Virgil Bloomsy looked delighted as Amy entered the library.

"Back so soon? You must be a quick reader."

"Actually, I didn't bring the book." she said apologetically. "I'm afraid I forgot it. I can bring it back tomorrow, if that's okay?"

"My dear, there is absolutely no hurry. Bring it in when you're ready. In fact, feel free to borrow anything else that catches your eye. Remember you're a library member now."

"Thank you. I don't suppose my friend Elicia dropped in earlier?"

"I think I saw her across the street. She didn't come in here, but she could be at the store. You are my first, and probably only, customer today. It's always quiet coming up to a holiday weekend."

"Okay. I'll go find her. But first I'll have a quick peek at your shelves, seeing as I'm here." Amy moved to the back of the library, keen to find more volumes on code breaking. Now that she had the link between the illustrations and the numbers in the recipes, she needed more information as to how the keys worked. She stood and read the spines for inspiration, at a loss at what direction to go in next.

So, I have some weird numbers hidden in recipe amounts, and some weird book page sizes, and some weird marks on Connie's artwork. What would Captain Midnight do? He'd wave his decoder ring at it, and it would all make sense, that's what he'd do. She sighed, wishing it really were as easy as that.

"You seem to like those code games. Does Connie still play * 131 *

word puzzles? I could give you a few magazines to pass on to her."

Virgil passed, his arms stacked with books.

"What? Oh, no. I'm not sure if she still does." Again, Amy was reluctant to tell the townsfolk anything about Connie's current health. Not even Virgil, who claimed to be a friend. In fact, Amy had never heard Connie mention him, and her natural reserve made her hesitate to tell him any personal business.

She was still scowling at the spines when he passed by again.

"Can I help you with anything? You seem a little bemused."

"No. Not really."

He fluttered around her for a second longer, and suddenly she found herself grasping at straws. "It's more like a number puzzle anyway. Not words. I've got numbers, and on another page lots of squiggles." She shrugged, scanning the shelves before her. "And I'm not sure how the two match up."

"Oh, numbers and graphics. That's different. Sounds like cipher-text. You need the key."

"I need the whole goddamn door."

"Maybe it's a pigpen."

"Huh?" He had her attention now.

Virgil gave a sharp little smile. "Yes, the pigpen, one of the most basic ciphers. Also known as the Freemason's cipher, as it was used by the Knights Templar in medieval France." He launched into a mini lecture. "If there are multiple keys, then you have layering, cipher over cipher. That would be difficult to break, but not impossible. Once you have one of the keys, of course."

"There's that key again."

"Well, you are more than welcome to bring your numbers and squiggles in and we can try together." He waved a hand around the empty library. "As you can see I'm hardly run off my feet. A good puzzle would certainly help while away the time."

Amy saw it as an offer made more out of loneliness and boredom, than a burning need to help. Even so, she was reluctant to share, especially as there was a connection to Connie's work and the Garoul Press. If it did turn out to be some promotional code game embedded in the anniversary almanac, it was not her place to make * 132 *

it public through her own nosiness. Her gut instinct was to keep her research to herself.

"...and that's why it's called the Caesar cipher, because it's attributed to Julius Caesar. Today, of course, any Boy Scout could decrypt it in five minutes..." Virgil was in the middle of another narration, unaware he'd lost Amy ages ago. She tried to concentrate but felt annoyed that he was eating into her time with useless information. What she needed to do was pick the right book and go and find Elicia. Not stand here listening to Virgil rattle on. "...but frequency analysis can help break the plaintext into recognizable word patterns." Now he's just showing off.

"Oh, but you don't have any text, just numbers and sigils, isn't that right?" His question brought her back to the conversation with a snap.

"Mmm, yes...sigils. Well, weird marks really..." Did I say sigils? There are marks, but I never implied they were mystical.

"I'd really love to see them..."

"Oh, they're in a heavy old book, and it's not my place to remove it from the cabin-"

"Ah, it's one of Connie's books, is it? She has such a wonderful collection. You know I'd be happy to drop by on my day off?"

"To be honest, Mr. Bloomsy, it's not my book to play around with. I may be interfering with-"

"Please, call me Virgil. Well, the offer is there if curiosity gets the better of you. I can suggest a few other books that might help?"

He started reaching for his selection when she interrupted.

"To be honest...Virgil, I should be working in the studio, not clowning about with puzzles. Maybe I'll let the runes rest, while I do what I'm being paid to-"

"You think they're runes?" He jumped on her words.

Amy blinked at the overt enthusiasm. "I really have no idea."

"But they might be runes?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't know a rune from a road sign." She was beginning to feel cornered. He pulled back, as if realizing he was being too pushy, and shoved his hands in his pockets, nodding, but he looked tense. His lips pursed and his cheeks flushed brightly.

* 133 *

"Well, I'd better go and find Elicia," Amy said. She was glad of the excuse to leave. Virgil was just a little bit too bored for her liking. It was a pet hate of hers, people who expected others to alleviate their boredom, rather than make their own entertainment.

He had a whole library, apparently to himself. You'd think he could find something fun to do.

She thanked him again and left, heading over to the pharmacy and Johnston's store to see if Elicia was there, though she seriously doubted it. There was no sign of Jori's Jeep, and Amy could think of no other way for Elicia to get into town.

A quick glance through the window told her Elicia wasn't at the pharmacy. Next, she dropped into the general store. Norman Johnston glared at her from behind his counter.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnston. Can I have a bottle of water, please?"

"Still or sparkling?" he asked huffily.

"Sparkling, please." Just like you. She managed a bright smile despite his lack of courtesy.

"Seems quiet around town today," she said as he checked her change. She noticed the way he had grabbed at her five-dollar bill and fondled the coins he took from the till. He was having a love affair with money; she bet the whole town knew it.

"People startin' to head off for the Labor Day weekend." He gave Amy her change, his face vexed.

"I'd have thought with school out there'd be a ton of teenagers just hanging around here drinking Cokes and coffees?" She casually twisted the cap off her bottle, deciding to linger and chat. Maybe she could clear up something that was troubling her. Something Claude had said.

Norman Johnston eyed her suspiciously. Amy suspected most of his customers paid begrudgingly for his overpriced goods and left as glumly as they'd arrived. Her hanging around and chatting had him flummoxed.

"They're all over at Covington." He bitterly spat out the name of the largest town in the area. "It's got a mall." He might as well have said gonorrhea from the look of distaste that crossed his face.

"Oh, that'll do it." Amy chuckled as if he'd said something * 134 *

clever. Norman rearranged his chewing gum display and eyed her carefully. Slowly, he relaxed.

"Better to have them out from under your feet," she said, noticing his thawing attitude. "I was out walking in Little Dip earlier and found what looked like an abandoned hut some kids had trashed."

Norman frowned at this, and for a moment Amy worried she'd misread him completely. Luckily, now that he trusted her with his considerable opinion, he was eager to enlighten her.

"Damn kids would never go into Little Dip. Nobody likes it there...too much strange stuff. And the Garouls are all over everything. You can't have nothing around here without the Garouls taking it off ya!"

Even with the abrasive history between the townsfolk and the Garouls, Amy was still surprised at his vehemence.

"Oh. Well, maybe I was mistaken. What strange stuff?"

"Humph." Norman sniffed dismissively, but continued. "I remember you from when you were a brat, hangin' out with all them other Garoul brats. You know fine rightly what I mean. There's a creature in that valley, and you all know it! Even the animals know it. And that bitch Marie Garoul and her mother before her were witches if ever I seen one. That's why they don't want anyone near.

That's why you won't help the town."

Amy was aghast. All that crap coming out the wrong hole.

"Hey. Just a minute, Mr. Johnston. I spent every summer in Little Dip, year in, year out, and the Garouls are lovely people, and there's nothing going on in-"

"Hah. Believe what you want," he rudely interrupted. "I got no time to argue. I'm running a business here. Now, if that's all?"

"Not only is it all, I believe it will be everything," Amy replied haughtily, and primly stomped out, leaving her half-drunk water on the counter.

Her mind was in a whirl. Unpleasant as it was getting it, at least she had confirmation that the storage cabin probably wasn't vandalized by local kids. I knew it. Claude was talking trash through his 'stache.

Amy had done all she could. The mysteries were piling up * 135 *

around her until she felt buried alive. She could give no more time to strange codes and spooky cabins. What she needed to do was an honest day's work in the studio. Even Nancy Drew had to pay her bills. Sighing, Amy returned to Claude's truck and sat a few moments thinking over her morning.

Leone's weird story about the deer still didn't sit right with her.

Her fingers played with the key fob and she half smiled at the silly little picture on it of a pig wearing a nun's wimple. Claude had such a childish sense of humor. The picture reminded her of an image she'd seen somewhere before. Perhaps in a childhood storybook?

With a shrug she started the engine and pulled out of the graveled parking lot, heading back to Little Dip and the sanity of her studio.

v Amy made a light lunch and sank thankfully on the couch, resting her tired feet on the hearth, toasting her toes. A small metallic glint winked at her from beneath the dresser. It caught her curiosity, and with a little burst of energy she went down on her knees and reached for the glittering object. It turned out to be one of the bullets she'd dropped when she was searching for the scarf and found Connie's Bearcat revolver instead. She held it up to the light, twisting and turning it until it twinkled in the firelight. She decided she liked it, so shiny, and new, and silvery. It was dangerous and pretty all at the same time.

The clock chimed, reminding her it was time to move to the studio. Without a further thought she dropped the bullet in her jeans pocket, like a lucky charm, and headed off to work.

It felt so strange and nostalgic to sit at Connie's workbench. As a child she had spent so many hours sharing Connie's special space with her, watching every movement Connie made, hanging on her every word. The young Amy had thrived at Connie's side, soaking up her knowledge like a germinating seed.

Some kids stood on a kitchen stool and eagerly watched their moms bake, waiting to lick the spoon as reward for helping to mix * 136 *

and fold, weigh and measure. Others held the flashlight for their dad as he rummaged under the car hood, passing him tools as he changed a filter or checked for loose wiring. Through such simple acts children learn, and develop skills and interests. Bonds are built, and memories made.

Amy's mother did not bake; she drank. Her father had no car; he took taxis to airports and disappeared for months at a time.

But Connie always had a stool for her to stand on, always needed brushes or palette knives passed to her. Patiently passing down her own recipes. Not for cheesecake and shortbreads, but for sketching, watercolor, and detailed illustration. Slowly, Connie shaped the raw talent of the child at her elbow into as gifted a craftswoman as she was herself.

Amy bit back her longing for those early days, and her longing to see Connie right here and now. Instead she busied herself around the studio, setting up the paper she'd stretched the night before now that it had dried and was tight as a drum. She reviewed the devil's club sketches she and Leone had singled out for the insets.

Just thinking of Leone made Amy's heart bloom, vibrant, happy, and certain in its choice. She was content with the choices she made last night, for both of them. It surprised her, this clarity to her emotions. She could see right into herself, to what she was feeling, as crystal clear as cool, reflective water.

Her intellect was more hesitant. It cautioned her to tread carefully. Reminding her she had crossed the minefield of loving Leone Garoul once before and had been blown to bits.

Amy deliberately turned her mind back to the job in hand- scaling down. Her field book was the European A4 standard she preferred working with. However, the insets were an irregular size.

They had to be one eighth of the overall page to fit with the text.

She would have to make a grid to reduce the scale and keep the perspective. It was the only way to make the transition between her sketch and the actual artwork correct.

The grid calculation to get the aspect ratio was a basic math formula. As Amy concentrated on the measurements, the figures began to loop in her head. She looked at her roughly penciled * 137 *

calculations. Deja vu oozed up from the scrap paper she'd scribbled on. Amy frowned and studied the numbers again. They resonated somewhere in the back of her mind. She had seen these figures recently. She knew she had. Lists of numbers-Figures of?...

Figures for?-The potions! The recipes! The weird measurements on her scrap paper matched the grams in Marie's brews.

Amy leapt to her feet and hurried to the almanacs. It was true. The crazy dosages in the recipes related exactly in to the grid measurements for the strange page sizes. Amy stared at the ash-filled hearth. For several long minutes she sat and thought it through over and over, casting sums around her head until her logic finally concurred with her guts.

"Oh, my God, I think I found the key."

v The page grid is the key? Amy sat perplexed. She had made several grids on acetate plastic using Marie's strange recipe amounts as scaling measurements. Much to her excitement she found each grid fit exactly over the marks in the illustrations. A grid made to the recipe measurements for sweet cicely had every strange little squiggle in the painting falling perfectly into the center of a grid square. It was the same for every weird plant illustration and recipe Amy could find. She knew there were untold ciphers she would never find. The almanacs went back over the years, almost forever.

Lord knew how many were archived away.

Now what? She had all these squiggles sitting inside her grids...

So what the hell did it mean?

Well, this is just rubbish! I thought the grid would show me words or something? She sat back and frowned. There had to be another key-one that made sense of the grid, one that told her how to use it. Typical of the sneaky Garouls not to make their code nice and easy. She knew how to get the marks off the page and onto the grid, but not how to make the grid tell her something.

Amy set the books aside in disappointment, and stood and stretched. One door opened, and another slammed shut in her face.

* 138 *

Enough! She needed to work. Codes and witchcraft-between the two, the Garouls were eating up too much of her time. But something was nagging her.

Leone and Marie had lied about the marks in Connie's work.

Leone had lied about her bloody clothes. And Claude was very evasive about the vandalized cabin.