Hawthorn’s hand dives into the pocket of her patchwork dress, and she comes up with a piece of citrine. “That’s a little simplistic, but yeah.”

Lelia shouts back, “Believe me, no matter how intense your mom is, she can’t be as harsh as the Lillys.”

I’ve never really thought about Imogen’s family before.

In my head, the Grays are her family.

We round the corner of the mechanic’s shop and emerge next to a mural dedicated to the glory of Northern California, mostly surfers and redwoods and grape farming. It’s cheesy, but the colors are perfectly chosen, soft yellows and shadow green and the slap of Pacific blue. In front of the mural is a small group of the largest birds I’ve ever seen.

Ravens.

They’re something I’ve heard about but never actually seen. I am staring right at them, and I don’t believe they exist. I’d always assumed they would be larger versions of crows. But it’s more than that. They are deeply, darkly black, weighty and huge, their glossy sides overstuffed, as if they’ve been swallowing shadows. Or secrets.

Lelia crouches down to their level. The ravens’ eyes fix on us, and I almost run. “They’ve been vocal lately,” Lelia says. “I figured as long as they keep showing up, they might as well help us with your dowsing rod.”

“Wow,” I say, because I’ve got nothing else. Just air that needs to come out of my lungs. Wonder that needs to spill out of my mouth.

“Pretty amazing, right?” Lelia asks, clearly liking my reaction. She stands and sets an arm around my shoulders. We’ve never stood this close before, and I get a whiff of nutty suntan lotion and aggressively minty mints.

Rush watches the birds in a way that makes it clear she’s got us at the edge of her vision.

“Ravens are the best finders in these woods,” Lelia says, pounding my shoulder. “They’ve been bringing me stuff since I was eleven. Having one of their feathers will add serious power to a dowsing rod.”

“You’re not actually going to . . . pluck one of those birds, are you?” I ask.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lelia runs at the ravens screeching, but it’s a joyful sound. She truly doesn’t care what anyone — at least any human — thinks of her. I do wonder if she’s trying to impress the ravens, though. They take off, shredding the air with sound.

When I look back at the ground, they’ve left a dark snowfall of feathers. Lelia swoops to pick one up, kisses it three times, and twirls it as she hands it to me. “What do you think?” she asks.