“They’re gonna hit the window,” Germ says, but as these words leave her lips, the shapes gather along the bottom of the windowsill. The window creaks open as if they are lifting it, and the first of the moths flutter into the room.

They’re unlike any moths I’ve ever seen. Some are purple in the moonlight; some glow yellow and white. The patterns of sparkling, iridescent dust on their tiny wings move and change.

The creatures land gently on my mother’s bed. They crawl and flutter over her shape under her blankets. As they do, they seem to brighten and change color, as if they are taking something from my mother that charges their wings like batteries.

I feel my skin go cold. And it sinks in that this is not a dream, because in dreams things do not really hurt. But it hurts to watch this, because I know exactly what’s happening, as clear as day. They’re stealing everything that should make my mom love me. All the memories that add up to someone’s love. I feel the loss of it, watching them. All the things that have been taken.

Beside me, I see recognition crossing Germ’s face. First comes the look of shock, then sadness. Then a familiar kind of anger.

I see what she’s going to do a moment before she does it.

She can’t help it. Germ has always been my protector like I’ve always been hers.

Her fists are tight. Her face is clenched. She coils back.

“No!” I hiss, reaching for her—but it’s too late. She springs toward the closet door, knocking me forward, and we both tumble into the room.

Germ lunges toward my mom’s bed and slaps at the moths. Ebb zips forward as if to stop her, but falls right through her.

The moths scatter, and circle around our heads, once, twice, three times, as if sizing us up. Then they race toward the window—out, and up and away.

Germ freezes. My mom tosses in her sleep and lets out a small moan, but does not wake.

Ebb zips closer to the window and looks out, then back at me. “They must have picked up on Rosie’s sight,” he says. “That’s why they left so fast. A girl with the sight, in the house of a witch hunter.” He shoots a glare at Germ.

Germ looks wild-eyed and ashamed all at once. “I’m sorry. I just…”

But Ebb turns away from her and watches the sky, his face tight and fearful. Minutes pass; we wait—for what, I don’t know. Time moves slowly, but nothing happens. The sliver of moon pokes out of the clouds again and illuminates the room.

Ebb’s shoulders seem to relax a bit. He turns and looks at us. “I should never have shown you,” he says.