“I don’t want to look at all. You may have my turns,” Cora
said, leaning her shoulder against the wood siding of the house
and staring out into the night. Her breathing was even, but
Minnie could see that she was trembling.
Thomas shrugged. “All at once. Just don’t stick your head up
any higher than you need to. Cora, keep your eyes peeled for
familiar spirits or bats or whatever it is witches employ to guard
&n
bsp; against Peeping Charleses.”
Minnie trembled, too, with either excitement or fear, which
were so often indistinguishable until afterward when she knew the
result of the event. Flanked by Arthur and Thomas, she raised her
eyes past the sill to peer into the witch’s home.
A woman, slender as a willow tree and wearing not much more
than her slip, danced madly across the room, throwing her body to
the beats of Joplin’s ragtime, her floor-length braid whipping like
a living thing. Her eyes were closed, and, though the room blazed
with lamps, Minnie couldn’t say exactly what color her hair was,
or even what she looked like. The witch was all wild movement
and snaking hair.
“What’s going on?” Cora whispered.
“She’s dancing. Have a look.” Arthur shifted over to give Cora
room, nearly knocking everyone else down. After some glares and
hisses, there was just enough room for Cora to see, too.
“She dances like you,” Charles said, punching Thomas lightly
on the back.
Minnie hoped this was weird and funny enough that perhaps
Cora would forget to be careful and frightened all the time now.
The song neared the end and, out of place with the rest of her
mad choreography, the witch climbed up onto a ladder propped