“Veronica,” she says slowly. “Her name even tastes like coffee.”

I can’t help but fall into the beautiful trap of it. “What do I taste like?”

It must be nice, because Rush’s lips loosen into a smile. It’s new to me, but somehow this looks like her natural state. I wonder if this is the girl Rush was before Imogen went missing.

“Danny.” I watch her rolling my name around in her mouth. Tasting it. Then she opens her eyes fast, wiping dust from the windowsill as she recites, “Strawberry and lemon and fresh mint leaves.”

“What about Imogen?” I ask.

“Licorice and cream,” she says automatically.

I get what I asked for — a hard pebble of jealousy lodged in my throat. But I notice that she doesn’t say Imogen’s name.

Rush cleans the knobs on the gas stove, opens the oven, and wipes down the inside until her cloth is oily black. She works through every area in the cottage until there’s only one left — the love seat where I’m sitting. I keep my feet bolted to the ground. I’m not leaving this time.

She considers me carefully. Then she goes back to her cart, picks up her spray, and thickens the air with it.

“That stuff is unbreathable,” I say.

“Then come outside,” she says. “There’s real air and October.”

“You know I can’t leave.”

She comes right over and sits down with me, hip pushing at mine until there’s room for both of us. Barely. I can’t imagine Mom would let me bring a girl into the cottage when she’s gone, while I’m being punished. But this is a different kind of punishment: sitting this close, my thoughts turned to glue, my skin informing me how close her skin is.

“The wards are broken,” I say. “Aren’t you afraid that we’ll get hurt if we go out there? If we attract the attention of . . . whatever Imogen was trying to protect you from?”

Rush draws spirals in the margin of my homework. “Sometimes hurt is better than nothing.”

I don’t think we’re talking about magic. Or maybe we are. A different kind. Just as dangerous. Just as likely to have rules that make you feel like you’re safe until you’re fumbling around in the dark, chanting breathy words, more potent then you’ve ever felt, with no idea how you got there, no way of knowing if you’re going to be the one who hurts or gets hurt. The one who leaves or gets left behind.

“Come with me,” Rush says, her fingers sliding lightly along the backs of mine.