“You’ve come a long way with your little friend.” The Memory Thief nods to Little One. “But you’ve been very foolish. It’s not for children to defeat witches, no matter what the storybooks say. And it’s not for sweet little birdies, either.” The Memory Thief stands, frowning at me. “I know how it is. You want to hold so tight to the things you love, never let them go. But only I can truly hold on to the past, Rosie. Not you.”

I start to feel a prick of panic. Because I’m realizing quickly, she’s not afraid that I’ve found her, and not afraid of Little One. As frail as the Memory Thief appears, she does not seem frightened at all.

Unintentionally, her eyes dart toward the ground. It’s the only warning I get. I look down and let out a cry.

Moths have crawled into the room, thousands of them. They cover the floor and, though I haven’t noticed them, are all over my legs.

I stumble backward with a cry. I grasp my flashlight and shine it down at my legs.

Little One dives, but is instantly swarmed by moths. They’re on her so fast and thick that her wings flap only once before she tumbles onto the ground. She flaps madly, tries to lift off again, but they’re clinging to her back, her beak, her tail.

And then I feel a cold hand grip my arm, and I turn as my flashlight is pulled out of my grasp. The Memory Thief darts backward, my flashlight in her hands. And just like that, she reaches the one small window, extends her arm, and drops my flashlight out.

I watch in horror as Little One, in her struggle with the moths, flickers a few times and then disappears completely. A cacophony rises from below, thousands of moths rising from the canyon into the air.

I turn my eyes to the cage of my mother’s memories, lying on its side near the rocking chair. I lunge for it, but the Memory Thief is there in a moment, blocking my way, shaking her head. She latches one gnarled hand on to my arm, and her grip is like steel—nothing like the touch of the frail woman she appears to be.

“It looks like you’ve come all this way, dear, to be disappointed. Witches can’t be killed. You must have been told that, and still you’ve come. You were right when you burned your stories that night. Oh yes, I know about that. There is no magic in the world to speak of. Not the kind you hoped for, at least.”

She holds her free hand out above the floor, and the moths begin to rise. They start to land on me, though I try to knock them away. But I’m covered, drowning in dusty shimmering wings.