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He was catching on quickly and, today, Charlotte joined in on the silver flute. Gran was at the piano, thumping out grandiose chords while Jason stumbled through The Bugle Call. Charlotte was trilling an extra part, making it up as she went along, something she’d told him she had always been able to do.

They had almost finished their third run-through of The Bugle Call when a loud, rat-a-tatting echoed down the front hall stairs into the living room.

“Keep going,” Gran said, throwing in a few extra chords at the end of the last line.

“We’ll go through it one more time.”

Squid proudly marched through the doorway in perfect time, the drum on the yellow cord around his neck. In spite of the tinny loudness, Jason couldn’t help being impressed by Squid’s dexterity, the rat-a-tat-tats doubling and tripling in time to Gran’s chords. He had obviously done this before.

At the end of the piece, Squid, of course, kept up his drumming, marching around the couch, la-la-la-ing Jason’s bugle line at the top of his lungs.

“Time to stop,” was all Gran had to say. Squid plopped to the floor and pulled the drum’s cord off over his head. “It’s almost four,” she went on, “and Jean Barton will be here for her music lesson.” She opened one of the french doors. “How about a practice, outside? Like a marching band.”

“Gran still teaches piano,” Charlotte explained.

”A band, a band,” Squid echoed. He grabbed the drum again and hammered away.

“Oh boy,” Charlotte said. “This should be fun.” She rolled her eyes.

“Only for forty-five minutes,” Gran added, “and stay off the highway. One of those Lake Ontario fogs is rolling in from the lake. I noticed from the upstairs window a while ago. You won’t be able to see any further than the end of your nose once it hits the highway. She gave Squid’s nose a little poke. “Stay on the path by the fence and come back when you reach the Cobourg town sign.” Squid giggled and ran for the french doors.

“But we won’t have you on the piano,” Jason protested. “It won’t sound right without the piano.”

“Try it,” Gran said, literally shoeing the two of them out after him. “Just try it.”

Charlotte took over the melody line and, with Squid leading, they marched out the spruce-lined lane toward the highway and path.

“Hold it,” Charlotte commanded even before they reached the highway. “Hey, Squid, it won’t be any fun in the fog. Let’s go back up into the loft.”

“No way,” Squid said, stomping his foot and rat-a-tat-tatting. “I want to be a band.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and stared hard at her little brother. Jason could see a standoff looming. He stepped back and waited.

Charlotte grinned and snapped her fingers. “I know,” she said. “Why don’t we take Jason for a boat ride? You could row.”

”No, no, no,” Squid said defiantly, “and I’m going to tell if we don’t be a band. So there.” He started a drum roll and marched on the spot.

“Might as well try it to my house and back, then,” Jason suggested. “Forty-five minutes isn’t that long.” He checked his watch. It was three fifty-five. What he intended to do once they got to his house was make an excuse to call it a day. Sibling squabbles he could do without.

Charlotte rolled her eyes and started to play again, marching on the spot. “Okay,” she said between notes, and they turned onto a path Jason didn’t even know was there – Squid in front, then Charlotte, with Jason bringing up the rear.

Something happened then, something none of them clearly understood, even afterward. The fog Grandma Cannington warned them about started rolling in, a thick, wet cover, eliminating everything but a small section of the path ahead. Jason felt his playing grow stronger and stronger and he added extra notes.

Cars drove past, their headlights like two yellow spots dilating into solid discs, and disappearing behind. Each time, Squid paused and, in perfect time, twirled a drum stick in the air. Jason moved out in front, lifting his head higher so that his bugle notes poured ahead of him into the fog. Charlotte was following him now, with Squid lagging a bit behind. The sound wrapped around them, pulling them forward, bugle and flute notes growing louder and stronger, driven on by the urging of Squid’s relentless drum. They must have marched right past Jason’s house; none of them even noticed. They were good – they were better than good, professional, like his mom. He was sure of it.

Across the highway, the New Lodge Farm sign slid in and out of sight almost as if suspended in air. As they came close to the Workman’s chicken farm where his mom bought eggs, Jason thought he heard sheep bleating. He didn’t know the Workmans had sheep. The fog rolled back, momentarily, and instead of the house, Jason saw someone with a long wooden crook herding a flock of sheep across the road. He blinked and they were gone. Droplets of water formed in a ring on his bugle and the instrument glimmered almost like a beacon in the fog. Any minute now and they’d see the Cobourg town sign and it would be time to turn back. It was then it occurred to Jason that no cars were passing now, that it seemed very still.

The path had become a dirt road, a strange road and, as if by some signal, they all stopped, Squid’s drum playing dwindling down to an occasional nervous tap-tap.

What Jason noticed first was Charlotte’s white bonnet. She wore a long, full skirt and a blouse with puffed sleeves gathered in at the elbows and wrists. He and Squid had on knee breeches, homespun shirts and black peaked caps.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Charlotte said, staring down at her buckled shoes and white stockings.

“Don’t worry, Lottie,” Squid chimed in, stomping back and forth in his knee-high boots. “Where did we slip to this time?”

“I don’t have a clue. Germany again?”

“How about Luxembourg?” Jason looked questioningly at Charlotte.

“Why Luxembourg?”

“It looks a bit like the postcard.” Jason waved toward the fortification.

“I’ve still got my pack,” Squid said, banging at a brown cloth sack hanging from two ropes hooked over his shoulders. “I’ll still have my juice pack in there.”

They all still had packs but they were roughly woven cloth now. Hopefully, there might be snacks left, though likely quite different from what he and Charlotte had packed. Squid found a small flask and before Charlotte had time to check it, drank it down.

“Sweet Lottie, like grape juice.”

“I hope it was juice,” she replied.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Jason added, hoping he sounded reassuring. “How’s your flute?”

“Wooden like last time. What about the horn?”

“I think it’s a bit longer and shinier.” He undid the belt at his waist, securing the bugle. “Charlotte, I know you didn’t want to take off again yet. Are you sorry?”

” Not much point being sorry. I played too. Anyway, we’re here and whatever happens, happens.”

“Maybe we’ll be smarter this time,” Jason said.

“We don’t even know where we are.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“We have to find some place to spend the night,” Charlotte said. “I don’t want Squid getting sick like he did on our first trip.”

“We go march over the hill,” Squid cut in, giving his now wooden drum a few rat-tat-tats. “And find the castle again.” He grinned and marched off, pounding full force.

“Might as well do what Mr. Optimism says,” Jason replied.

They followed the river bank for a while and when it came out onto a road, they turned and crossed a solid wooden bridge toward the hillside. Near the top of the hill. Squid stopped. “Hot,” he said, pulling off his cap and sitting by the side of the road.

“Listen,” Jason said. “I hear voices. Quite a few of them.” They all froze.

” Down in the valley,” Charlotte whispered. “I don’t think we should play.” She listened again. “Even better, let’s hide the instruments in our packs.”