The birds fly over the woods in case copper has dropped something, hoping they might pluck a shiny soul from the ground and bring it back to her. They search and search, and one day they find a girl walking, a copper girl whose eyes flash dark.

The birds land and look at her, shifting on their pebbled legs.

Not the same girl.

She glares at the birds. Then she tries giving them a smile, buried bright, her shine covered with dark earth. The birds want to dig at her until they have the rest. They are hungry for shine.

They fly toward her. She screams at them.

The ravens consider leaving Tempest. One of their witch-flock has gone dull, the others are leaking sorrow. But when they circle the edges of town, they do not want to untie themselves. They are part of this knot. They cannot leave without letting the witches go.

The witches are known.

The witches are good.

The birds scream at one another.

Help. Help.

Danny: Now

I’m looking around in circles. I lost her. It’s like Imogen was swept away by the fog, while I was dumped out here.

Why?

The question breaks into pieces as the Grays run toward me, a tumble of skin in four different shades.

They’re naked.

If there was any bit of fog left in my body, it clears as I stare at the Grays. I drink in curves and angles. I blush at unforgiving beauty. And then I wince away, like I’ve been staring too long at the sun.

I close my eyes, and in the darkness, I hear music. It takes me a second to realize that Rush is singing.

The same three notes, over and over.

June hops up and down, clapping her hands. “Danny followed the exact path we did the last time we were in the woods with Imogen. She came to the spot where we saw her before . . .”

Before they lost her.

This is where I lost Imogen, too, or at least the feeling of her. But not entirely. There’s still a trace. I describe all of that, as best as I can, with words that feel like they can’t possibly contain the whole truth.

Lelia is wearing her eternal frown, but Hawthorn pinches the stem of her silver glasses, which I guess she gets to wear even when she’s skyclad. She looks at me like I’m something rare.

“You’re a dowser,” Hawthorn says.

It’s a word I’ve heard before but never really paid attention to. “Don’t they find water?”

Hawthorn takes a deep breath and looks set to give the definition, but Rush beats her to this one, words tripping to get out. “Dowsers have searching magic. They find what’s hidden, precious, out of reach. A lot of the time that means water. Some look for oil or gemstones. Forgotten graves.”