Free Lucky Me by Cindy Callaghan Page A

sometimes.” He looked out the window at the sky. “We’re lucky. It stopped raining.” He pointed to a puff of white in the sky. “And see that?”
    â€œThe cloud?”
    â€œIt’s smoke—from a fireplace. Someone’s burning peat. There must be a house over that ridge. Let’s walk over.”
    Finn and I walked through the tall wet grass toward the yucky-smelling smoke. Mrs. Buck stayed with the car.
    In a small valley we found a thatched cottage that looked very much like the one from “Hansel and Gretel.”
    Wait. Hold on. In that story didn’t some lady or witch try to shove the boy and girl into her oven? Or did I have that confused with another tragic fairy tale?
    I didn’t think that going to that house with a curse hanging over my head was a good idea.

Eighteen
    I looked back at the field we’d walked through. We’d left no bread crumbs. What if we just disappeared?
    Would Mrs. Buck come looking for us?
    Would she break her silence in order to tell the police about two missing teens?
    â€œFinn, maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, they’re, you know, strangers.”
    â€œIf you don’t talk to strangers, how will you ever make any new friends?” He gently knocked on the door. “How much are you willing to bet they offer us food?” he whispered.
    Before I could explain to him about how we could belocked in an oven, the door opened. A woman with a paisley handkerchief tied around her head answered. “What perfect timin’. I was just finishin’ da soda bread. Come in.” We went in. The door shut behind us with a loud click of the latch. The house might have looked like a sweet little cottage, and smelled like baking bread, but it felt like bad luck.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” She poked at the fireplace with a rod that reddened at the end.
    Finn and I sat down. “Our car ran out of petrol on the other side of the field. We’re hoping you can help us,” Finn said.
    â€œYou’re not the first traveler to come here with an automobile problem. Be a dear and help me here?” she asked me. I followed her into a very small kitchen. She handed me two pot holders. “I’ll open the oven, and you take the loaf out, eh?”
    â€œOut of the oven?”
    â€œTat’s right.”
    This is what I figured was going to happen: I would lean in to get some loaf that supposedly was in the hot oven, and she’d shove me in, close the door, and bake me for dinner.
    Would Finn try to save me?
    I looked back at him—totally relaxed.
    Maybe he was in on it?
    It was kind of convenient that we’d run out of gas right by this cottage, wasn’t it? I hadn’t even checked to see if the gas gauge was really on E .
    She asked, “Can you do that?”
    â€œAll right,” I replied, because that was the way I was—a helpful rule follower. (Except for running away from the castle, which hardly felt like running away anymore because we had an adult and we’d left a note with our phone number. But we had taken off under the cloak of darkness, and at least that had felt against the rules.)
    She opened the oven, and I took out the loaf, lightning fast, and put it on the counter. I dropped the pot holders and ran back to Finn. “Yer a quick one,” the woman commented. She closed the oven and moved the loaf of bread onto the table. It smelled so good. Maybe I’d misjudged all of this. But then the woman held up a big, fat, shiny knife.
    â€œWatch out!” I yelped at the sight of the blade.
    â€œWhat’s that, dear?” she asked, cutting into the bread. “Do you need the toilet?”
    â€œOh,” I said, trying to calm myself. “Uh, no. Thank you.”
    She turned her back to us and opened an old-fashioned-looking fridge.
    Finn looked at me, concerned, and mouthed to me, “You okay?”
    I