Hawthorn sinks to her knees, the apron she’s wearing stiff underneath her, the backs of her legs bare. She’s wearing ancient Chuck Taylors. I don’t know why, but that lodges in my brain. Barefoot witches in the woods are one thing. Teenage girls who help their moms make soap after school should not have to deal with this.

Lelia says, “We thought maybe Ora could —”

“No,” Hawthorn says, cutting her off.

“Hawthorn,” Rush says. “If she could help . . .”

“Ora would think we’re too young to handle it, okay?” Hawthorn says, stripping off her apron. “She’d want to bring in her whole coven. And some of them are really normal people in their daylight lives. Someone would call the police.”

“We’ve already touched the bones,” Lelia says. She looks to me and Rush. “All three of us.” Guilt closes in on us like night falling. “We need to know who the fuck that is,” Lelia says, nodding down at the skull.

“Right,” Hawthorn says. “Let’s go to the High Point.”

June takes the skull and stares right into it, through its hollowed-out eyes. “This isn’t like finding Sebastian,” she says. “That looked like a coincidence. This looks like . . .”

“Like we’re part of it,” Rush says.

“Aren’t we?” I ask.

The Grays close ranks, giving each other very important stares, none of them willing to offer me one. I think about turning around and leaving Hawthorn’s farm before another body turns up, but I know I’m a part of this, even if the Grays don’t consider me part of them.

We head out into the simmering gold afternoon. Hawthorn leads us toward the High Point, whatever that is. I look ahead of me, at the line of retreating backs climbing toward a rise, boots and sneakers and sandals swishing through the long grass, hips swaying, hands gripping bones.

I don’t believe that any of the Grays would kill someone. But I didn’t believe in ravens yesterday, and I was staring right at them.

The Grays: Now

Lelia sets to work, picking up the bones, putting them into some kind of order, giving them the shape of a body as best she can.

Danny dances back and forth, the kind of nervous ballet that makes Hawthorn want to brew some rose-hip tea and makes Lelia want to bash her own skull against a rock.

“What is it?” Lelia asks tightly.

“You seem to know a lot about human bones,” Danny says. “But you said that your magic doesn’t include people, right?”

Hawthorn holds up a palm. “Just because you’re a dowser doesn’t mean you’re invited to dive around in our personal lives.”