Ruth squints her eyes, then shakes her head. “There was a wife once, but it didn’t last. I seem to recall he had a flame for someone else. But that didn’t work out too well—he’s been a bachelor ever since.” She lets out a bark of laughter, though I don’t really get what’s funny.

“So he wouldn’t have anyone to visit in the graveyard?”

“He only moved here when he started work at the college. His parents aren’t buried there, if that’s what you mean. What are you getting at, hmm?”

I smile and try to look casual. “Oh, nothing,” I say. “I just—I just wondered about him. Anyway, have a nice morning.”

Then I walk away, my mind buzzing so loud with thoughts I’m sure even Ruth can hear them.

And the flowers aren’t the only surprise I get on Sunday. Later that afternoon, Boomer and I run down to the meadows and slip into the Spinney to find that my pen pal has written again. As Boomer runs off to chase a stick floating down the stream, I draw Gram’s sweater tight around me, settle into the nook of Throne Rock, and begin to read.

When the wicked witch was done with her wicked spell, she blinked, and Ivy found herself able to move once more. Thinking only of escaping with her life, she spun round and ran. To her surprise, the witch made no move to stop her but merely cackled louder. “You can run, my child,” she cried, “but my curse will find you wherever you go!”

Back through the forest Ivy fled, and as she ran, a hard rain began to fall. It seemed to her as if every tree in the forest wept for her as she passed it by.

When she found herself once more at Poppy Cottage, she burst through the door and bolted it behind her. Shilling cried out when he saw her. Whether it was a cry of happiness or sadness, relief or fear, Ivy could not say, but perhaps it was all of these at once. The girl threw herself down next to him and buried her face in his fur. Then, finally, she began to weep.

It seemed to her that she wept for a very long time, but Shilling never moved, not even when his fur was soaked through with her tears. When finally Ivy could cry no more, she lifted herself up and looked around the empty cottage. It seemed smaller than it had before, darker and colder. Her eyes landed on the gloomy hearth, where the odd crutch her gran had been carving when she had taken ill still stood half-whittled. The little table was set for a meal Gran and Ivy would never share.

Ivy shivered. Her stomach pained her. She needed firewood and food to eat.

“Poor Shilling,” she said softly. “You must be hungry, too.”