There was a crazy quilt on the bed, pink and gold. The bed itself was shaped like a swan. There was a willow chest at the foot of the bed to lay out your clothes on. The mattress was stuffed with the down of crow feathers. Fran had helped her mother shoot the crows and pluck their feathers. She thought they’d killed about a hundred.
“Wow,” Ophelia said. “I keep saying that. Wow, wow, wow.”
“I always thought it was like being stuck inside a bottle of orange Nehi,” Fran said. “But in a good way.”
“I like orange Nehi,” Ophelia said. “But this is like outer space.”
There was a stack of books on the table beside the bed. Like everything else in the room, all the books had been picked out for the colors on their jackets. Fran’s ma had told her how once the room had been another set of colors. Greens and blues, maybe? Willow and peacock and midnight colors? And who had brought the bits up for the room that time? Fran’s great-grandfather or someone even further along the family tree? Who had first begun to take care of the summer people? Her mother had doled out stories sparingly, and so Fran had only a piecemeal sort of history.
Hard to figure out what would please Ophelia to hear anyway, and what would trouble her. All of it seemed pleasing and troubling to Fran, in equal measure after so many years.
“The door you slipped my envelope under,” she said, finally. “You oughtn’t ever go in there.”
Ophelia looked interested. “Like Bluebeard,” she said.
Fran said, “It’s how they come and go. Even they don’t open that door very often, I guess.” She’d peeped through the keyhole once and seen a bloody river. She bet if you passed through that door, you weren’t likely to return.
“Can I ask you another stupid question?” Ophelia said. “Where are they right now?”
“They’re here,” Fran said. “Or out in the woods chasing nightjars. I told you I don’t see them much.”
“So how do they tell you what they need you to do?”
“They get in my head,” Fran said. “It’s hard to explain. They just get in there and poke at me. Like having a really bad itch or something that goes away when I do what they want me to.”
“Oh, Fran,” Ophelia said. “Maybe I don’t like your summer people as much as I thought I did.”
Fran said, “It’s not always awful. I guess what it is, is complicated.”
“I guess I won’t complain the next time my mom tells me I have to help her polish the silver. Should we eat our sandwiches now, or should we save them for when we wake up in the middle of the night?” Ophelia asked. “I have this idea that seeing your heart’s desire probably makes you hungry.”
“I can’t stay,” Fran said, surprised. She saw Ophelia’s expression and said, “Well, hell. I thought you understood. This is just for you.”
Ophelia continued to look at her dubiously. “Is it because there’s just the one bed? I could sleep on the floor. You know, if you’re worried I might be planning to lez out on you.”
“It isn’t that,” Fran said. “They only let a body sleep here once. Once and no more.”
“You’re going to leave me up here alone?” Ophelia said.
“Yes,” Fran said. “Unless you decide you want to come back down with me. If you’re afraid.”
“If I did, could I come back another time?” Ophelia said.
“No.”
Ophelia sat down on the golden quilt and smoothed it with her fingers. She chewed her lip, not meeting Fran’s eye.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” She laughed. “How could I not do it? Right?”
“If you’re sure,” Fran said.
“I’m not sure, but I couldn’t stand it if you sent me away now,” Ophelia said. “When you slept here, were you afraid?”
“A little,” Fran said. “But the bed was comfortable, and I kept the light on. I read for a while and then I fell asleep.”
“Did you see your heart’s desire?” Ophelia said.
“I saw it,” Fran said, and then said no more.
“Okay, then,” Ophelia said. “I guess you should go. You should go, right?”
“I’ll come back in the morning,” Fran said. “I’ll be here afore you even wake.”
“Thanks,” Ophelia said.
But Fran didn’t go. She said, “Did you mean it when you said you wanted to help?”
“Look after the house?” Ophelia said. “Yeah, absolutely. You really ought to go out to San Francisco someday. You shouldn’t have to stay here your whole life without ever having a vacation or anything. I mean, you’re not a slave, right?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Fran said. “I guess one day I’ll have to figure that out.”
Ophelia said, “Anyway, we can talk about it tomorrow. Over breakfast. You can tell me about the suckiest parts of the job and I’ll tell you what my heart’s desire turns out to be.”
“Oh,” Fran said. “I almost forgot. When you wake up tomorrow, don’t be surprised if they’ve left you a gift. The summer people. It’ll be something they think you need or want. But you don’t have to accept it. You don’t have to worry about being rude that way.”
“Okay,” Ophelia said. “I will consider whether I really need or want my present. I won’t let false glamour deceive me.”
“Good,” Fran said. Then she bent over Ophelia where she was sitting on the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well, ’Phelia. Good dreams.”
Fran left the house without any interference from the summer people. She couldn’t tell if she’d expected to find any. As she came down the stairs, she said rather more fiercely than she’d meant to: “Be nice to her. Don’t play no tricks.” She looked in on the queen, who was molting again.
She went out the front door instead of the back, which was something she’d always wanted to do. Nothing bad happened, and she walked down the hill feeling strangely put out. She went over everything in her head, wondering what still needed doing that she hadn’t done. Nothing, she decided. Everything was taken care of.
Except, of course, it wasn’t. The first item was the guitar, leaned up against the door of her house. It was a beautiful instrument. The strings, she thought, were silver. When she struck them, the tone was pure and sweet and reminded her—as it was no doubt meant to—of Ophelia’s singing voice. The keys were made of gold and shaped like owl heads, and there was mother-of-pearl inlay across the boards like a spray of roses. It was the gaudiest gewgaw they’d yet made her a gift of.
“Well, all right,” she said. “I guess you don’t mind what I told her.” She laughed out loud with relief.
“Why everwho did you tell what?” someone said.
She picked up the guitar and held it like a weapon in front of her. “Daddy?”
“Put that down,” the voice said. A man stepped forward out of the shadow of the rosebushes. “I’m not your damn daddy. Although, come to think of it, I would like to know where he is.”
“Ryan Shoemaker,” Fran said. She put the guitar down on the ground. A second man stepped forward. “And Kyle Rainey.”
“Howdy,