I trip at Cecilia’s cold, distant explanation. She yanks on my hand to pull me up.

Born of the shadows, but shaped like a man. A crossroads man. Is that what Rootcrafters call a goruchel? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never think such a union could be possible. “What happened to Pearl’s baby?”

“They forced her to cast it away before it could grow large enough to do harm.”

Cast away.

“We are close now. Pay attention.”

I look around. I don’t know when we are, but it must be somewhat recent, because I recognize the buildings, the trees, the walking paths. “Are you taking me back to Patricia?”

“No. It’s Ruth that wanted you here.”

“Who is Ruth?”

Cecilia doesn’t answer, nor does she seem interested in talking. She stops us near a stone bench tucked under an old-growth poplar. Before I can ask another question, a familiar-looking woman walks past, hands tucked in her pockets, a modern messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She looks every bit a student.

“Ruth. Patricia’s sister.”

My eyes widen. Patricia’s sister?

Cecilia pulls me along with her again until we’re walking beside Ruth, who doesn’t seem to see us. She has headphones in, the old wired kind with a metal band over her straight brown bob.

The three of us—an enslaved woman from the nineteenth century, a teenage girl from the twenty-first, and a college student from the twentieth—weave between Carolina students lingering in the low brick courtyard of the Pit. I don’t know what will happen if I touch the undergrads nearby, and I don’t want to find out. We descend the steps down to the street level behind the Stores, and Ruth leads us down South Road and through the crosswalk toward the very center of UNC’s campus—the Bell Tower. Once we reach the edge of the Tower’s shadow, Ruth freezes, then abruptly ducks down behind one of the Tower lawn’s hedge borders and yanks her headphones from her ears.

“Why’d she stop?” I ask.

Cecilia points. “Because of them.”

Together, the three of us peer into the shadows behind the brick patio at the base of the structure, where a hooded figure stands in a dark patch of grass on the far side of the lawn, nearly hidden from sight. Whoever they are, they have placed themselves strategically, pausing right where the imposing landmark shields them from late-night passersby and blocks the dull orange glow of campus lampposts. The sound of low, harsh chanting reaches my ears. It’s not English. Not the Order’s Welsh, either.

I sway on my feet while listening, momentarily captivated. I’ve taken a half step forward before I snap out of the sudden daze. I shudder. Something isn’t right, here beneath the Tower’s shadow.