Before she had the opportunity to unwrap the animal, Patrick Hunter flung his front door open and grinned down at her. “I saw you stomp up my stairs. Is this a social call?”

She swung her cape off her shoulder and into Pat’s outstretched arms. “I’m returning your rabbit.”

He shook his head at the lumpy black bundle. “I see you’ve been feeding him again.”

Her eyes widened at the sight of a twitching nose and big bunny teeth protruding through a ragged hole in her cape. “Oh, no! Oh, darn!” She glared at Patrick Hunter. “This is all your fault. You should be ashamed of yourself for not taking better care of this rabbit. You don’t deserve to have a rabbit. If I had my way I’d have you put in the stockade. What if this sweet thing got lost, or rabbitknapped, or run over?”

Pat took a step backward. Boy, she was really steamed, he thought. He wanted to invite her in for tea, or lust, or something, but he was afraid she might start breaking things… like his nose.

She sniffed the air. “I smell something burning.”

“My applesauce!” He practically flung the rabbit at her, and ran back into his house.

Megan followed at a distance, closing the door behind her. The cottage, a white clapboard Cape Cod with a gray shake roof and black shutters, was very small. The downstairs consisted of one room, dominated by a walk – in red brick fireplace. Part of the room had been converted into a country kitchen.

She rolled her eyes at the language Pat was aiming at the pot on the stove. “Something go wrong?” she asked.

Pat slouched against the stove with a large, dripping spoon in his hand. “I suppose these things happen.”

“Hmmm,” she said, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t gotten around to learning how to cook. I can toast bread and boil water and defrost most anything, but I can’t actually cook.” She guessed Patrick Hunter couldn’t cook either. A large stainless – steel pot of glop bubbled ominously on the stove, sporadically spewing its contents over the side and onto the floor.