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By Root 1182 0

’s name was first on the firm’s shingle. He was over seventy, but he had the big hair of a Russian commissar. It was entirely white now, but he was a vigorous man who still skied and jogged and seemed to have no plans to retire. He didn’t work all that hard—none of them did—but they also didn’t make all that much money. In theory, however, that was precisely the point of living here rather than in, say, a suburb of Philadelphia like West Chester. Your paycheck was considerably smaller but your quality of life was so much better. You could age with the grace of John Hardin—though Emily knew that her and Chip’s dotage might not be quite so serene if either she didn’t find a way to make a little more money than she was earning now or Chip didn’t find a second career. The reality was that she had earned considerably more than her husband when they lived in Pennsylvania: Estate law was vastly more lucrative than commercial aviation in this day and age. Now that her income had taken a severe nosedive and his was—at the moment, anyway—nonexistent, they had not put a penny into their girls’ college funds in nine months and their savings would be long depleted by the time they were receiving their first solicitations from AARP. (And even that assumed the annual needs of a cranky old house on a hill in a frigid corner of northern New Hampshire did not grow particularly onerous in the coming decade and change.)

This morning, perhaps because it was a Friday and the fashion bar at the firm fell even lower, John was wearing blue jeans that were a little baggy, a gray tweed blazer, and a novelty T-shirt from the town in Mississippi that claimed the world’s largest aluminum and concrete catfish. Apparently, based on the photo on the shirt, you could walk inside the attraction and “Live Just Like Jonah!” The T-shirt was neon yellow and blue and clashed mightily with the jacket: It was like he had wrapped the Swedish flag around his torso. His parka was slung over his shoulder, and he was holding a paper cup of coffee in his free hand.

“It’s going to snow tonight,” he said, and the prospect clearly delighted him.

“And tomorrow?”

“Skiing.”

“Okay, then.”

“How are you doing, Emily? Honestly?” He had paused on the far side of her desk, and his voice took on the cast that she imagined he used when, before settling into a practice that revolved around real estate closings and trust modifications, he wanted to convey an avuncular sincerity to a jury. Convey to them how he could only represent a client who was innocent. She could tell he had noticed that her newspaper was open to the obituaries.

“No complaints,” she lied, shrugging.

He peered over her desk and pointed at the face of the teenage boy who had died in a snowmobile accident. “There’s little in this world worse than the death of a child,” he murmured.

“I agree.”

“I think everyone would. And yet it’s the damnedest thing: History is filled with human sacrifice—child sacrifice. Can you image? Anise and Reseda have come across some of the strangest cults and traditions in their botanical and shamanic research,” he said.

“Anise and Reseda? I know they grow a lot of bizarre plants. I know Reseda has introduced some very exotic flowers to this area. But human sacrifice? Where in the world does that fit in?” She wondered at the connection in John’s mind that would lead him to link the death of a boy in a snowmobile accident with human sacrifice.

“Well, it isn’t their specialty,” he said, and he raised his eyebrows mischievously.

“That’s a relief: No one likes to learn that one’s new friends are into human sacrifice.”

“I just meant that Reseda’s other work—her shamanic work—has led her to hear of ideas from other parts of the world that most people around here would find rather disturbing. Anise has, too.”

“Are Anise and Reseda both … shamans?”

“Oh, no.”

“Just Reseda?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Of course, even in this corner of the globe we’ve had our share of strange doings. Trust me: Some people think the woods around here are just filled with witches.” He shook his head a little