Page 34 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

“Do we have a list of possible suspects for our lake dweller?” She pulls the book closer and opens it up, scanning the title page.Grimoire of Griselda Jones - 1890-1891.

“I have a list,” begins the bird. “After reading through all of the grimoires from the coven who lived here before us, I’ve been able to rule out water sprites, including kappas and nixies. And it’s definitely not a merrow, as they prefer deeper water. One of the grimoires did mention an infestation of grindylows in 1973, but they’re small and I don’t think a herd could coordinate to move as one like the shadow in the lake does.” Kane clicks his beak toward the stack of books. “So, I’m looking through some older texts, like our friend Griselda here, who I think lived in a small cabin not too far away, though how her writings ended up here, I’m not sure.”

Calliope takes in the stack of books, each of varying size and color, though all with worn edges, clearly well-loved. “All these belong to her?”

Kane squawks an affirmative. “As far as I can tell, anyway.”

“I’ll get to reading then.” But she’s barely made it through the first page when the phone rings. She and Kane share a look before she reaches for the handset that has suddenly appeared on the table.

“Hello?” she answers, hesitantly, tangling herfingers in the cord as she listens.

“Oh, hello. Calliope, isn’t it? It’s Martha. Martha Clayton. I was hoping to catch Rory before he left for work.”

“I’m sorry. You missed him. Can I take a message?” She scans the table, looking for a scrap of paper and a writing utensil.

“Oh, no that’s alright. Actually, I’m glad I caught you instead. Do you prefer chicken or beef?”

“Oh, um…” she begins, wondering how much Martha Clayton knows about Rory and his—their—particular diet. Do vampires need to keep their existence secret? She can’t remember. Witches, in general, do not try to hide their true nature, but neither do they shout it from the rooftops. It’s perfectly reasonable to find a witch living among non-magical communities, as long as their magic use is kept to a minimum and away from prying eyes.

Calliope has always thought that sounds a bit lonely though. Who wants to hide such an important part of themselves from so many people? This is one of the reasons so many witches tend to congregate together, building entire townships where frequent use of magic is encouraged and even expected. Hiding in plain sight, her grandma used to say.

Martha must know something of vampires, if she supplies their blood though, right?

“For dinner,” Martha clarifies, after a few beats of silence. “Bill and I would just love it if you and Rorycame over Saturday night.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“Now, I won’t take no for an answer—”

“I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. You know, I’ll prepare a couple of options. See you Saturday at seven!”

The call disconnects and Calliope is left with the dial tone and a sinking suspicion that she’s been manipulated by someone she has never even met.

“Did you just do what I think you did?” asks Kane, golden eyes trained on her.

“If you think I accepted a dinner invitation on behalf of Rory, then, yes? I think, maybe?”

“He won’t be pleased.”

She feigns indifference with a casual flip of her hair over her shoulder. “Well, he’ll just have to deal with it, won’t he?”

Kane ruffles his feathers indifferently and returns to his reading. She watches him idly as she twirls a strand of hair in thought. The worry she feels grows more acute as she replays the conversation with Martha in her head. Kane looks up after a few minutes later, noticing her vacant expression and he nips at the tips of her fingers. “I thought you were going to help me.”

She tuts. “Don’t be a bossy-boots.”

Still, she returns her focus to the book in front of her and they settle into a companionable silence, broken only by the click of Kane’s talons and the shuffleof pages being turned. The conversation with Martha fades, momentarily, while she absorbs the words in front of her, finding a rhythm in Griselda’s inner workings. Her grimoire—at least, the one Calliope is reading—is a combination of spells broken up into three main categories: incantations, rituals, or potions. Within these, Griselda has gone even further, labeling the corner of each page with a subcategory, such as medicinal, or a classification defined by colors. There’s no key, but it’s not really a stretch of the imagination to link white with good, black with dark. The other colors are a bit more subjective, she thinks. Surely finding a lost object is more of a yellow than a purple?

Slipped in between these are illustrated pages of bestiary and herbarium glossaries, and idle musings. She finds a reference to Graeme Lake, though it is referred to as the Unnamed Lake. A few pages further, she finds a vague reference to thesanguivoreswho have moved into the recently constructed house. The word is written in red ink, and she traces her fingers over the letters as if she can discern some hidden detail in the fibers of the page. Surely, Rory is one of thesanguivores. But who is the other? Irina, perhaps, she thinks. Was this their home?

She continues, hungry for more about Rory and the mysterious co-owner of Graeme House but finds no other mention of thesanguivores.

* **

The moon is high in the sky when Calliope sits back, rubbing the back of her neck. She moves to stand by the window, looking at the silvery orb behind the spindly tendrils of the trees.

She hugs her arms closer to herself and leans forward until her forehead is resting on the window. From this angle, she can just see the front porch steps and the corner of the door, along with the squat terracotta pot that houses the remains of a rosemary shrub. Should do something about that, she thinks.

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