Made of mist like the clouds they guide, the cloud shepherds watch the happenings of the world from above. They are rain keepers, snow spillers, wind blowers. They are restless observers. They climb high over towns, wrap themselves around forests, whip over the waves. They’ve seen dinosaurs thrive, Atlantis sink, and Pompeii fall under ashes. And all the while, they watch the world, and listen, and see all. With a bird’s-eye view and a vast memory, they know almost everything about human affairs and have memories of each person on earth.

They will sometimes share their knowledge if only you can reach them, but they are extremely elusive—only touching earth in fog: grazing mountaintops, lying over the water, and they will dissipate and disappear when approached. Like the Moon Goddess, they do not interfere.

I sit back. What I would give to find a cloud shepherd and talk to it. But I suppose the likelihood of catching a cloud is about as high as the likelihood of pinning down the edge of a rainbow.

My eyelids are heavy, and none of this is helping me to uncover the secrets of killing a witch. I lay the book down, then walk up to my room and watch out the window as the sun sets. As it does, the magical world comes into focus.

Up in the sky, the cloud shepherds—now that I know what they are—move about, changing shapes as they go. The phantom ships materialize on the horizon, and the moon rises at the lip of the sea, its ladder dangling.

A light fog drifts up from the ocean and across the lawn. And then the ghosts begin to arrive. They emerge from the wispy edges of the fog—there must be twenty or more, and I catch my breath as I watch them.

Five peel off toward the house: the knitting woman I saw last night in the parlor, and the washerwoman from this morning (the two appear to be friends). The starfish-covered sailor in the yellow rain slicker, the lady in white. And—I shiver—the Murderer. As if he feels my eyes on him, he looks up at where I stand, and I go still with fright. For a moment our eyes meet, and his bore into mine with hatred.

Then the group drifts below and out of sight, no doubt floating into the rooms below.

After watching for another minute, I’ m just about to turn away from the view when I see Ebb. He’s standing at the edge of the trees across the lawn, apparently obeying my request not to come into the house, which makes me feel a pang of regret. (I’d much rather have Ebb here than the Murderer.) He doesn’t notice me, though. For some reason he appears to be whispering to a cluster of fireflies.