Patricia has been studying me, and I’m worried she won’t help after all. “You deserve to know why this bargain was struck. But even though I want to, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. Bloodcraft among our people is so shunned that those who practice it keep it secret. I don’t know how your abilities work or where they came from.”

“I know. Which is why I need to speak to an ancestor of mine who can explain. I want to know more about what I am and why.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to get lost in the past. I want to embrace it and understand.”

Mariah shrugs. “I’m down to help, but I can’t promise you’ll hear from anyone,” she warns. “And even if you do, there’s no promises about who shows up, remember? Could be your mom, could be someone else.”

I say hastily, “I actually don’t want it to be my mom. I need to go further back.”

Patricia considers this and nods slowly. “Okay, Bree.”

Five minutes later we’ve settled into a triangle, hands linked, our knees faintly touching around the offerings in the middle. Since I didn’t know what offerings my ancestors would prefer, I’d asked them to bring a small bowl of fruit, some candy, a glass of juice, and nuts. Things my mother liked and I like too.

Patricia repeats her previous instruction in a low voice. “Focus on your love for your mother, to start.”

I pull up an image of my mother from memory and there’s almost no pain, just a tiny smidge of it around the edges like a bit of burned paper. I see my mother in the kitchen, humming and mixing a bowl of deviled-egg fixin’s. She dips a pinkie in to taste and calls me over to test it too. It feels like we’re making magic. That’s how it always felt when we made food together.

Patricia whispers, “Now imagine the love stretching to your grandmother, and stretching back again.”

“Like a strong thread,” I murmur.

I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Yes.”

I imagine the thread, thick and wound tight, from my mother to my grandmother—and it stops. I can’t go any further. I’m blocked…

By a wall.

I’ve known that this image, this internal construct of my own making, was part of my survival toolbox. I just hadn’t found any reason to take it down.

But now I do.

Now I have to.

I imagine my wall crumbling to pieces, one brick at a time. I pull down the chains, the metal, the steel. I peel it all away until I can see beyond it to find that hard, tight knot of pain in my chest, the one wrapped in layers of bright, unending fury—the part of me I call After-Bree.