Lelia pulls out a joint and lights it with the metallic snap of a Zippo. This is quickly becoming a normal sight — people here seem to smoke as much as they drank back in Michigan. After a quick inhale, Lelia hands the small bony joint off to Rush and lets out the smoke. “I mostly look for portents in nature, and pieces to use in spells. Rocks, herbs, flowers, bark. Imogen was . . . is a water witch,” Lelia says, fielding a frustrated head shake from June. It’s way too soon for past tense. “Water is in a lot of things, specifically people. I mean, humans are basically waterbeds with feelings.”

“Imogen has a lot of sway with people,” June confirms as she passes to me.

I take the joint and slip the wet paper between my lips, invite the burn into my lungs. I’ve only done this a few times; I’m not an expert. The smoke tastes like someone lit Mom’s spice cabinet on fire, and I let it out with a cough. “I’m sure Imogen’s sway over people had nothing to do with her being this really gorgeous, pale redhead who makes being a witch look cool instead of something that sends people running for the nearest torch.”

I hold the joint out to Hawthorn, my arm extended. The pinprick of red glows fiercely, like it’s trying to burn a hole through the world. The smoke travels from my lungs to my brain, where it clouds my worries, giving them weight.

I shouldn’t have said that.

The Grays want me to find Imogen, not have opinions.

Hawthorn waves off the joint, and I pass it back to Lelia, starting another round.

“Ora said something like that once,” Hawthorn says, pulling her arms tight across her chest even though it’s barely cold out. Of course, cold is all a matter of perspective, and mine was forged in zero-degree winters. “When my mother met Imogen, she said, ‘That girl might have magic in her heart, but never forget how much of her power is handed right to her by other people.’ ”

Rush takes the joint, but she doesn’t smoke. I realize that she’s just been staring at it, quietly, and passing. “Yeah,” she finally says. “People love Imogen.”

“The hermit has his own kind of power, not really magic,” Hawthorn says. “It’s this way of looking at people and seeing what they’re hiding from themselves.”

“Is he going to come out here or . . . ?”

June nods me toward the tree. “He waits for people to come to him.”