After a long moment when they stared at each other and Verlaine’s heart thumped crazily in her chest, Nadia breathed out in a sigh. “Not here, okay?”

“Okay.” Wait. Did that mean—she was right? This really was something out of the ordinary? The surreal was becoming real, at last? Yes. It was all Verlaine could do not to jump in the air and cheer.

Glancing around nervously, Nadia said, “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Not at school. Let me think—someplace quiet—”

“No. Someplace loud.” Nadia seemed very sure about this. “People overhear you in quiet places. Nobody overhears when it’s loud. Mom—my mother would talk about it in the mall, or at Cubs games, places like that.”

Her mother was a—whatever she was—too? This was getting better and better. And for once, Verlaine was absolutely sure she knew the right thing to suggest. “If you want loud, we should go to La Catrina.”

La Catrina turned out to be the only Mexican restaurant in town, or at least the busiest. Even though Nadia had yet to taste the food, she could understand why everybody came here; this was pretty much the first cheerful public place she’d seen in Captive’s Sound. It was warm and welcoming, with pressed-tin panels on the ceiling, dark gold walls, and tons of woodwork stained a deep red. Brilliantly painted carvings hung on the walls—all of them skeletons, though they were the happy kind, grinning merrily, wearing sombreros or colorful dresses, and apparently having the time of their afterlives.

Verlaine leaned over the table, obviously starting to digest everything Nadia had told her. “So, you don’t look like a witch.” She glanced around, but the din of laughter, conversation, and jukebox music made it obvious they wouldn’t be overheard. “Either the haglike, warty, green variety or the mystical pagan sexpot variety.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“You’re not going to try to recruit me, are you? Is this one of those things where you learn about the witchcraft and then, that’s it, you’re trapped in it for life?”

“No. I can tell you about it, and that’s fine. But you really shouldn’t tell anyone else.” There were spells Nadia could use to make sure Verlaine didn’t tell anyone—spells of silencing or forgetting—but they were drastic measures. Messing with another person’s head that way was nasty work, something you only did if you had no other choice.

But Verlaine said only, “Who could I possibly tell? Nobody would ever believe me.” Then she frowned. “Wait. You can teach me some spells, right? Without me being sworn to witchcraft for eternity or anything. I really want to stress that last part.”

“It’s too late for me to teach you,” Nadia said.

“You mean—too late today, or what?”

“I mean, too late ever.” Nadia made the words as gentle as she could. What would it be like, to discover that witchcraft was real but you were left out? “You have to start learning in childhood. The earlier the better, my mom always said. And not every girl can be a witch. If witchcraft doesn’t run in your family, you probably don’t have the blood for it. And even if you did, by now, you would have lost the potential.”