I try to keep track of which way I’m walking and for how long, but apparently being a spirit means that I have to leave those kinds of certainty behind. My body is probably still caught in the faerie ring, as blank as Imogen’s. I look down at my hands. They’re made of something less solid than skin but more than mist. The dowsing rod slipped out of my hands at some point, and now I don’t have the athame or Rush’s bow or the raven feather to point my way. I only have the moon — the same as our moon, a bright pin keeping the two places together. The dark sky is clear, glassy and black despite the towers of fog, but there are no stars here.

There is a strange claustrophobia to this place, one that plunges me inward. I still have my heartbeat, faint but louder than anything in this wordless, muted place. Or maybe it isn’t my heart at all. Maybe it’s a different pulse, a whispered truth.

She’s here.

She’s here.

She’s here.

When I find Imogen this time, there is no question. There is only a wisp of fog, different from all the other wisps.

Imogen’s spirit is wandering, and I know that feeling. We’ve all been acting like she must be in danger, or dangerous — not lost. The Grays worship Imogen so much that they can’t see that she’s like me, stumbling and searching, always looking for more, not always sure where to turn next.

“Imogen?” I ask.

When the wisp hears its name, it springs into a girl-shape, a vague and beautiful notion. She holds up her hand, and I match it to mine. Our fingertips kiss.

“Tell me a story,” Imogen says. It’s the voice from the hermit’s death. It’s the voice from the moment before Haven tried to kill me. I try not to be afraid.

“A story about what?” I ask.

“About Imogen,” she says.

At first I don’t understand. But she’s looking down at her shape like it’s hollow and meaningless. She needs to fill it. She needs to remember who she is.