“Cass,” whines Jacob, because he knows what I’m thinking.

Fire and ash, and the drum of ghosts.

Spirits, trapped and waiting to be sent on.

I reach out, and feel the invisible curtain brush against my fingers. The boundary between the land of the living and the world of the dead.

All I have to do is close my hand around it, pull the gray film aside, and step through.

I know what to do—but again, I hesitate, afraid of what else might be waiting beyond the Veil.

There’s always a risk, of course.

You never know what you’ll find.

An angry spirit. A violent ghost. One that wants to steal your life. Or cause chaos.

Or there could be something else.

A skull-faced stranger in a trim black suit.

“You know,” says Jacob, “fear is a perfectly rational response, the body’s way of telling you not to do something.”

But if I waited until I wasn’t scared, I’d never go through.

Fear is like the Veil. It’s always there. It’s up to you to still go through.

My hand travels to the cord at my collar and I tug the necklace out, let the mirror pendant rest faceup in my palm.

Look and listen, you say when you see a ghost. See and know.

This is what you are.

Well, this is what I am.

This is what I do.

This is the reason I’m here.

I catch hold of the curtain and pull it aside, stepping through into the dark.

For one terrible second, I’m falling.

A downward plunge, a single shocking gasp of cold, the air knocked from my lungs—

And then I’m back on my feet.

The Veil takes shape around me, in mottled shades of gray. I take shape, too, a ghostly version of myself, washed out save for the bright blue-white ribbon glowing in my chest. My life. Torn, and stitched back together. Stolen, and reclaimed.

I press a hand to my chest, muffling the light as I look around the séance room. It ripples and shifts in my vision. The red light is gone, the room lit only by the soft glow of lamps. The masks leer down from the walls. The faces stare out from the paintings.

“Oh, look, it’s just as creepy,” says Jacob, appearing beside me. Here in the Veil, he’s solid, real, another reminder that I’m out of place.

He didn’t have to come.

But he always does.

“Rule number four of friendship,” he says. “Stick together. Now, can you just find a ghost and send them on so we can go back?”

As if on cue, a door slams down the hall.

I pull the necklace over my head and take a few steps toward the sound, but the moment I move, my vision doubles, blurs. The room multiplies, sliding in and out of focus around me. Furniture shifting, appearing, disappearing, changing, burning, smoke and laughter, light and shadow, all of it so disorienting I have to squeeze my eyes shut.