Free The Evil Wizard Smallbone by Delia Sherman Page A

you can learn to cheat at marbles .

O ne morning Nick woke to silence and a hard, pale sky. The snow had stopped, but the air was cold enough to freeze snot. By the time he’d finished the chores, the weather had cleared. In the sunlight, Evil Wizard Books looked like a crystal palace in a snow globe, chimneys and roofs all frosted and glittering.
    When Nick returned with the milk and eggs, Smallbone had already made breakfast. “Eat up, Foxkin. We’re going into town. I’m out of tobacco and I haven’t picked up my Christmas ham.”
    Nick’s heart gave a lurch. A town meant people, a telephone, maybe even a police station. A town meant a possibility of escape. Which was all he really wanted, right? The bookshop and the animals and magic were all fine, but they didn’t make up for Smallbone and his acid tongue and the constant fear of bug-hood.
    Smallbone gave Nick a look under his bushy brows. “Just in case you’re thinking of making a break for it, remember that the townsfolk are Smallbones, every one of them. They know what’s due their evil wizard, even if you don’t.”
    Nick returned the look with interest. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
    A little while later, Nick was trudging through the woods behind Smallbone. He was carrying an empty straw basket on his arm for purchases, and he’d tucked a bacon sandwich and
E-Z Spelz for Little Wizardz
in his jacket pockets, just in case.
    Smallbone’s path wound through the woods, climbed a steep rise covered with prickly blackberry, then plunged downhill to a rocky beach. Nick squinted up at the seagulls mewing and gliding down the sapphire sky, and wondered where he was.
    “When you’re done gawking,” Smallbone said, “you can help me with the skiff.”
    A sturdy boat was turned upside down on the rocks like a turtle, with its oars beneath it. Nick brushed the snow off and helped the old man drag it down to the water.
    Smallbone’s beard twitched. “Don’t suppose it’s any use asking if you can row.”
    “Nope.”
    “I’ll teach you come spring. Hop in and don’t fidget.”
    Nick threw the basket in the boat and stepped in gingerly, gripping the sides as he felt the boat lift and stir under him. Smallbone pushed the skiff off the sand, scrambled aboard, sat down facing Nick, and headed out into the Reach.
    Nick had never been in a boat before. He gripped the sides while the wind cut through his jacket like a saw and the cold waves stung his hands. When he looked ahead, there was Smallbone, all bristly white hair and glittering glasses, scowling as he pulled on the oars. Nick turned his eyes to the little islands that were scattered along the Reach, ringed with rocks like massive loaves of brown bread sprinkled with floury snow. Some were big enough to walk around on, but most were too small to hold more than a few trees. The world smelled of pine and wood smoke and cold.
    Nick felt like laughing.
    Before long, they rounded a rocky point and headed into a deep, sheltered cove. Nick made out a weathered dock surrounded by a flock of boats like oversize geese. Behind them was a row of gray and white buildings and a white clapboard church with a sharply pointed steeple topped with a black weathervane shaped like a seal. The whole scene was dusted with glittering snow, like the most touristy kind of Christmas card.
    Nick tucked his frozen hands into his armpits. He didn’t care what Smallbone said: somebody was bound to help him. He’d find a nice woman — women usually felt sorry for Nick until they got to know him — and spin her a tale about family in Bath or Boothbay or whatever, and he’d be on his way in no time.
    With an expert flick of his oars, Smallbone pulled up against the dock, threw a rope over a post, tied it fast, and took off, his black coat flapping, his black hat jammed down over his wild white hair like a stovepipe over a bird’s nest. Nick scrambled after with the basket.
    There weren’t many people around. An old guy was