Fighting the raging wind, McKenna Skye headed to Miss Gustie’s house. With a drumroll of sustained thunder, the heavens split open. A hurricane lantern swung in McKenna’s hand, but cold pellets of rain instantly doused the flame.
For the fourth time that summer, the village’s power was out. Earlier in the day, Priscilla had dropped off a tuna casserole and apple pie for Augusta and McKenna’s lunch. Out of Miss Gustie’s earshot, Priscilla compared this summer’s storms to that freak season some thirty years back, when Albert Smith, Augusta’s husband, smashed his lobster boat against the rocks near Slade’s Cove.
After she got Miss Gustie settled in for the night, McKenna planned to replenish her candle stock. Enchanted or not, her candles were selling well. McKenna had repaid Doc Tucker in full and still had almost eight hundred dollars in her pouch—more than enough to get her to Toronto. A couple more days, and she’d be gone.
Earlier in the day, Big Bart had reminded McKenna that he’d be driving her to Mrs. Gaspé’s office first thing on Monday morning.
“When I turn on the engine, you better be packed and in the truck, McKenna,” he’d said. “Don’t mess this up. I don’t need any more trouble.”
Soon, McKenna knew, she wouldn’t be giving anyone on Prince Edward Island any more trouble.
With the wind at her back, McKenna burst through the barn red door on the water side of Miss Gustie’s house. Once inside, she tried to relight the lantern, but the wet wick wouldn’t burn.
From her bed in the parlor, where she was propped against a pillow, Miss Gustie beamed a flashlight in McKenna’s direction. “This storm is going to be a doozy!”
“It already is!”
Miss Gustie turned off her battery-operated radio. “Nothing but static.”
“Should I make you a cup of tea before I go out back?”
“Go out? This is no night for man or beast to be out. They’re expecting winds up to ninety miles per hour. We’ll be lucky if my little barn doesn’t fly off its foundation with you in it.”
“Speaking of beasts, where’s Pup?”
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” Miss Gustie’s eyes narrowed. “I think. Find him for me, will you?”
“I’ll need some light.”
Miss Gustie handed McKenna the flashlight, yellow and square, with a black plastic handle. “Here, take this.”
McKenna searched every nook and cranny of the house. She lifted the door to the cellar, even though she knew there was no way Pup could be down there.
“I can’t find him anywhere,” McKenna reported back.
“What do you mean, you can’t find him? He has to be around here somewhere! Did you check out back? Maybe his doggie door got stuck.”
“Yes.”
“How about the—”
“I’ve checked everywhere, Miss Gustie. Trust me. He’s not here.”
Even in the dim light, McKenna could see the color drain from Miss Gustie’s face. The creases in her forehead deepened. Her hands formed taut fists.
Miss Gustie pulled back the bedcovers and shifted her legs, as if a woman with a fractured hip and dislocated kneecap could get up and search for Pup herself.
“He can’t be far,” McKenna said quickly. “Have you got another flashlight?”
“No, take this one. I’ll light my candle. But you’d better put on my rain slicker. It’s hanging in the mudroom.”
McKenna’s sweatshirt and jeans were clammy and cold, but she had no time to change. She’d better get going, or Miss Gustie was going to have a heart attack. McKenna hoped that Pup was either sheltered in the barn, or down in the fox’s tunnel. McKenna thought she’d seen the two canines together earlier in the evening, but that was something she’d better not share with the already panicked woman.
She put on the black rain slicker and came back to Miss Gustie’s side. “If I find Pup out in the barn, we’ll stay there until the storm passes. Don’t worry—I’m sure that’s where he is. He’s probably too scared to come out.”
McKenna stepped back into the storm. The winds howled as if in pain. Trees screamed as branches were ripped from their limbs.
Inside the barn, raindrops hammered the roof. McKenna beamed the flashlight across the floor, in all the corners, inside the dory, and even on the rafters, where a pair of snowy white barn owls perched. McKenna called and called his name, but the little dog didn’t come running.
She rolled the barn doors shut. Head down, pushing through sheets of rain, McKenna made a mad dash to the back side of Enchanted Candles. She dropped down on her knees and called into the fox’s tunnel.
“Pup! Pup! Come out of there! Miss Gustie’s worried sick. Fox, you send him home now, you hear?”
Again, there was no response. Were Pup and the fox still together? If so, where?
The lighthouse? Maybe, but she’d seen Big Bart bar the door; McKenna couldn’t get in even if Pup were inside.
The wharf? No, she’d never seen the little dog hang out anywhere near the wharf. The only other place she could think of was the Pitiful Place, where those nasty wharf cats lived. That place gave her the creeps. She wouldn’t go inside—not alone—but the minute the storm let up, she’d take a quick look, just in case.
When she tried to stand up, McKenna slipped on the wet mud and fell down, facefirst, in the mire. Deafening thunder shook the earth beneath her feet.
KA-BOOM! A jagged bolt of lightning cut across the sky. McKenna screamed, pressing her hands over her ears.
KA-BOOM! The second bolt of lightning struck, closer, much closer. An imagined bolt of sizzling electricity traveled up her spine.
McKenna knew she had to seek shelter. She tried to prop herself up, but her elbows were shaking, and she couldn’t make them stop.
Suddenly, it was a rainy night in April, and she was running, running, running away from Mr. Z.—his hands, his anger—running, running across the island. No idea where she was going, knowing that she had to get away; she had to get away.
KA-BOOM! The thunderous crack of a third bolt of lightning snapped her body into action. McKenna wiped the wet mud off her chin and bolted to the doorway of her shed. She pressed her body within the door frame, under the eave, but even there, the slanting sheets of needling rain found her.
Drenched and shivering, she gripped the wet doorknob with trembling fingers. She dug her frozen fingers into her jeans pocket, feeling for the key.
Then, from behind her, came an eerie, drawn-out wail followed by a series of short, raspy barks. McKenna’s heart stopped. When she turned her head, the fox’s blazing amber eyes were fixed on her own.
Later, McKenna would swear that the fox had said something to her, something like, “Follow me.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.
In any case, at that moment, when, with a grand sweep of his rain-soaked tail, the fox turned and ran at top speed toward the Pitiful Place, McKenna knew exactly what she had to do.