Win and I leap in the air and crash down in the paddleboat. Mitch tosses something white and sparkly in the air, then dives under the water and starts swimming. She’s holding a rope and she’s going so fast that Win and I are thrown to the back of the paddleboat. Blood pounds in my ears as icy water splashes over me. Then I scramble up and look at Barracuda Bay.

Already Mitch’s spell is working. A thick fog billows across the sea, hugging the shore and rising around the scarecrow army. Their ragged clothes blow in the wind and their eyes glitter as they stare after us. Crowky pushes his way through them, the Box clutched to his chest. The golden letters have disappeared. The look of rage on his face tells me that I got away just in time.

The distance between us grows and the fog becomes thicker, until Crowky and the scarecrows disappear from sight.

Win and I pick ourselves up from the bottom of the boat and sit on the fiberglass seat. I flop forward and I laugh, because I’m so exhausted and so amazed that we got away from Crowky.

“Where’s the Alisha?” says Win.

I pull the telescope out of Mitch’s bag and train it on the horizon. The fog is still spreading around us, but it hasn’t reached the Alisha yet and I can see the ship racing out to sea. I track its progress. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but the distance between us seems to be growing. Then the fog thickens and I lose sight of them.

We start to slow down and Mitch bursts out of the water. She leans on the side of the paddleboat, dripping water over me and Win.

“It’s no good,” she says. “We can’t catch up with them. I can’t swim fast enough.”

Tendrils of fog swirl around us and I notice that frost has crept over Mitch’s eyelashes and hair. It even dusts her brown tattooed arms, turning them a silvery gray. “What can we do?” I ask. “Can we help paddle or something?”

Mitch dismisses my suggestion with a wave of her hand. “No. We need magic.”

“Yes!” says Win, pulling out his wand.

“Put it away,” says Mitch, picking through the bottles hanging around her neck. “Marshmallows won’t help us here.” She finds the bottle she’s looking for and tugs out the cork. “To be honest I wanted to save this for emergencies—like this pile of junk springing a leak—but I guess this is an emergency.” Her voice is even throatier than usual, a ragged whisper.

“Are you all right, Mitch?” I say. “Is the water too cold for you?”