A large black-and-white goat popped out of the front of the thicket. The goat had green stains on its beard and a flat, almost disdainful look in its eyes.
The goat was intimidatingly large. It looked like it weighed close to two hundred pounds and had wickedly sharp, curved horns.
The goat screamed.
Marlowe—the least outdoorsy person Plum had ever met, who, on their junior-year ag-expo field trip, had actually started hyperventilating when a college kid tried to get her to feed a carrot to a horse—operated on pure instinct. She screamed back.
It was an impressive scream, like something Janet Leigh in Psycho might have let loose in the shower. It was louder than the goat’s scream.
The goat, Plum decided, no longer looked disdainful.
“Better stop, Marlowe.” Plum shushed her friend. Marlowe gave a little gasp and nodded, clutching at Plum’s shoulders.
Yes, there was a scary goat right there, and, yes, Plum sort of hoped the goat would never move if it meant Marlowe would keep grabbing on to her like that.
The billy goat gave a rear and landed hard, stamping his black-and-white-stockinged hooves on the ground.
Sofia made a soothing noise. She tugged gently on her friends. “We should move back a ways. We don’t want to make it think we’re challenging it.”
“It’s a goat,” Sean said. He stuck a hand out at the animal and laughed. “It’s a bloody goat.”
Marlowe huddled closer and slightly behind Plum, still holding Plum’s shoulders tightly. “I don’t like goats,” Marlowe whispered.
“Oh, but he’s so cute,” Sofia cooed.
They quietly eased another step away from the huge goat.
“A screaming goat.” Sean shook his head in disgust as he followed them. “Bloody figures, don’t it?”
“He’s just trying to eat grass and leaves and stuff!” Sofia rose to the goat’s defense. “It’s not his fault he scared us.”
Sean gestured back toward the house. “I’m getting a scotch,” he said. “If they have it.”
Plum glanced over her shoulder in Sean’s direction and let out a yelp of surprise. A stranger stood on the path right behind them.
“Saints and biscuits, what are you about?” Sean growled. “Sneaking up on people?”
The young man held out his hand. He was about their age, Black, and cute, with square, black-framed glasses, short buzzed hair, and long eyebrows that pulled up in an expression of happy surprise or eagerness.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle anyone,” he said. “I just arrived, so I was following Wadsworth’s directions.”
“Well, if the computer hasn’t told you yet,” Sean said, “the festival is a complete wash. I’m leaving.”
“What? Why?” the young man asked.
“There’s no one here!” Sean said angrily. He turned and marched back to the villa for his bags. The young man shrugged and followed, and Plum and her friends went along, too. What else could they do?
Sean yanked the sagging villa’s door open and strode into the atrium. “And as far as I can tell, no one else is coming. Pyre Festival is complete rubbish. So you hear me, Wadsworth! I’m leaving!” He shouted the last words into the air of the villa.
“Oh no,” Wadsworth replied, the unruffled voice falling from a small speaker set into the curving staircase. “No, you won’t be leaving, sir. None of you will.”