them at her, one at a time, as if they were finger puppets. The memory of the plunging figure she had seen in the gla.s.s came back to her with such force that it was almost frightening. The fact that Charlie had fallen later that same evening was a coincidence eerie enough to give her goose b.u.mps.

She intended to ask him about it after cla.s.s, but at the end of the period the teacher handed out instructions about a term paper that would be due at the end of November. Scanning the list of possible subjects, Sarah was surprised to see that one of them was printed in boldface.

On her way out of the room she paused at the teacher's desk to ask about it.

Mrs. Larkin seemed surprised by the question.

"Boldface? Which subject is in boldface?"

"The Salem Witch Trials," Sarah said. "I guess it was just a printing error."

"It's certainly not in boldface on my copy," Mrs. Larkin said, squinting at the sheet on her desk. "Either you need your eyes checked, Sarah, or I do."

"On my copy it's-" Sarah began, but broke off the statement as her eyes went back to the printout in her hand. Nothing on it was printed in boldface. No item on the list of suggested topics stood out from the others. "I guess it's my eyes that have the problem," she said apologetically. "The topic just sort of jumped out at me. I could have sworn it was printed darker than the rest."

"Maybe it was the lighting," Mrs. Larkin suggested.

"Yes, I guess it must have been."

By now the rest of the students, Charlie included, had left the room, and she had lost her chance to ask him about his accident.

However, she did see him again at the end of the day, squatting by a floor-level locker, awkwardly trying to work the lock with one hand. It occurred to her that anyone standing over him could easily have learned the combination just by watching him. No wonder it had been so simple to plant a fish in his locker.

"Could you use some help?" Sarah asked, coming to stand next to him.

Charlie glanced up with a rueful smile. "Well, if it isn't the Gypsy lady! Thanks, but I've got to learn how to manage one-handed. It's going to be a while before I get rid of this hunk of plaster."

He gave the dial a final twist, and the metal loop popped open.

"There, I got it!" Charlie said with a note of triumph in his voice.

"I hear you fell on the steps the other night," Sarah said.

"I hold you responsible," Charlie said as he pulled the locker door open. "I got so pumped up by that business about the cruise ship that I thought I was diving into the ocean. It's the story of my life that there didn't happen to be water in it."

"How did you fall?" Sarah asked him.

"Like a ton of bricks."

"I mean, how did it happen?" Sarah prodded. "Did somebody trip you?"

Charlie turned to stare at her. "What makes you ask that?"

"I don't know. I mean, it seemed like a possibility-"

"Of course n.o.body tripped me," Charlie said quickly. "Why would anybody do that?" He turned back to the locker. "Actually I guess I do need some help with this. Do you think you could haul those library books out from under that heap of gym clothes?"

"Sure," Sarah said, dropping to her knees beside him. When she leaned into the locker, the stench of rotten fish almost bowled her over.

"I didn't get tripped," Charlie repeated, sounding almost defensive. "I stumbled over my two big feet. This isn't my lifetime to be coordinated. In my next incarnation I plan to be a graceful ballerina."

"Do you really believe in reincarnation?" Sarah asked him.

"It makes as much sense as anything," Charlie said. "Voltaire said, *It's no more surprising to be born twice than to be born once.' "

"I never thought of it that way," Sarah said, surprised that the "cla.s.s clown" would even know who Voltaire was. "It might be worth being born a second time to see you do a pirouette." She took out the books-and let out a groan at the sight of their t.i.tles.

"What's the matter?" Charlie asked her.

"They're all on the Salem witchcraft trials. Is that what you're going to do your report on?"

"I thought I would. It's more interesting than the other topics. I figured everybody else in the cla.s.s would decide the same thing, so I hightailed it to the school library at lunchtime and grabbed up the only three books on the subject. Needless to say, our library is not exactly made for heavy research."

"Then that's it for me," Sarah said glumly. "I was also planning to do my paper on that subject."

"No problem," Charlie said. "You take one book home and read it, and I'll take the other two. Then we'll trade. Everybody else is out of luck."

He slammed the locker closed with his left hand and then attempted unsuccessfully to snap the lock back in place.

"Here, let me," Sarah said, reaching over and securing it. "Anything else I can do for you while I'm being useful?"

There was a long pause.

Then Charlie said tentatively, "How would you like to throw newspapers?"

"You mean, take over your paper route? I don't have a bicycle."

"You wouldn't need one," Charlie said. "Mom will let me use her car as long as I get it back so she can drive it to work. I can drive and point out the houses, but I can't throw. You can have full pay for the couple of months you'll be doing it. I just don't want to lose the route. If they hire a subst.i.tute, I'm afraid I won't get it back."

"That sounds good to me," Sarah said. "I need to earn some spending money, and there's nothing in the cla.s.sifieds that looks even possible. When would you want me to start?"

"Tomorrow, if you can. Mom did the papers this morning, but she sure wasn't happy about it."

"What time?" Sarah asked.

"I'll pick you up at six-thirty, and we should be done in about an hour. It takes longer than that with a bike, but the car will speed things up."

"Do you know where I live?" Sarah asked him.

"Of course. You're on my route."

"Then I'll see you in the morning," Sarah said. "I'll be outside waiting."

She straightened up easily, while Charlie lumbered to his feet and thrust one of the three history books into her hand. "Want to start with this one? It's the thickest."

"One is as good as another," Sarah said. "Thanks. I'll see you early tomorrow."

She continued down the hall and out through the wide front door. She couldn't help noting that the cement steps that led down to the flagpole area were wide enough that it was hard to imagine anybody stumbling off one. Still, accidents did happen, and Charlie seemed the type who might be p.r.o.ne to clumsiness.

Eric was waiting for her in the Charger. The afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window glinted off his hair and made him appear to be wearing a golden helmet.

"So there you are! I was starting to worry that I was being stood up." He leaned across and opened the door on the pa.s.senger's side so that she could slide in next to him.

"I stopped to give Charlie Gorman a hand with his locker," Sarah explained. "He fell Sat.u.r.day night and broke his wrist."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Poor old Gorman, stuff like that is always happening to him."

Eric started the engine, and Sarah glanced surrept.i.tiously around, in the hope of spotting Kyra enviously watching them, but the lot had pretty well cleared out, and neither Kyra nor the group she ran with was in evidence.

"I have an idea I want to run past you," Eric said as they pulled out into the street. "That performance on Sat.u.r.day was a blockbuster. It blew people away. Everybody at school today was talking about it. The ones who didn't get their fortunes told feel like they were cheated."

"I got worn out," Sarah said apologetically. "Besides, it was almost over."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. You were obviously terrific. But there were plenty of kids still in line when you closed up shop. The more they hear about how mysterious it was-how right on target you were about everything you told people-the worse they feel about not having gotten in to see you. I've even had people asking me if you're a junior, which would mean you'd be around to do it again next year."