The Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery Page B

Mary. “What do you think?”
    â€œWe should ask our parents. Can you wait for us?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    The two children ducked back behind the fence. A few minutes later, they reappeared at the gate.
    â€œWe can’t come,” Petr said sadly. “We’re not allowed to play with you.”
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€œPetr’s mother said so,” Mary shrugged. “We’re just not allowed.”
    â€œOh,” I said, disappointed. “Well, maybe we can play together another time. What do you think?”
    â€œMaybe,” Petr said doubtfully.
    â€œOkay, then. It was very nice to meet you. Ahoj! ”
    And then I crossed the street and climbed the stairs to Mrs. Liskova’s front yard.
    The ladies were sitting at a small table in the garden, chatting and catching what little sun they could. They were happy to see me, and it turned out that they knew Petr Acorn and Mary Hairy’s parents. Mrs. Sokolova’s cake was delicious as usual and, after lunch, Mrs. Liskova read me a long story from my book. Then Mrs. Noskova gave me a jar of her son’s homemade honey and took me around back to see his bee-hives. Each hive was made of a log that had been carved into the shape of a face. The entrance was an open mouth that was either smiling or frowning. The bees took off and landed like airplanes at a busy airport, and Mrs. Noskova frowned as she listened to their drone. She looked up at the sky and studied the clouds, and then we walked back to Mrs. Liskova’s house. By the time we joined the other ladies in the garden, the sun had disappeared.
    â€œIt’s going to rain,” Mrs. Liskova announced. “My joints are aching in all the old places.”
    â€œThe bees are sounding anxious,” Mrs. Noskova agreed. “And the swallows are flying low to the ground.”
    â€œI think we might be looking at a storm,” Mrs. Sokolova sighed. “The air pressure is low and my ankles are swelling, and I’m really not liking the look of those clouds.”
    As soon as she said this, a loud clap of thunder resounded in the distance, and a fat raindrop fell onto my book.
    â€œQuick, Dominika. You had better get home while you can,” Mrs. Noskova told me.
    She gave me my jar of honey and sent me out of Mrs. Liskova’s gate, and as I ran up the street, I saw my father on the roof, nailing a thick sheet of plastic to the truss. The wind was howling in the forest, and then the heavens opened and it started to pour. I was completely drenched by the time I reached the house. I had never seen a storm like this before and I was terribly afraid. I huddled in the stairwell with Klara and listened to the thunder, and suddenly all the lights went out.
    â€œDad!” I cried. “Dad! Where are you?”
    My father came down from the roof and herded us to the kitchen. We lit all the candles we could find and waited for the storm to go away.
    â€œI hope we’re not looking at a week of rain,” my mother said nervously.
    â€œThis is nothing,” my father growled. “Just a typical end-of-summer storm. It’ll go away as quickly as it came.”
    But my father was wrong. It continued to pour for the rest of the day, and we fell asleep listening to the rain drumming against the plastic sheet on the roof. It was coming down in buckets the following morning, and the plastic sheet started to leak. A yellow stain appeared on the ceiling, and my mother’s face was very grim.
    â€œWhen clouds get trapped between the hills, it often rains until they’re empty,” she observed.
    â€œThat’s the last thing we need,” my father groaned. “This house is built on clay and I have an open foundation beneath the garage. What bad timing!”
    â€œWe had a storm like this when I was sixteen,” my mother remembered. “The whole valley flooded. The river became a lake and a lot of people had to be