“Thank you for finding her,” Haven says. She approaches Imogen and parts the red mess of her sister’s hair down the middle. “Nobody would have done that for me.” Haven’s pain is clear and shimmering, almost something I can see.

“Haven,” I say, taking a step closer when I should probably run. “You know what happened, don’t you? With the boy who died?” It’s not just my stubborn heart pulling me toward these questions. It’s my dowsing sense. My magic tells me that the way to the truth is giving Haven a chance to tell it.

Haven and Imogen: Six Weeks Ago

While Haven was making a bowl of cereal and spattering it with blueberries, she asked Imogen questions about what she’d done with the Grays, what big spell she’d been planning, and got no answer.

That was normal. Imogen had a policy of blackout silence when it came to magic. She pretended it was about Mom and Dad, but Haven knew Imogen was still punishing her for that day on the Eel River. Haven only knew about what the weird girls of Tempest did through the whisper-chain of other kids at school.

Haven put her bowl into the sink a little too hard, on purpose. She thought it might get Imogen’s attention. She kind of wanted the bowl to break. It stayed frustratingly whole.

“Can you at least put the rest of the groceries away?” she asked as Imogen stared at the patterns in the marble on the breakfast bar.

Imogen stood up and did it, without hesitation or a single complaint, as if Haven had stuck a hand up her back.

As weeks went by, and Imogen remained blank, it became clear that Haven was the only one who had this effect on her. When anyone else talked to her or asked her to do things, they got the Nothing Show. At first, their parents thought this was a new brand of defiance. But soon they noticed that Haven could get Imogen to do chores around the house, to take out her homework at night, even if she left most of the spaces for her answers snowy white, untouched. Mr. and Mrs. Lilly liked the newer, blander version of Imogen. They also liked that they could put Haven in charge of her, like reverse babysitting. It was completely unfair. Imogen had taken up every breath of air in the house, every bit of attention at school, every inch of Tempest. Now she was mild and boring, and Haven still wasn’t free to do what she wanted.

Every once in a while, when Haven was sitting at the end of Imogen’s bed or walking her home after school, Imogen flickered through whatever was holding her back, like a moth struggling toward a candle.

Every once in a while, Haven missed her sister.