Erielle watched as Sam waited, practically bouncing on his toes, boyish and restless, spearing his fingers through his hair as he peered into the shop. A little hum went through Erielle as she watched. Yes, the vibes were different, but what did that mean? They hadn’t had a chance to talk about it.
Finally, Allison appeared, and hesitated a minute before she unlocked the door. Sam gestured toward the cafe, and Erielle raised her hand in a wave, though she was pretty sure Allison couldn’t see. Allison finally opened the door, slipped out and closed it behind her to walk over with Sam.
“I don’t have it,” Allison said, her voice high, like she’d been accused.
Hattie pressed her lips together. “I’m pretty sure Marie doesn’t have it. Call her and ask.”
Erielle was about to protest that she didn’t have Marie’s number when Allison pulled her phone out of the folds of her skirt and tapped the screen quickly in a text.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Erielle murmured, and turned her attention back to the book, the pages brittle beneath her touch.
She’d thought, after staring at these symbols for days, that she could recall them from memory. But there were too many variations, too many that blurred together. She skimmed her grandmother’s notes, herbs and incantations spilling across the margins, wondering which spells had ever truly worked.
“You found it,” Allison said, her voice reverent.
“Since everyone’s here, sit down, I’ll make y’all some breakfast,” Hattie said, retreating to the kitchen. “I bet no one’s eaten.”
Erielle didn’t think she could eat. “Want some help?”
Hattie leveled a look at her. “I do not. Go sit.” To Allison, she said, “Let me know if you hear from Marie.”
Erielle picked up the book to carry it over to the booth, and when she did, a page fell out and drifted to the floor. She crouched to catch it, flipped it over.
And stared.
“Sam.” She turned the paper toward him, heart hammering. “Look at this picture. He looks just like you.”
Twenty-Six
Sam’s mouthwent dry as he looked at the man dressed in 19thcentury clothing, at least, that was what he suspected. His doppelgänger wore slim-fitting pants, a square double-breasted jacket, and held a stovepipe hat against his waist with one hand. His hair was parted neatly and slicked down, and his mustache formed a perfect vee over his top lip.
But other than that, he had the same eyes, the same nose, the same sharp chin.
“There was some writing on the back,” Erielle said, in the booth beside him, reaching to turn the picture over.
Sam stiffened, instinctively pulling back. Some ridiculous part of him didn’t want to know. But after a heartbeat, he forced his fingers to loosen.
“Edmund Bartholomew,” Erielle read the faded writing aloud. “That’s my grandmother’s handwriting. At least, it matches what’s in here.” She bent her head closer, over his arm. “I can’t make out what’s written beneath it. It’s so faded.”
Hattie walked over with four coffee cups in one hand and a carafe in the other. “Who did you say?”
“It says Edmund Bartholomew.”
“Get out of town.” Hattie dropped unceremoniously onto the bench next to Allison, who was looking at her phone screen.
“What? Why?” Erielle asked.
“That’s the man folks say was Millicent’s lover.”
The words slammed into Sam like a punch. His ears rang, blood rushing so fast he almost missed the rest. Lover?Herlover?
“That can’t—” he started, but his voice scraped raw. Coincidence didn’t feel like an option. But what kind of sick twist of fate was this? Why would Erielle’s grandmother keep a copy of his face, printed from an ancestry site, tucked inside the red book? To taunt the ghost? To pacify her?
“Sam, do you know your mama’s maiden name?” Hattie asked.
“It’s Barclay.”
“Hmm. Well, this was a few generations back.” Hattie looked down her nose at the picture, as if that would help her focus better.
