Page 33 of The Witch

Gram completely forgets whatever she was about to say, and her eyes light up. “That must be your suitor!”

I start to tell her that Henry is absolutely not my suitor, but then I shut my mouth. Better she thinks I’m going out on a date than reports back to Ethel that the guy from the museum is making a pitch to me about selling Pemberton. Or, worse, tells Ethel that I was trying to worm my way into the attic.

When I open the front door, Henry is standing there waiting for me, this time wearing a gray tweed jacket to match the tweed pants. He’s got on another pair of suspenders, and I can’t decide if he looks really good or a bit ridiculous. Maybe a little of both.

“Julia.” His voice is breathy and filled with awe. “Julia, I am besotted.”

“Besotted?”

It’s not a word I hear too often from the guys I meet on Tinder. I definitely did not take this to be a date, but the look of admiration on his face is genuine. I mean, if he’s besotted and all, he must really like me.

“Completely besotted.” His eyes are wide, but now I realize that he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the roaring bear knocker on the door. “I still can’t get over the craftsmanship of this knocker. This was sculpted from metal during the seventeenth century by a blacksmith.” He reaches out to graze the bear’s sharp fang with his fingertips. “The chasing is incredible. Can you imagine the skill it took to make something this realistic?”

Oh my God, seriously? He’s crushing on the door knocker? “Nope.”

“It’s genuinely one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he says, still gazing at that damn knocker. “Do you know if it was burnished or left to patinate naturally prior to installation?”

“I don’t remember,” I mutter.

He shakes his head, barely able to tear his gaze away from my superhot door knocker. Why did I even bother with makeup?

I follow Henry out to his car, which is a white Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t even know they made cars like this anymore. He redeems himself slightly when he races around to the passenger side of the car first to open the door for me. I haven’t had a man open a car door for me in… Actually, I’m not sure it’s ever happened. Maybe when I was a baby and incapable of opening doors, my father did it for me. That’s probably the last time.

While Henry starts up the engine, I look through the windshield at the house. The light is on in the kitchen, where my grandmother was sipping from her drink. But I also notice a glow in the attic window. And just like on the day I arrived, I can see a flash of movement in the window.

Something peacock-blue.

“Hey.” I nudge Henry’s shoulder. “Do you see that? Up in the attic?”

Henry squints through his glasses out the window. “See what?”

I look back up at the attic, and the blue is gone. In fact, the entire attic has gone dark.

“Never mind,” I mumble.

I am getting into that attic if it’s the last thing I do.

25

There’s no radio reception near Pemberton, but as soon as we get about a mile away, a golden oldies station comes on the radio. A velvety voice comes through the speakers, something about taking him to the moon.

“Is this Dean Martin?” I ask.

He shoots me a scandalized look. “Dean Martin? Julia, this is the great Frank Sinatra!” When I look at him blankly, he adds, “The greatest singer of all time.”

“Oh right—I’ve heard of him. Didn’t he always wear a fedora?”

“Fedora!” Henry bursts out. “Absolutely not! He wore a trilby.”

“What’s a trilby?”

“It’s a brown hat with a narrow brim.”

“Isn’t that a fedora?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“Well, what’s the difference?”