“It sounds like she was a survivor. People do really crazy things when they’re scared to lose what is important to them.” A flood of my own crazy things come to mind. Like the time I ran away in the middle of the night at eleven with no money and no plan. I’d been trying to make it to a Greyhound bus station, walking on a dark country road, when two men with a dark storm cloud hanging over them tried to pick me up. I’d ended up running into the woods and I was lucky they hadn’t followed me. I know now how stupid it was—I didn’t even know where I was running to, exactly—but at the time, nothing had felt more dangerous than not trying to be with my mom.

Was that how Abigail had felt? Like she might lose her family?

Also, I don’t know why I’m relating to Abigail on this. Thalia and Lily’s story is so heartbreaking and tragic, it feels impossible to look at it squarely in the face.

“I get what Sage means,” Willow says slowly. Her hand is on the locket now. “About female relationships.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns around to face me. “My mom and I…” Her expression falls. “It isn’t great. Like it really isn’t great. For a while I thought our relationship was kind of normal. I knew it always hurt, but I thought maybe everyone’s did. Then I started watching my friends’ relationships with their mothers, and it looked so different. Like maybe they don’t always get along, but at least they see each other, you know? With my mom, it’s like she’s a million miles away at all times, and anytime I take a step toward her, she takes three steps backward.”

Willow’s words are coming out so slowly and painfully, it makes my chest ache. My mom has a giant rap sheet of issues related to parenting, but I’d always felt close to her. Sometimes I’d felt smothered by her closeness. She was constantly fiddling with my hair, asking me about my day, trying to come up with new and fancy ways of making macaroni and cheese. Even now, she’s constantly in my peripheral vision.

“That sounds really painful,” I say. I lean in slightly, put my hand on her shoulder, and I feel her muscles loosen.

“Yeah.” She’s twirling the locket now, her eyes shiny. I look away, giving her a moment. “Sorry,” she says.

“Nothing to be sorry about.” As I look down at the letter, a thought occurs to me. “Do you think the curse is partly to blame?”

She’s swiping her other eye now. “But the curse was made up by Abigail.”