Now that I’ve seen the spot, I can’t stop staring at it. I blink at the paleness of it against my skin, like a tiny bright moon.

I think of this one time Gram took me to the meadow by the river to sit with her while she painted. Well, we did that all the time, but this time, I started pulling the paints from the old leather satchel she carried them around in and reading all their names. They were called things like “icebox plum” and “whitening willows.”

“What color would I be?” I asked.

Gram looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said, “You, Emma, are the color of afternoon light settling on the trees in the Spinney.”

“You can’t fit that on the back of a tube of paint!” I protested. Gram was always saying stuff like that, like she was a poet instead of a painter. But secretly, I’d been proud.

Spinney is an old-fashioned word for a little forest, by the way. And the Spinney is the place where I wish more than anything I could be right now.

I think the spot must be some kind of stain. I lick my finger and lean down, rubbing at it. It doesn’t fade like marker or paint would. Another, more alarming thought floats into my brain. What if I’ve managed to bleach my skin somehow? It seems like something I would do. If I have, Mom. Will. Kill me.

As if to prove me wrong, she reaches an arm around my shoulders and gives me a reassuring squeeze. She probably thinks I’m looking down because I’m crying. I cross my right foot over my left so she can’t see the spot.

It seems like almost everyone in Lanternwood has shown up today for Gram’s funeral. A glance back reveals Ruth and Gloria and the rest of the garden club sitting directly behind our pew, all of them wearing big black hats. Old Joe and Older Joe (who used to be Young Joe and Old Joe) have taken the morning off from the farm and sit side by side, their few strands of hair slicked back and their heads bowed respectfully.

Even villagers who didn’t know Gram very well showed up to say goodbye to her. There are lots of people I know by face but not by name, like the Apple Lady. She never spoke to Gram as far as I could tell, but this morning she’s in the back pew, next to a family with two little kids I don’t recognize. Their mom is sniffling into a tissue.

I know I should probably be crying, too. I should be thinking about Gram, not some weird spot. And you should know that I do think about her, all the time since she died. It’s just hard for me to think about her here.