“Ain’t seen ’em round these parts fer weeks.”

I turn to find an old man poised at the edge of the path, dressed conservatively in white shirt, black sweater, and black pants, a few wispy gray hairs brushed sideways over his shiny bald scalp, leaning on an elaborately carved cane that seems to testify more to his love of its craftsmanship than any real physical need.

I squint, unsure what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here, much less whom he’s referring to.

“Them two girls—the dark-haired ones. Twins they were. Could barely tell ’em apart meself—though the missus had ’em down. The nice one—she liked chocolate, and lots of it.” He chuckles, smiling at the memory. “And the other one—the quiet, stubborn one—she preferred popcorn, couldn’t get enough of it. But only the stove-popped kind, none of that instant manifested stuff.” He nods, looking at me, really taking me in, not the least bit shocked by my modern dress in these parts. “The missus she indulged ’em, she did. Felt sorry for ’em, worried about ’em a good bit too, I’d say. Then, after all that, after all these years, they just up and leave with nary a word.” He shakes his head again, but this time he doesn’t laugh or smile, just gives me a bewildered look, as though hoping I can help him make sense of it.

I swallow hard, my gaze darting between the front door and him, pulse quickening, heart racing, knowing without asking, knowing deep down inside that this is where they stayed—this is where Romy and Rayne lived for the last three hundred and some-odd years.

But still needing a verbal confirmation, just to make sure, I say, “Did—did you say the twins?” My mind reeling, as I take in the plain familiar cottage, an exact replica of the one I saw in the vision the day I first found them squatting at Ava’s when I grabbed Romy’s arm and watched their entire life story unfold—all of it racing toward me in a jumble of pictures—this house—their aunt—the Salem Witch Trials she was determined to shield them from—and it all led to this.

“Romy and Rayne.” He nods, looking me over with cheeks so red, a nose so bulbous, and eyes so kind he seems almost manifested, fake, a lifelike replica of the quintessential jolly old Englishman on his way home from the pub. But since he doesn’t waver or fade in and out, since he remains right there before me with that same friendly grin on his face, I know he’s for real. Maybe living, maybe dead—can’t be too sure about that, but definitely, positively, the real deal. “Them’s the ones you’s looking for, yes?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure. Was I looking for them? Is that why I’m here? I glance at him, wincing when he gives me a look so odd I can’t help but let out a nervous giggle. Clearing my throat and attempting to pull it together when I add, “I’m just sorry to hear they’re not around, I was hoping I could catch them.”

He nods, nods as though he completely understands and sympathizes with my predicament. Leaning with both hands on his cane as he says, “The missus and me grew quite fond of ’em, seeing as we all arrived around the same time. What we can’t decide is if they finally decided to cross the bridge and be done with it, or if they’s made the trip back. What do you think?”

I press my lips together and shrug, not wanting to let on that I already know the answer to that one, and relieved when he doesn’t press further, just nods and shrugs too.

“Missus swears they crossed the bridge, said the little ’uns got tired of waiting for whomever’s they’s waiting for. But I say different. Rayne might’ve gone, but she’d never convince that sister of hers, that Romy—she’s a stubborn one all right.”

I squint, sure I misunderstood, shaking my head as I say, “Wait—you mean Rayne’s the stubborn one, right? Romy’s the kinder, gentler one.”

I nod, expecting him to nod too, but he just gives me that same odd look and digs his cane deeper into the dirt. “Meant what I said, I did. Well, good day to you, miss.”

I stand there, watching him walk away, head up, spine straight, cane swinging happily, hardly believing he’s chosen to leave it like that and wondering if my question somehow offended him.

I mean, he is kind of old, and the twins do look exactly alike, or at least they did when they lived here and wore those private-school uniforms every day, and I can only imagine how they dressed before Riley got ahold of them. But something about the way he said it, so sure, so confident, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. Or if that mean, bratty, resentful side of Rayne is reserved just for me.

Hoping he can hear me before he gets too far away, I call, “Sir—um, excuse me—but do you think it’s okay if I go in and take a look? I promise I won’t disturb anything.”

He turns, waving his cane jauntily as he says, “Help yourself. Ain’t nothin’ ’ere that can’t be replaced.”

He turns, continuing on his way as I push the door inward and step inside, my foot meeting a simple, red, braided rug that softens the creak of my weight on the old wooden floor. Pausing long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dim light as I peer into a large square room dotted with a few uncomfortable-looking, straight-backed chairs, a medium-sized table, and a large wooden rocker beside a stone hearth full of ashes from a fire that was recently burned. Knowing I’ve just walked into an exact replica of the world Romy and Rayne both fled in 1692 only to re-create it right here—minus the hypocrisy, lies, and unabashed cruelty of course.