Just as I’m about to cross the street, I hear a crunching sound—someone walking down the little gravel path that leads from the graveyard to the gates. I pause behind a parked car. Through its windows, I see a familiar figure, wearing the same tweed suit and hat as always.

Professor Swann looks both ways, then pulls his hat a bit lower over his forehead before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Like he’s hoping no one will spot him here.

I wait until he’s out of sight before crossing the street, wondering why the professor seemed so strange, and who he was visiting. I’ve never noticed any Swanns in the graveyard before.

There’s nobody else in the graveyard now. My shoes are almost soaked through with leftover rain droplets by the time Gram and Grandpa’s grave comes into sight, still clutching my sugar skull to lay against their stone.

But then I see that there’s already something bright lying there on the grass in front of the grave.

It’s a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

26

I stay at Gram’s grave for a few minutes before walking back to Morning Glory Cottage. All the while, I’m thinking about those flowers. When I bent closer to look at them, I saw that their stems were uneven, and they were tied with twine, like they were hand-cut instead of from a store.

Could Professor Swann have left them? I remember the conversation we had in the meadows a few weeks ago—how he talked about missing Gram. The way he’d been crying after her funeral.

“The Hollidays’ house was TPed last night,” says a voice as I step out onto High Street. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

It’s Ruth, who has assumed her usual position just inside her gate. She’s still wearing her fuzzy bathrobe and pink slippers.

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t me.”

“Bah, I’m just kidding,” she says, swatting the air and—I think—trying to wink. “Want to come in? I’ve got a pot of coffee on.”

“No thanks,” I reply. “I don’t really, um, drink coffee. Since I’m a kid and all.”

She shrugs. “Well, you tell your mother we’re expecting her at the garden club next month. No excuses this time.”

She turns to hobble back to her house.

“Ruth?” I say suddenly, an idea popping into my head.

“Eh?” she grunts, looking at me expectantly. “Speak up, Emma. My hearing’s not what it was. That’ll be the first to go after your knees, mark my words.”

“Right,” I say, loudly this time. “Well, I was wondering—did Professor Swann ever have, like, a family? Kids or a wife or anything?”