“See you in the morning,” he told his granddaughters now that they were parting for the night, giving them a peck of a kiss, which to his joy, they didn’t reject. “If you need me, holler,” he told Franny.
“And the same to you,” Franny, his childhood protector, teased him. “I’ll come running and beat them off with my umbrella.”
“He’s a handsome old man,” Jesse said as she led the others down the corridor to their rooms. “I’ll bet he was quite the romancer in his day.”
“He was a musician,” Gillian informed her.
“That explains it,” Jesse said brightly. “Always beware of a man who can make music. He’ll steal your heart.” She noticed all three women wore boots, though there was fine weather, with the old woman donning a surprising pair in red leather that Jesse thought very trendy for someone her age. “I adore those,” she said.
“You should get yourself a pair,” Franny suggested to the young woman who was helping them get settled in.
“I might just do that,” Jesse said, already sensing that once she slipped on a pair of red shoes, she would be certain to go a bit wild.
Jesse first led Sally and Gillian to their rooms and stood back as they embraced and said good night; the old woman kissed both of the younger ones, though it was clear she was a bit fierce and something of a cold fish if she didn’t care for you. Jesse felt honored to find the old woman appeared to enjoy her company.
Jesse opened the door to Franny’s room. It really was the nicest one, overlooking the front garden. She thought if anyone would complain it would be this lady, so it made sense to give her what they called the Harpwell Room—since two or three guests had sworn they had heard a harp being played in the middle of the night, complete balderdash in Jesse’s opinion. It was more likely the jukebox down in the pub, a fixture there since the fifties; perhaps rock and roll sounded angelic when it came up through the floorboards. “There’s been a glut of Americans in our village,” Jesse told Franny. “I can’t imagine what they think when our pub closes at eleven.”
Franny felt her heart hit against her rib cage when she heard about other Americans in town. “You’ve had other Americans recently?”
“We always do. They come from as far away as California,” Jesse said dreamily.
“But this week? Any Americans?”
“A girl.” Jesse shrugged. “Wouldn’t listen to a word I said.” Jesse had carried Franny’s bag into her room and set it on the rickety baggage stand. When she turned Franny was right behind her. “You scared me now.” Jesse laughed. “People say there used to be witches here and they could do with you as they pleased.”
“What did you tell her?” Franny wanted to know. When Jesse looked blank, Franny clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, sounding like the clack of a crow. “The American girl!”
“To stay away from the fellow she was with. He’s a bad sort, and she seemed innocent.”
Franny instantly softened to Jesse Wilkie. “That was good of you,” she said. “We should all watch out for other women.”
“I try,” Jesse responded proudly before she left Franny to get her rest.
They would do more than that, Franny thought as she sat on the bed, which, with its old saggy mattress, would do her no good at all when it came to a night of sleep. They would bring Kylie back home, and quickly, for the longer she was lost, the more the left would claim her. In the morning they would go after her, but tonight Franny would stay awake and read through the Grimoire, paying special attention to everything that had been written by Maria Owens, first in her childish scrawl, then later in her small, well-formed script. There were enchantments jotted down in red ink composed of hibiscus and the brown ink of hazelnuts and gallnuts, in which a wasp lays its eggs, used before the larva could burrow out, with deep crimson blood, with the black bark of hawthorn branches or the soot of lamps, some of these inks indelible, others invisible, some laced with vinegar or rainwater, written in English and Latin and runic.