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 principal'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 class 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 glass 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 bumps.
She intended to ask him about it after class, 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