Firefly Night in Japan is celebrated on sacred temple grounds and in parks filled with cherry trees. Watchers arrive by the thousands as fireflies flicker like tiny glowing lanterns against a tapestry of darkness, heralding the approach of warm weather.

Here in Charleston, South Carolina, on a darkened patio at the Tangled Rose B and B, tea shop maven Theodosia Browning was celebrating the little bugs’ arrival with a special Firefly Tea. And under the lush cover of darkness, the fireflies were giving a command performance that was pure magic.

“You see that grove of azaleas?” one guest cried. “There are literally hundreds of fireflies buzzing around it.”

“See how the hedge is lit up,” said another. “Like neon.”

“Absolutely stupendous.”

“I thought a Firefly Tea sounded weird, but this is delightful.”

Theodosia smiled to herself as she slipped from table to table, feeling her way in the gentle darkness as she refilled teacups with the Indigo Tea Shop’s special blend of Japanese Sencha tea. The weatherman on K-BAM had predicted rain for this evening; instead, they’d been gifted with warmth and an industrial-strength dose of humidity. Which had thankfully prompted the little fireflies to launch their brilliant light show.

Once her teapot was empty, Theodosia stepped into the B and B’s cozy kitchen, where Drayton Conneley, her tea sommelier extraordinaire, and Haley Parker, her chef and baker, were helping stage this evening’s event.

“They’re loving your green tea,” Theodosia told Drayton, a little breathlessly. “As well as going wild over your orange and pecan scones, Haley. And, just as we hoped, the fireflies appeared right on schedule. The little buggers are hanging out in the arborvitae hedge, flitting among the magnolias, and hovering over that small reflecting pool, giving a laser light show that’s worthy of Pink Floyd.”

“Dark Side of the Moon,” Haley said, though she was far too young to have seen the group in person.

“Aren’t we lucky that Neela Carter cultivated such a gorgeous, semitropical garden?” Drayton asked. “One that actually attracts fireflies.” Neela Carter was the proprietor of the Tangled Rose B and B and one of his dear friends.

“More like you were lucky to book it,” Haley said. She was busy checking her oven now, making sure each squab was turning a rich golden brown.

“Smart to book it on this precise date,” Drayton said. “It would appear the Farmers’ Almanac was spot-on when it predicted a bumper crop of fireflies for South Carolina.” He cocked an eye at Haley just as she shut the oven door. “Say, how much butter did you use to baste that squab?”

“You don’t want to know,” Haley said.

Theodosia gazed at the citrus salads Haley had prepped and decided it was probably time to kick dinner into high gear. “Maybe I should start clearing tables so we can serve our second course?”

“Do that,” Drayton agreed, “while I drizzle on the strawberry vinaigrette.”

Theodosia cleared while Drayton drizzled. Then, once the salads were served, eaten, and dispatched with, Haley pulled her squab from the oven, plated them, and added sides of Charleston gold rice and crispy Brussels sprouts with smoked paprika aioli.

“Heavenly,” Drayton declared. “Time to surprise our guests with the main entrée?”

“Let’s do it,” Theodosia said. With plates balanced on silver trays, they carried their entrées out to the patio, where they were met with a round of applause.

“Thank you,” Theodosia murmured as she began serving the squab. She was thrilled with her guests’ reactions as well as the turnout they’d gotten this evening. Her friends Delaine Dish and Brooke Carter Crocket were there, along with a contingent from Drayton’s beloved Heritage Society. There was also a table of Historic District socialites, members from the Broad Street Garden Club, and several more tables filled with neighbors and guests from the inn. So, thank goodness, everything was clicking along like clockwork.

When Theodosia raced back into the kitchen to grab a few more entrées, she said, “Drayton, this may be our best evening event ever.”

“I agree,” Drayton said. “A velvety warm night, delicious menu, and a guest list that includes a few society doyennes.”

“You’re referring to Mrs. Olivia Van Courtland and her friends?”

“I am indeed. You know, if Mrs. V takes a shine to our tea service and food, we could be in luck for a future catering gig.” He gave Theodosia a knowing look.

“She serves on the boards of the Charleston Ballet, Westmore Foundation, Architectural Preservation Guild, and the Children’s Art Association.” “She’s also sitting at the same table as my Aunt Libby.”

“Ah, they know each other?”

“I’m fairly sure they do,” Theodosia said.

“Nice that your aunt was able to travel all the way from Cane Ridge Plantation to join us.”

“Her cousin Laura Lee drove her in and then she’ll stay overnight with me.”

“Perfect,” Drayton said.

Theodosia helped serve the rest of the entrées, then paused on the patio to take it all in. Hidden in the darkness as she was, the venue fairly sparkled. Flaming torches reflected in the tiny pool like a thousand points of light. Her tables gleamed with Herrond Printemps china, Baccarat stemware, and Buttercup by Gorham silverware. Centerpieces of pink Juliet roses were flanked by flickering white tapers that cast a warm glow.

Oh dear me, I hope I’m not starting to glow as well. Theodosia hurried into the kitchen and peeked in a small mirror that hung by the door.

No, her peaches and cream complexion looked just fine, even after all the running around. But her hair-eek! The humidity might be beneficial for fireflies, but it was murder on her shoulder-length auburn hair. Already full to begin with, it swirled around her lovely face, giving the impression of a woman in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Thankfully, Theodosia didn’t wear a  lot of makeup so there wasn’t much to smudge. She’d used only a swoosh of mascara to highlight her glacier blue eyes and give her lashes some extra oomph.

“Our guests are loving their dinners,” Drayton said as he pushed his way into the kitchen. Sixty-something and dapper with just a touch of gray hair, Drayton looked the role of the perfect Southern gent. He was gallant to a fault and always impeccably dressed, favoring tweed jackets and his beloved Drake’s bow ties.

Theodosia, on the other hand, stuck to silk T-shirts and comfortable khakis for her workdays at the Indigo Tea Shop. Although tonight she wore a long black skirt with a black off-the-shoulder blouse.

They made quite a team, the two of them, and over a half dozen years had turned the Indigo Tea Shop on Charleston’s famed Church Street into a must-stop for tea.

“You’ve matched your dessert tea to Haley’s Alaska bombes?” Theodosia asked.

“Tried to. Of course, I was torn between crème brûlée tea and caramel black tea,” Drayton said. “But I finally settled on the crème brûlée.” He waggled his fingers. “A blend guaranteed to waltz across our guests’ palettes.”

As her resident “tea guy,” Theodosia trusted Drayton implicitly. He’d learned his trade at the tea auctions in Amsterdam and had taught hospitality courses at Johnson & Wales University here in Charleston. Eyes closed, Drayton could differentiate between a tippy Yunnan and a Formosa oolong, and he could always tell when a tea was starting to lose its flavor or turn a touch bakey.

“Hey, guys,” Haley said as she slammed her way into the kitchen. “I’d say we’ve got a hit on our hands.” Upbeat, bordering on exuberant, Haley Parker was mid-twenties and a sheer delight to be around. Besides being a skilled baker, she could cook like Gordon Ramsay. Could swear like him, too.

We were just saying this ranks as one of our best evening events ever,” Theodosia said.

Haley held up a finger. “But there’s one more course to go. My pièce de résistance Alaska bombes.”

“Ice cream, sponge cake, and baked meringue,” Theodosia said. “Yum.”

“Coated with high-proof rum and flambéed tableside,” Haley said. “Did you guys remember to bring our small butane torches?”

“We’ve got our torches and we’re ready to fire them up. Just say the word,” Drayton said.

Twenty minutes later, when the tables were cleared and the dessert tea was poured, Haley said the word: “Okay, I’ll serve the Alaska bombes and you guys follow behind me, pouring on the rum and doing the flambé part, okay? Just be super careful with those torches.”

“Please,” Drayton said, “this isn’t our first rodeo.”

Haley served the first two tables as Theodosia and Drayton followed, stopping to pour the rum and use their butane torches to set the Alaska bombes ablaze. And what a sight it was. Between the dancing blue flames from the desserts, and the candlelight and fireflies, the atmosphere shimmered exotically.

When Theodosia approached Delaine and Brooke’s table, Delaine clapped her hands and cried, “A fiery end to an evening of fireflies.” Her high-pitched voice rang out loudly as it so often did.

Theodosia favored her friend with a tolerant smile. “Just be careful to let the flame burn out before you . . .” She stopped abruptly. Because two tables over a strange commotion had suddenly erupted. Someone-one of their female guests-was in distress. There were sharp, hacking coughs from the guest and cooing sounds from the people sitting around her as they administered gentle pats on her back. But nothing seemed to assuage the poor woman’s choking fit. Thirty seconds later, the woman-oh my goodness, it is Mrs. Van Courtland!-broke into labored, panic-stricken gasps. Then she bellowed out a series of convulsive, painful-sounding whoops as her shaking hand sought to grab a glass of water, but succeeded only in knocking it over.

Theodosia dropped what she was doing and raced toward that table. Catching her foot on a chair leg, she stumbled but somehow caught herself and managed to get back on her feet. But that short delay meant that Mrs. Van Courtland’s face had already turned a peculiar shade of blue even as her hands beat desperately on the table and her eyes began to roll back in her head. Then her entire body began to shake violently as white froth formed at the corners of her mouth and flecks spattered down the front of her pink Dior jacket.

“Someone call 911!” Theodosia cried, instantly regretting that she’d left her phone in the kitchen.

Aunt Libby and another woman pulled out their phones and began dialing while another tablemate screamed, “I think she stopped breathing!” Which caused every guest at the dinner, all thirty-six of them, to push back their chairs in unison-SCREECH!-and clamber to their feet. Some watched in horrified fascination, others shouted suggestions (creating an unhelpful cacophony), while a few shrank back from what looked like a dreadful situation.

Theodosia grasped a desperate, nearly asphyxiated Mrs. Van Courtland under the arms and, with the help of another woman, laid her on the cobblestones. As she attempted a Heimlich maneuver, praying she remembered how to do it, she was interrupted by a gentle yet authoritative voice.

“Let me,” a woman said. “I’m a nurse.”

“Thank you,” Theodosia said as the woman knelt down and, instead of doing the Heimlich, pinched Mrs. Van Courtland’s nose closed, breathed gently into her mouth, and began a series of chest compressions.

“Did she choke on something?” Theodosia asked as she stood up and moved out of the way. She worried that Mrs. Van Courtland’s heart was fluttering erratically like a wounded bird.

“I think it was her Alaska bombe,” one of the women at the table offered.

“She must have choked on the crispy flambéed crust,” Aunt Libby said.

“I’m sorry, but nobody’s flambéed your Alaska bombes yet,” Theodosia said. Then she looked around the table and saw that all the Alaska bombes had indeed been flambéed.

How did that happen?

“No, a waiter came by with a butane torch,” one of the women at the table pitched in.

Flustered, Theodosia’s eyes searched the patio. She knew Drayton hadn’t been at this table. So who would have done this? Certainly not Haley. Glancing around, she kept one eye on Mrs. Van Courtland, who didn’t seem to be responding particularly well, and another on the patio, where glowing candles, torches, and fireflies suddenly made everything feel like a dimly lit, strangely tilting fun house.

And that’s when she noticed what looked like a dark figure lurking near the back hedge.

Wait one minute, are her eyes playing tricks on her? Is someone really there? Are fireflies creating a weird reflection or is actual light bouncing off the buttons of a waiter’s jacket?

Then, like an apparition out of a film noir horror movie, the shadowy figure turned and slowly disappeared through the back hedge. And oh, what a strange illusion it was! First they were standing there, subtly blending in, then there was a soft, almost imperceptible ruffle of leaves, after which they’d vanished completely. Like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.

Since two dozen people were now shouting into their phones, presumably calling 911 or alerting the media, Theodosia knew she’d better do something fast. Because her hunch that this person was an unwelcome visitor had suddenly turned into a terrible feeling of dread. And if this stranger had snuck in and put something in poor Mrs. Van Courtland’s dessert, maybe she should try to apprehend them!

Theodosia dashed across the patio and pushed her way into the hedge. But it wasn’t easy. Tiny branches prickled her arms, pinched her hair, and bit unmercifully into her cheeks. Pummeling the branches with both fists, she fought her way through the tangle of brambles and thorns, disrupting any number of fireflies. Then, halfway through the hedge, Theodosia got stuck.

No, no, no.

Taking a deep breath, Theodosia bent forward, kicking her feet, batting at flimsy stalks, and muscling her way through. Seconds later, she popped out of the hedge and found herself standing on Legare Street. Naturally it was pitch black with a string of old-fashioned globe streetlamps to faintly light the way.

So where did this stranger run off to?

Theodosia spun left, then right, as shadows danced and played tricks on her eyes. Then she saw movement up ahead, maybe half a block away, as someone skulked down the walk.

That has to be the person!

A lifelong jogger, Theodosia took off like Usain Bolt launching from the starting block.

“Stop!” she shouted as she tore down the street. “Stop!”

When Theodosia pulled to within fifteen feet of the stranger, she slowed her pace.

“You there!” she called out.

The mysterious figure stopped dead in their tracks and stood motionless for a few moments. Then they turned slowly and stared at her with an attitude that was both unafraid and strangely menacing.

Theodosia blinked as she stared back. This person wore a long, dark jacket, some sort of hat-maybe a French beret?-pulled low over the brow, and a black mask that covered their nose and mouth. It occurred to her then that she was totally defenseless in this standoff. Yes, she could run this person down, even harass theem, but she couldn’t take them down. For that she needed a weapon-or the police.