Free The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox by Nigel Quinlan

Dad stepped toward Mrs. Fitzgerald and Hugh. His face was flushed and red and his teeth were bared and he was breathing in through his mouth and I could see his chest rise and fall. I had never seen Dad so angry.
    â€œYou have committed more crimes today than I can count. You have broken rules and violated agreements laid down so long ago there was barely language to express them. You will pay us back for everything your son has damaged or destroyed and if I see him near my children or near my house ever again as long as he lives, I will make sure he regrets it. You will answer for your grotesque and insane interference with the weather and the Seasons and with me! Now, get out of here, get off my lawn and off my road and do not come back.”
    Mrs. Fitzgerald looked at Dad as if she’d never seen him before, as if she were noticing him for the first time. She tilted her head slightly to one side. I thought I could see tiny lights flickering in the backs of her shadowy eyes, way, way down, like bombs going off in a faraway place.
    Neil ran across the lawn toward the gate. Hugh made to block him, but his mother touched his arm and he stopped with a groan of pain. Good, I thought. Fitzy shook his shotgun, but didn’t point it, and Neil jumped over the wall and stood beside the phone box and looked back.
    â€œDad!” he said. “Come on!”
    The sun was coming up. The sun was coming up way over in the east, down at the end of the road, bright and rosy. Dew had fallen and everything was wet and shining. My feet were bare and numb, and I shivered with the cold and with the knowing. The light reached the Weatherbox. We held our breaths, and waited. The phone did not ring.
    â€œDAD!” yelled Neil.
    â€œIs something wrong?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. Dad glared.
    â€œGet away from here, I said!” Dad was yelling now. “Go on!”
    â€œOr what? What could you do to me? Where are your vassals and retainers, oh King of the Four Quarters? Where are your wise men of power and your warriors bold? Hollow King of an Empty Quarter, I name you. I scorned worse than you from the pillows of my crib, and that was long, long ago, when there was real power in the world.”
    Ed Wharton loomed up beside me, like a friendly rolling boulder. The sun was halfway clear of the horizon now. Neil was staring down the road at it, his hand held before his face to shield his eyes.
    â€œI think you’d better leave,” Ed rumbled. “You’re not welcome here. You’ve done enough damage.”
    â€œBut I haven’t finished,” she said. “I have come here to issue a challenge to the Weatherman. I challenge you, Weatherman. I say you are unfit for your task. I say you have failed in your duties as your father failed before you. I challenge you, Weatherman. I say you are incompetent and careless and irresponsible, as your father was before you. I say the Seasons are not safe in your hands. I say it is time you were deposed and another put in your place. Someone fit for the task. I challenge you, Weatherman. I have said it three times. You will be cast off, and I will take your place.”
    Dad stared, still breathing hard. Ed Wharton was holding him back; otherwise I think he might have run at her.
    â€œYou can’t challenge me. You can’t cast me off. You can’t take my place. It can’t be done.”
    â€œCan’t it? The Weatherman has been cast off and replaced before.”
    â€œOnce,” Dad said. “But that was—”
    â€œListen,” she said, tilting her head to one side. “The morning sun has grown full and bright. Where is the bell? Why does nothing ring? Where is the Autumn, Weatherman? Look to your task. You are failing.”
    Ed Wharton’s eyes grew wide, and his hands dropped from Dad’s arm.
    â€œYou, you can’t,” Dad stammered. “Nobody could…” Dad took a step toward her, his hand in a fist.