After work, I went over to Rose's to collect my laptop. I'd intended to just grab it and go, but walking into her appointment room was like stepping into a candy store.
"I'll make tea," she said.
"No." I yanked my gaze from a spirit photograph. "I mean, thanks, but that's not necessary."
"I'm making tea." She waved to the room. "Poke around."
When she came back, I was leafing through an old book.
"Which one is that?" she asked as she set down the tea service.
I showed her the cover.
"A Magician Among the Spiritualists. Do you know what it is?"
"Harry Houdini's accounts of his attempts to debunk spiritualists." I waved the book. "This cost him his friendship with Conan Doyle."
She smiled. "It did. Have you read it?"
I shook my head. "I've read The Edge of the Unknown, Conan Doyle's response. Wisely published after Houdini's death."
"Indeed. Borrow that if you like. It's interesting reading."
I hesitated, then nodded. As I approached the table, I saw the flower arrangement in the middle and stutter-stepped.
"Hawthorn blossoms?" I said.
"Yes. I stole them from Grace's tree."
"No, but ... It's May." When I saw her expression, I gave an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. Old wives' tale. Bringing hawthorn into the house in May is bad luck."
"Is it?" She stood and pulled the flowers from the vase, water droplets spraying.
"No, I didn't mean-- It's just a superstition."
She walked to the window, opened it, and tossed them out. "Yes, and while I'm sure Houdini would be appalled, I prefer to hedge my bets." She came back to the table. "I also keep a sprig in the rafters to ward off bogarts. I wonder if that's allowed in May?"
"Bogarts?"
"Brownies gone bad."
"You keep hawthorn in your attic so your cakes don't go stale? Freezing them would be much easier."
She gave me a look. "I mean brownies of the wee folk variety. Bogarts are a particularly nasty form. Troublemakers. Not to be confused with bogan, which are just as troublesome but less maliciously so."
"Bogan...?"
"Bogan, hobgoblin, bocan, whatever you wish to call them."
"Goblins, I know. They're like trolls."
Her brows shot up, in a look very much like her nephew's. "My dear girl, you may know your superstitions, and you may know your fake fairy photography, but your knowledge of the wee folk is woefully inadequate. Hobgoblins are not trolls."
"Troll-like creatures?"
A slow, sad shake of her head. "I take it you've seen A Midsummer Night's Dream?"
"Sure. At the Shakespeare Theater out on Navy Pier."