She pauses, and I don’t speak. “You’ve suffered, Rosie. Would you like me to erase what you know?” she asks kindly, gently. “Would you like to forget the hidden fabric… me… your power… your brother? I could make you and your mother forget. Sometimes it’s easier to forget what we are responsible for and what we are supposed to do. Remembering means choosing,” she says.

I think about the magic and the witches and all the scary and beautiful things. How things were easier before I knew, but also harder. And I think that to wait for others to fight is not enough.

I shake my head.

I know that despite everything I want that’s different, and all the weeks I’ve pretended that I haven’t, I’ve already made my choice about whether I’m really a witch hunter or not.

CHAPTER 32

That night, while Germ sleeps on the floor, I climb down from the moon and tiptoe into my room, and pull a small engraved whistle from inside my pillowcase where I’ve been hiding it, and slip it and the small hourglass into my pocket. I tuck The Witch Hunter’s Guide into my backpack, knowing too well the terrors it contains: the Greedy Man, Hypocriffa, the Griever, Babble, Miss Rage, Chaos, Convenia, Mable the Mad, and more: witches with murder in their eyes and weapons to curse me.

Downstairs, after filling my backpack with a few sweaters and some food and my Lumos flashlight, I stare out the window at the night. The trees sway in the breeze.

I try to take heart.

There’s being comfortable, and then there’s being brave.

I write a note for my mom—saying that I’m doing it the way she wanted, that I’m not telling her before I go.

I open her door and look at her sleeping. “Please forgive me,” I whisper. Passing my door again, I peer in at Germ snoring for a moment, then keep walking, trying to step around the creaks.

Down at the beach, I almost lose my nerve. I listen to the familiar sounds of the waves on the beach and the other sounds of home, and wonder when or if I’ll ever hear them again. I hold my whistle to my lips, but before I blow, a noise behind me startles me.

Standing on the sand by the bottom of the cliffs, silhouetted by the moon, is Germ. She has her sleeping bag hastily rolled under one arm and wild just-woken-up hair. She’s waiting for an explanation, but it’s also as if—at least partly—she already knows. She knows I’m leaving.

“It’s true, the legends,” I say quietly. “The whale, the sea, time. All of it.” I hold up the photo of my brother.