It’s a deluxe edition of The Forest Between the Sea and the Sky, bound in dark green leather, with the sigil of Orman stamped on the front. I scramble to flip the book open to inspect the inside of the front cover. “101 of 100” is stamped on the bottom. The internet buzzed about these limited edition copies for weeks before the release. They include four full-page illustrations by Endsley himself, plus a new color map of Orman. It’s real leather, too. I don’t remember exactly how much they cost, but it was hundreds of dollars.

And I have the 101st edition.

Jenna. It has to be Jenna. She must have ordered this as an apology for the Endsley fiasco, but I have to be sure.

A quick internet search pops up a number to a Val’s in Lochbrook, Michigan. The pictures of the town that appear alongside the store’s contact information are gorgeous—lakes and sailboats and sunsets and a lighthouse atop a hill that reminds me of Orman.

It’s a sign.

I click the phone number on the page to dial, but immediately hang up. What am I going to say? “Hey there, it’s Amelia. Do you happen to know who sent me a one hundred and first edition of The Forest Between the Sea and the Sky? Because if it was my dead best friend I want to know, but also I haven’t been able to read anything since she died. Do you have a cure for that kind of reading problem? Also, this edition technically shouldn’t exist.”

I put my phone down and flip through the book, the strong scent of leather tickling my nose. I’m looking for any kind of note or marking that will point to Jenna. When my search turns up fruitless after two slow perusals of each page, I flip to the illustrated map, my eyes drinking in every detail.

There is figure-eight-shaped Orman with its gloriously lush forests—the source of most of the island’s magic—on the northern half, as well as on its southern half, the land there fraught from the encroaching and furious sea that is forever trying to swallow the island and its occupants whole. At the northernmost point is the reigning monarch of Orman’s castle, Siren’s Point. And even though they are smaller than my pinky nail, there are the sirens themselves, waiting to tempt sailors into the rocky depths of the ocean.

This time I do not hang up when I call. For every ring, my heart beats three times.

“This is Val’s. Alex speaking.”

He sounds nice, too nice, and this throws me off. I should have planned what to say, but I dig deep and borrow some of Jenna’s authority and let it instill false confidence into my voice.