Free Colonial Madness by Jo Whittemore Page A

shouted, and smacked into something else. “Where the heck is the light switch?”
    â€œThere isn’t any power,” I said to the darkness. “Remember? Colonial times? You snuffed out all the candles last night.”
    â€œBecause I thought we’d be up after the sun,” Mom growled. “Not before it!”
    I drew back the curtains, which helped some.
    â€œOpen the bedroom door,” I told Mom. “There’re lights on in the hallway.”
    She did so, and instantly everything was illuminated.
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œMint tea?” asked Angel, offering hers.
    â€œNo, thanks. Room service already brought some up,” I said.
    Eli paced the floor and stared at a candle on the center of the table.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œHasten not your footfalls,” said Eli. “You no longer have involvement in this contest.”
    The couple slumped in unison.
    â€œBut—” one of them said.
    â€œPrepare 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.”
    â€œTeach a man to fish . . . ,” said Uncle Max.
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œHere are your instructions,” Caleb said, not even bothering with an accent. “Since there’re so many people, everything you need is set up outside.”
    â€œYou have until the sun rises. Good luck,” chimed in Felicity.
    We all approached Caleb for our instructions, except me.
    â€œI look like I got dressed in the dark,” I whispered to Mom.
    â€œYou did,” Mom whispered back.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œOh, this already looks delicious,” I said.
    Mom walked over with the recipe and held it up to the light of our fire.
    â€œLooks like we need to turn this corn into cornmeal, find a milk source, and find a water source.”
    â€œThere’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