“What happened to Hattie?” Helen asked.

The librarian got quiet, looked down at the papers on her desk.

“There are all kinds of stories…,” she said, moving papers around. “Some folks even believe that before she died, she buried treasure on her land—her family’s fortune. Me, I doubt there ever was a fortune. If there was, why didn’t she leave? Or build a nicer house for herself? It’s crazy, the stories some people tell.”

Helen nodded. She knew how folklore worked, how stories were embellished over the years, and a true historian had to do a lot of legwork and research to sift through those stories for the grains of truth inside them.

“One thing in the stories is always the same, though,” the librarian continued, a little gleam in her eye. “People say her spirit haunts that bog. They see her ghost out there, walking around the water, out in the middle of it, too. If you look on some early-summer days, you can see pink flowers have sprung up where she put her feet. Lady’s slippers.”

Helen got another chill, remembered the scatterings of pale pink orchids she and Nate had seen while walking to the bog.

Hattie’s footsteps.

The woman smiled at her, and Helen couldn’t tell if she actually believed any of this (and was perhaps the sort who attended the Hartsboro Spirit Circle) or if she was just passing stories along.

Then the woman said something that answered Helen’s questions. “You stay out there long enough, and who knows, maybe you’ll see her, too. Go to the bog at sunset and wait. When the darkness is settling in, that’s when Hattie comes out.” She smiled vaguely again and winked. “Just, you know. Be careful.”

. . .

“What’s all this?” Nate asked. He’d just walked in from the downpour outside. He’d peeled off his raincoat but was still soaked from head to toe. His bird-watching binoculars were strung around his neck.

“I’ve been to the library,” Helen said.

“So I see.” He came closer, leaving soggy footprints on the old linoleum floor.

“It’s small but has a lot more than I imagined it would. I signed us both up for cards,” Helen said. “But they don’t actually give cards. They just keep the patrons’ names in a card catalog–looking thing. Very cute.”

“I guess.” He picked up one of the books piled on the kitchen table and read the title out loud. “Witchcraft in New England?” He glanced at the other titles, all books on witchcraft, ghosts, and the occult. “You’re not planning to cast a spell on me or anything, are you?”

She smiled. “Only if you tease me about my research. Then I just might turn you into a toad.”