I take a step closer to Haven. Just one. I don’t want to scare her. But I need to know more about the Imogen that only she knows. “Did she ever use her magic on you again?”

Haven stares down the length of the open hallway, toward the woods beyond the school. “No.”

I think about Neil. Did he steal me away from my bed, steer me through the woods, to tell me who had killed him? Imogen’s words there in the bark. His actual death, the voice in that memory, the one that said I’m sorry, Neil.

But I’ve never heard Imogen’s voice. Only memories translated through a dozen different minds, pouring out of a dozen mouths. I’ve seen the versions of her that other people remember, and none of them match up.

“Can I go?” Haven asks, as if I’m keeping her there by force.

“Of course you can,” I say.

She runs off, a scared animal. When I get back to Tempest Gardens, I trap myself in cottage nine for the afternoon, doing homework for a class about California’s history and geography. It’s stuffed with facts about redwoods. They drink fog. That’s why they love the valleys of the Lost Coast, which always seem to be filled with it. They’re fickle about climate. They like to be near salt water but not too near. They send each other messages, keep each other safe. And they only thrive with other redwoods around.

The Grays are like that. Hawthorn, June, Lelia, and Rush need each other to thrive. I’ve seen the way they help each other stand tall. Because they have each other, they can be who they are in the largest, most complete sense. But I don’t know what happens if I don’t find Imogen. Does the whole forest come down?

I rush to the end and open my math notebook. I flip into the depths of the pages and scribble questions.

Where is Imogen now?

Is she alone?

Do her parents even care?

If she ran away, where did she go?

There’s a knock on the door. I climb over the little table where I’ve set my dowsing rod next to my homework and open it.

It’s Rush, wearing the Tempest Gardens apron over shorts and a fluttery tank top. Her hair, dark as wet earth, spills down past her pockets. The dowsing rod on the table is pointing straight at her. Apparently I’m going to keep finding Rush no matter what.

I step aside so she can come in. She gets right to work, making herself industrious.

“I thought you were working at Coffee Gods today,” she says.

“Veronica needed to switch. She said I could take her Saturday morning; it’s the shift with the best tips. And we definitely need the money, so . . .” My sentence trickles out to nothing.