Octagon Magic Read Free

worry her.”
    “Come again then.” The capped head bobbed, the smile grew even wider. “Now, how did you get in, little missy?”
    “I climbed the gate, the front one,” Lorrie admitted.
    “An’ did all that to your nice clothes. My, my.” A brown finger pointed.
    Lorrie looked down at herself. There were streaks of rust on the sleeves and the front of her windbreaker, more on her skirt and tights. She tried to brush off the worst of the stains.
    “Come along. Hallie'll let you out, all right an’ proper.”
    Down the steps she came, slowly and stiffly, as Lorrie waited. Then Lorrie followed that wide skirt as it brushed up leaves around the corners of the house, back to the front where the iron deer held his head high and proud. Hallie put her old, wrinkled hands on the gate, touched the top bar, and gave it a quick jerk. There was a small, protesting squeak and it moved inward, not all the way, for it stuck on the un even bricks of the walk, but enough to let Lorrie through.
    “Thank you.” The manners that Miss Logan's classes had so carefully drilled came to Lorrie. She ducked a small curtsy. “Thank you very much.”
    To her surprise Hallie's hand went to each side of the billowing skirt at which the wind was tugging, and the old woman made a stately, dipping acknowledgment that was far more graceful than any such gesture Lorrie had ever seen.
    “You is welcome, little mis’, entirely welcome.”
    Curiosity broke through good manners. “Are you—are you the—?”
    Hallie's smile grew wider. “The ol’ witch?” Her soft voice made that name sound worse.
    Lorrie blushed. Not that she had ever been one of those who ran past Octagon House calling that name out, daring someone to go in and bang on the old witch's front door.
    “The—the lady who lives here?” she stammered.
    “I live heah, aye. But I'm Hallie, not Mis’ Charlotta. Mis’ Charlotta, she's Mis’ Ashemeade.”
    Hallie made it sound, Lorrie thought, as if Miss Ashe meade was as grand a person as Lady Cartwright, a friend of Grandmother's in England.
    And now Hallie's smile was gone and she sounded almost sharp. “Mis’ Ashemeade, she's a great lady—don't you ever forgit that.”
    “I—I won't. And I'm Lorrie Mallard.” Lorrie held out her hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
    Her fingers were enfolded in Hallie's. “An’ I to meet you, Lorrie. Come again.”
    Lorrie trotted on down Ash Street. At the mouth of the alley she turned to glance back. But the gate was now firmly closed and Hallie was gone. What small scrap of house she could still see looked deserted.
    It was colder and the wind blew stronger, pulling at her plaid skirt and cap. And the sky was dark, too, as if a storm were coming. Lorrie broke into a run, but she kept a sharp lookout. It would be just like Jimmy or Stan to hide out and pounce at her. She breathed a little easier as she skirted the parking lot. There were more cars there now, but none of them close enough to shelter lurking boys.
    She clattered up the steps into the lobby of the apartment house. Mr. Parkinson was there, taking his mail out of the box. Lorrie slowed down and tried to close the door very quietly. Mr. Parkinson did not like children and he made that widely and forcibly known. There had been one afternoon when Kathy Lockner had thrown a ball all the way down the stairs and Lorrie picked it up, only to be accused of wild behavior, with threats of taking the matter to Aunt Margaret. She had avoided Mr. Parkinson carefully ever since.
    He frowned at her now. Lorrie was very conscious of her rust-streaked clothing. And what would Aunt Margaret say ifthe marks did not come off? Clothes cost a lot of money, Lorrie knew that. Maybe if she brushed very hard—
    But if Mr. Parkinson made his opinion of dirty and untidy little girls very plain in his stare, he did not put it into words. Lorrie edged past him and climbed the stairs as slowly and sedately as she could. But as soon as she hoped she