“Magic,” said the fairy queen placidly, “is all about how you see things.”

“The villagers saw it, too,” said Ivy.

“Because you believed it to be true,” said the fairy queen, “and so it was.”

“But you must fight to see the real truth,” said one of the elves, who until now had not spoken.

“The truth!” chanted the nearby gnomes. “The truth!”

“Change the way you see, girl,” said the fairy queen, “and you will change who you are.”

“You mustn’t disappear,” said the first pixie, “because if you disappear, we will, too.”

Ivy closed her eyes. She summoned the last seed of strength she carried within her, which she had not known she possessed. She could not let disappear all the creatures Gran had cared for.

She felt the dew of the forest surge through her vines, felt her balsam bark heart begin to pump with hope.

And when she opened her eyes again, she saw herself for what she truly was. Strong and sturdy as the tallest tree in the forest. Fast and pure as the clear river running through it.

Ready to face the witch.

38

On Sunday morning, I am woken up by a rumble of thunder and Boomer—who hates thunderstorms—inching closer to me in bed. All night long, I dreamed of trees coming to life and witches flying over them.

I open the curtain, letting the stormy light in. When it hits my skin, it turns my vitiligo patches almost to silver. They actually look kind of beautiful.

I look down at my arms, lightly tracing the outline of my patches and thinking about Ivy’s story.

The Keeper is forbidden to share the secrets of the forest.

Is Madeline trying to tell me something? That there’s a reason Gram kept so much from me?

Ready to face the witch.

Is this an invitation to come and see Madeline? She is the one who wrote the woman in the white cloak into the story, after all. Maybe that’s how she sees herself. But why? The witch in the story kills Ivy’s gran. But Madeline didn’t kill my gram. Cancer did.

There’s something about the way Madeline writes that’s so familiar. Like how the magical creatures shimmer into sight just like the charmed folk used to do for me.

I think there’s something else, too, though—something staring me right in the face that I’m just not seeing.

Change the way you see, girl . . . and you will change who you are.

Another crack of thunder, and Boomer leaps out of bed and cowers by the door.

“Come on, boy,” I say, throwing off the covers, “let’s get you some breakfast.”

He follows me downstairs, where Lily is just sitting down at the table to eat her omelet. Mom and Dad are nowhere to be seen.

“Morning,” I say.

“Morning, Emma.”