“You have to come up with some kind of . . . correspondence,” Hawthorn says. She hasn’t started with the basics of magic since the Grays were first learning. It feels like taking a thousand steps backward and then working her way forward through thick mud. And then there’s the fact that everything she taught the Grays was supposed to make their lives better, and now she feels like she’s patching together survival tactics. “Every element in a spell stands in for something else. You’re building a metaphor, then bringing it to life. Like, when Rush sings, every note has meaning. The mode she chooses . . .”

“That’s like the key . . .” Rush adds, her voice a shimmering overlay.

“That means something, too,” Hawthorn finishes.

“Your songs are spells?” Danny asks, staring at Rush with an amazed, hopeless intensity that the other Grays pick up on right away.

“What did you think they were?” Lelia asks. “Top forty witch radio?”

“Everything we do has intention,” Hawthorn says. “Most magic doesn’t change the world. It’s about being in the world. Appreciating its gifts.” The words sound rote, even to Hawthorn. She grew up believing them. But two dead people are not exactly what she would call gifts.

Danny is light on her feet, and watching her pour herself into the work is a bit of shine against black clouds. This girl is a silver lining come to life. Gray turned bright and beautiful.

She picks up bones and puts them back down. She hummingbirds around the skeleton. It took them long enough, but the Grays finally start paying attention to the girl in front of them.

This is how the Grays fall in love. This is how the Grays do everything.

In the weirdest possible way.

This is how they go down.

Together.

Danny: Now

Ican feel the Grays watching me, eyes at my back, but I can’t think about them right now.

This is between me and the bones.

Here is the curved plate of a skull. Here is the ridge of a collarbone. Here is the tiny, impossible bone of a fingertip.

I look over each one until I’ve oriented myself. Like staring at the stars until they form constellations. Those stars are the bones of the universe. Dead and gone, but they still shine white, white, white.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

The bones are silent. Their secrets don’t budge. This isn’t how spells work, according to Hawthorn. I can’t talk to a person who used to be there. It’s like trying to walk in the front door of a house that doesn’t have one anymore. I need to find another way in. I need to craft a bridge. I need to build a spell.