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cottage. They’ll toughen up, she thought.
    â€œCan you believe that somebody who plays the lute for a living owns this place?” said Lottie. “I’m not even sure what a lute is.”
    â€œIt’s like a guitar, only an older version,” said Rose. “They’re always cropping up in sonnets.” Maybe while I’m here I’ll write about a lute, Rose thought. Didn’t Campion write about lutes? I’ll Google it. But then, a rush of anxiety and pleasure: no Google.
    â€œI see you writing here. You should write a sonnet about a lute,” said Lottie. “I looked you up online.” She stopped to smell a giant yellow-flowering tree. “Gorgeous.”
    â€œWhatever you read is years old,” said Rose. “And let’s give the writing a little time.”
    â€œOh, I think you will write,” said Lottie. “I see it.”
    â€œYou see a lot,” said Rose. “Let’s go up to the house and check out whether Robert SanSouci laid in coffee for our house tour.”
    They found their way to the kitchen, which was happily not filled with modern conveniences. Rose had hoped the place would be spare and frugal. It was. Like most summer places, it had an unruly collection of kitchenware: a vast array of unmatched mugs; some chipped Fiestaware; dozens of unmatched silver-plate knives and forks and spoons that had been through the dishwasher. There were too many spatulas and colanders, no sharp knives, rusted lobster crackers, and an elaborate, expensive corkscrew, still in a dusty box. Charmed as she was by the place, she was a bit disappointed not to find a coffeemaker.
    â€œLook!” said Lottie. “Here’s a note, addressed to you.”
    She handed Rose a light blue envelope with her name on the outside. Pleased to see the heavy rag envelope was tucked closed, not sealed, she opened it up. The writing was old-fashioned, with calligraphic
d
’s and
&
’s, and she was fairly certain it had been written with a fountain pen.
    Dear Rose
, it said.
Welcome to Hopewell Cottage.
    â€œHe says welcome to Hopewell.”
    â€œTo both of us?” asked Lottie.
    â€œJust to me so far,” said Rose.
    â€œI thought so.”
    Rose blushed a little, and read the letter aloud.
    I hope your journey was not too trying, & that you are reading this on the first of many crystal clear days. Please consider this your home for the month. I took the liberty of stocking the fridge with milk & eggs & a few things I thought you might need. I hope it is not too forward to say that I take pleasure in imagining that the house will please you, & that you—& your friends—will return to it.
    Yours,
    Robert SanSouci.
    â€œHe sounds like he grew up a hundred years ago,” said Lottie. “And also like he has a little crush on you.”
    â€œI’m not very crushable,” said Rose quickly. No one had had a crush on her since the twins were born. But standing here, the lady of the cottage, with the light and the air so bountiful, she realized that she might be crushable. Or she might develop a crush.
    â€œI thought that Rule of Robert’s Sign meant he never rented it to anyone twice.”
    â€œNot so far,” said Rose. She folded the letter carefully and put it in the pocket of her bathrobe. “How about some coffee?”
    They found instant in a canister on the counter, and there was fresh milk in the fridge. Rose went to fill the kettle with water. The water from the tap was noisy. And rusty.
    â€œIt’s brown,” said Lottie. “Should we drink it?”
    â€œIf we boil it, it might be okay to drink,” said Rose. “But I can’t imagine it will taste any good.”
    Lottie made no reply. She was deep into a binder called
Cottage Visitor’s Guide
, written in Robert’s hand.
    â€œThis tells everything!” she said. “What the flowers are, where to get