Free Colonial Madness by Jo Whittemore Page B

the powder into the extra bowl and grabbed another handful of kernels.
    By the time I’d filled the bowl, both of my arms ached from turns at the grinder, and I realized Mom hadn’t come back yet with the water. I decided to take a break and wandered over to Angel’s table.
    â€œHey!” she said.
    â€œHey, how’s it . . .” I looked past her to her table. “No way.”
    Her corncobs were gone, her bowl of sugar was gone, and something was bubbling in the pot over the fire. Aunt Zoe gave it a stir with the spoon and smiled at me.
    â€œIt’s a little thick, I know, but we didn’t want any of the bowls of cornmeal to go to waste.”
    â€œBowls . . . plural?” I repeated, glancing at the single bowlful on Mom’s and my table.
    â€œThink fast!” said Uncle Deke, tossing me an ear of corn. “We had an extra.”
    â€œOh, Deke, she’s probably already done if she’s over here visiting,” said Aunt Zoe with a chuckle. “How did yours turn out, sweetheart?”
    â€œMine?” I repeated. “Well, when I’m making porridge . . .”
    â€œYou’re not done,” said Angel.
    â€œNot even close.” I pressed my lips together and looked at the sky, which was starting to lighten. “I should find my mom.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Aunt Zoe with a frown.
    I could see from where I stood that Mom wasn’t at the water pump, so I headed for the barn. Where I found her snuggling with a cow in one of the stalls, fast asleep.
    The milk bucket was completely empty.
    â€œAre you kidding me?! Mom!” I shouted, startling the cow to its feet. It dumped Mom on the ground, and she glanced around in confusion.
    â€œWha . . .?” She rubbed her eyes and then widened them once she saw the bucket. “Oh . . . no .”
    â€œThe sun’s almost up!” I grabbed the bucket and crouched next to the cow. “Where are the milk dispensers?”
    â€œThis is a male. They don’t tend to do that.” Mom took the bucket and entered another stall. The cow there stared at me remorsefully while Mom milked it.
    â€œHow could you fall asleep?” I asked.
    â€œI guess I’m just . . .” Mom yawned. “Not used to being up so early. Sorry.”
    She walked back around with the bucket and helped me to my feet. “Let’s go fetch that water.”
    â€œWe don’t have another bucket,” I said. “You were supposedto get the water so we could boil it and then get the milk.”
    We had to pump the water directly into the milk, which I had a feeling was a bad idea, but the sky was turning orange, so we couldn’t afford to be picky.
    â€œHow’d the corn grinding go?” asked Mom as we walked back to our table.
    â€œI filled an entire bowl with cornmeal,” I said. “ And didn’t take a break until after I was done.” I shook Uncle Deke’s ear of corn at her, but she ignored me.
    â€œSweetheart . . . I don’t want to be a pessimist,” said Mom, “but that bowl looks more than half-empty. Like . . . completely empty.”
    â€œHuh?” I looked to where she was pointing and gasped. “No! It was full! I swear it!” I ran to the table and picked up the bowl. “See? It still has some residue left!”
    I ducked my head under the table and gasped even louder. “Someone dumped it!”
    â€œMaybe it fell,” said Mom.
    â€œNo!” I stood up straight, feeling an angry heat in my cheeks. “If it fell, there’d be a single pile, but someone deliberately poured it out and mixed it in with the dirt so it’s unusable.”
    We both looked in the direction of Dylan and Uncle Max’s table. Uncle Max was taste testing the porridge, but Dylan staredstraight at us and smiled, rubbing his nose ever so slightly.
    This must have been his