I had a vision of John Quincy Myers, clad in a buzzing blanket of bees, strolling down the streets of Salem, and smiled.

“Wait,” I said. “You surely didn’t carry those bees all the way from Salem!”

“Why, no,” he said, looking mildly surprised. “Found ’em in a tree just a mile or so from your house. But when I heard you ’n’ Jamie was back in your place, I had it in mind to bring you some bees, so I was a-looking out for ’em, see?”

“That was a very kind thought,” I assured him, with great sincerity. It was, but a small, disquieting question popped up in the back of my mind. John Quincy was a law unto himself, and if we were being biblical today, one might easily call him a brother to owls. He roamed the mountains, and if anyone knew where he went or why, they hadn’t told me.

But from what he’d said, he’d been coming to Fraser’s Ridge on purpose, knowing that Jamie and I were here. There were the letters he’d brought, to be sure … but the way the backcountry post worked was for letters to be passed from hand to hand, friend or stranger carrying them on, so long as the letters’ direction lay in their own path—and handing them to someone else when it diverged. For John Quincy to come here with the specific intent of delivering letters implied that there was something rather special about them.

I had no time to worry about the possibilities, though: Myers was winding up a brief exegesis on Irish and Scottish beekeepers, and coming to the point at issue.

“I know a few of the blessings folk use for their hives,” he said. “Not that I’d call what them Germans say sounds much like my notion of a blessing.”

“What do they say?” I asked, intrigued.

His bushy gray brows drew together in the effort of recall.

“Well, it’s … what you may call abrupt. Let me see now …” He closed his eyes and tilted up his chin.

“Christ, the bee swarm is out here!

Now fly, you my animals, come.

In the Lord’s peace, in God’s protection,

come home in good health.

“Sit, sit, bees.

“The command to you from the Holy Mary.

You have no holiday; don’t fly into the woods;

Neither should you slip away from me.

Nor escape from me.

“Sit completely still.

“Do God’s will,” he finished, opening his eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t that beat all? Tellin’ one bee to sit still, let alone a thousand of ’em at once? Why would bees put up with something unmannerly like that, I ask you?”

“Well, it must work,” I said. “Jamie’s brought home honey from Salem, many times. Maybe they’re German bees. Do you know a more … mannerly blessing?”

His lips pursed dubiously, and I caught a glimpse of one or two ragged yellow fangs. Could he still chew meat? I wondered, revising the dinner menu slightly. I could dice the rabbit meat small and stir it into scrambled eggs with chopped onions …