I looked up sharply.

“Did I mention I have the second sight?” she said.

“No, Grace told you I thought someone broke into my place.”

“Perhaps, but how would that explain knowing that something was left in your room?”

“Inference. Or firsthand knowledge.”

“You mean I put it there?” Rose laughed. “That would be a trick indeed, considering Grace won’t let me set foot on her property. The old bat hates me.”

She resumed walking, long strides consuming the sidewalk.

I caught up. “I thought you were friends. I know you gossip.”

“No. We trade points of information. When dealing with a bogart, one must be careful.”

“Bogart . . . Right. That’s a type of brownie.”

“You remember. Excellent. Yes, it’s a particularly nasty subspecies.”

“I don’t think she’d appreciate the comparison.”

“Didn’t I mention that I keep a sprig of hawthorn in my attic to ward off bogarts? Grace hasn’t darkened my doorstep in years. If that’s not proof, I don’t know what is. Of course, it could be the fact that the last time she came over, I threatened to pluck out a hair and fashion a poppet. But I prefer to believe it’s the hawthorn.”

I laughed.

Rose continued, “She’s useful to me, I’m useful to her. As long as that continues, Rowan Street is safe from an old-lady smack down of epic proportions.” She turned up her walk. “Come inside, get tea, and tell me what you found.”

• • •

As it turned out, Rose didn’t know that something had been left in my apartment. Grace had told her I suspected a break-in, Rose had guessed that something was left behind and my reaction had confirmed it.

“A con artist mustn’t be afraid of being wrong,” she said as she set out a plate of ginger snaps. “We must be willing to make guesses, act as if we fully believe them to be true, and promptly dismiss them when they aren’t.”

“I thought you really had the sight.”

“I do.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the teapot, picking up the conversation as if she’d never left. “But it isn’t like a light switch. I can’t simply flick it on when I need it. Think of it as . . .”

She walked to a group of vintage photographs, removed one, and brought it over to the table. “Recognize this?”

The photo showed a dumpy old woman in mourning black, with a very recognizable “ghost” behind her. “Abraham Lincoln?”

Rose nodded. “William Mumler’s photo of Mary Todd and her dead husband. And this one?” She picked up a second and brought it to me.

“Again, it looks like Lincoln and . . .” I sputtered a laugh. “P. T. Barnum?”

“Correct. Barnum hired someone to create that photo, which he then gave as evidence in Mumler’s fraud trial, proving how easily it could be done. Barnum may have believed there was a sucker born every minute, but apparently he didn’t think it was fair if the ‘sucker’ was a grieving relative.”

Rose sat across from me. “The second sight is like the ability to see the dead. One cannot simply conjure real ghosts for a photo session.”

“Like real fairies?” I said, reaching for a ginger snap.

She waved a finger at me. “You mock, yet you want to know more. Feigning disinterest is fine for teenagers, but you should be beyond that.”

Rose poured the tea. “Let me give another analogy, then. My power is like the ability to notice and interpret omens.”

My fingers tightened, almost snapping my cookie. She continued without glancing up. “If one could interpret omens and portents, one would presumably have to wait for them to arrive. Like ghosts or the sight. One could not simply conjure them out of the ether.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “Can you?”

“W-what?”

“Is the analogy correct? Does the omen need to exist where everyone can see it? Or can one appear to you and only you?”

“I don’t know—”

“—what I’m talking about?” Rose sighed deeply and added milk to her tea. “All right. We’ll continue this game a little longer. Now, tell me what you found in your apartment.”

I showed her the photos of the symbol under my mattress. When I said I had a sample of the powder, she made me retrieve it.

“There was something like it sprinkled outside my door a few days before,” I said after I got back, as she opened the paper to reveal the grayish powder within. “I thought I detected a symbol there, too, but I was probably imagining things. Hell, I’m probably imagining the powder, too. It might have just been cigarette ash, and I—”

She lifted a hand. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Qualify and backtrack in an attempt to keep from looking foolish. I’m a professional psychic, Olivia. People come to me and say they’ve been cursed by their neighbor, possessed by demons, visited by an angel . . . I’ve heard it all and I never think the worse of anyone for it.”

“Never?”

She shrugged. “Demon possession strains the boundaries of credulity, given the sheer number of times it seems to happen. One would really hope demons had better things to do with their time.”

She pulled the powder-strewn paper toward her, peered at it, then went to her desk and retrieved a magnifying glass. She took a better look. She rubbed some on her forefinger. She sniffed it. Even tasted it. Then she examined the photos again.

“It’s a ward,” she said finally. “Very old. Gaelic or Celtic, I believe.”

“To ward something off,” I said. “What? Evil? Bad luck?”

“Possibly . . . depending on what someone thinks of you.”

“Thinks of me?”

“It’s a ward against you. A magical ‘get lost.’”

“An anti–welcoming committee?”

She nodded. “The cards foretold difficulty, which is why I suggested you get a gun. Cainsville has welcomed you, and Cainsville is not a welcoming place. Someone has noticed that and is either envious or concerned.”

“Why?”

“As I’m sure you’ve realized, Cainsville is a peculiar little town. As to the exact depth and nature of its peculiarities?” She shrugged. “Pay attention. That’s all I can say. Answers will come when you’re ready for them. It’s not my place to say more.”