At last his bedroom light flicks on. A golden patch in the blue-black dimness. It’s so dark out here. Dark enough that he doesn’t see me creeping closer on the other side of that illuminated glass.

I stride across the grass, my feet sinking into the soggy ground.

There is no music.

Not his stereo. Not his fingers on the guitar strings. Nothing that I can hear over the whisper of the rain in the trees.

Slowly, so there won’t be even a flicker of shadow on the pane, I glide closer until I am looking straight inside.

Anders sits on the bed. His head is down. His fists are clenched against his forehead. His hair is wet, clinging messily to his neck, his cheekbones. His shirt is soaked. Almost as soaked as mine.

I hesitate.

This is dangerous. It’s been safer, simpler, to watch and work from the edges. But I’m running out of time.

I lift my hand and knock at the pane.

Anders’s head jerks up.

The look in his face is pure terror.

Then, confusion, as his eyes narrow, realizing I am not who he guessed I might be.

Then, an instant later, anger.

There’s annoyance in it. Embarrassment that I’ve caught him like this, scared and vulnerable. Exhaustion. Self-protectiveness. I understand it all.

I know him so well.

He jumps off the bed and stalks across the carpet. Turns the lock. Shoves up the window. A series of cold droplets spatters the sill.

“What the hell?” he asks.

He’s never spoken to me before.

His tone is anything but warm, and still I feel the words light up something inside me, matches touching wicks.

He’s speaking to me. No one else. Me.

His eyes search my face, checking my hands, the empty night around me. Looking for an explanation. I’m sure I look odd: my hair so drenched it’s changed color, water dripping off the end of my chin. But he’s looking straight at me. He sees me. He frowns harder.

“What are you doing creeping around my house in the middle of the night?” he asks.

He’s not happy. But I have to fight not to smile. Anders is speaking to me. I am going to speak to him.

I weigh my words. I plan each one. I keep my voice low enough that he has to lean closer to hear. “I came to warn you. I know what’s happening to you.”

“What?” He stares at me like he’s trying to translate the words into another language. “You know what’s happening to me? What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t even know who you are.”

He’s not supposed to. Still, the words sting.

“I mean—I’ve seen you,” he amends, and I wonder if I let the sting show. If he’s being kind. “At the Crow’s Nest. You’re what’s-her-name’s niece. Mae Malcolm. That old lady who lives in the woods.”

Now he is piecing things together. Rumors about Aunt Mae . . . her visions, her one-hundred-proof breath. Glimpses he’s caught of me here and there, everywhere he goes. His face hardens again. “Okay,” he says. “What do you need to warn me about?”