For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like wandering away from the topic. I explain what I know about the why of Imogen leaving. I tell them the strange cut-short story of Emma Hart. “I’m going to dowse for Emma,” I say. “I think that’s what I did after I found her grave.”

“What about Imogen?” June asks. “Wouldn’t finding her be easier than connecting to a spirit? I mean, she’s still alive.” The hope in her voice could destroy a small town.

I finger the dowsing rod, the new combination of bow and raven feather. “I tried to dowse for Imogen, but the trail went in loops and circles.” I skip over the part where my dowsing kept throwing me headfirst at Rush. “It led me here, to Emma. I think if we find Emma, we find Imogen.”

“How does this work?” Hawthorn asks. It’s the first time she’s looked to me to explain and not the other way around. It reminds me exactly how much I’m making this up as I go. I’m not the expert they need, the witch they wanted. I might not even be here tomorrow. There’s a good chance Mom is furiously emptying her bank account to buy us plane tickets.

I open my mouth to tell them all of this, but then I look around at Hawthorn’s pressed lips, Lelia’s cutting stare, June fiddling with the zippers on her backpack. Rush lights one of the votives from Hawthorn’s stash as she waits for me to reveal the plan. When I first got here, I thought the Grays were perfect, that they always knew the right thing to say or do. Now we’re all huddled around a tiny black candle, trying to invent the next minute.

“Emma Hart died a long time ago,” I say. “Searching for someone who’s been gone for a hundred years is going to be hard. Her grave helped, but that can only do so much.” I had the hermit’s bones, but Emma’s grave is empty. It’s not really a physical piece of her that I need, though — more like a piece of her past.

I turn to Rush on a fresh wave of realization. “That book we found in Imogen’s room,” I say, grabbing her hands and hoping the other Grays think it’s just overexcited Danny. Rush’s fingers are warm, stirring, ready. “That wasn’t just Imogen spilling her lovesick guts. It was a spell.”

Rush shakes her head, not understanding. Or maybe she’s still too afraid to let in the truth.

“Think about the likenesses we made,” I say. “They required a piece of us. But . . . if you wanted to do that for someone who’s been dead for a long time, and you didn’t have anything left of them physically, you would need a symbol.”