Tales Of Corwin

By Friday, the warm spell seemed finally to be running out, and there was a dire weather forecast for the weekend. There was no doubt that something heavy was on the way; the only question was how much would be rain, how much would be ice, and how much would be snow. At the Prime Way, Mark heard people sharing their juiciest forecasts. The man in front of him in the checkout line said, “Ready for the big storm? Supposed to be eight inches, is what I heard.” “Twelve, I heard,” said the kid bagging the groceries. “And that’s after the ice.” Mark was inclined to discount such predictions; supermarket forecasts were always exaggerated. But by Saturday afternoon he wasn’t so sure. The official forecasts were still threatening, and now the air did feel different, with a damp and unquiet breeze blowing fitfully. Terri put out the word that the Figgy Pudding Singers were making their first public appearance that night. Sandra agreed to close up the tavern early—“It’ll be a slow night anyway,” she said—and the gro