The patch of cloud that floats ahead of me acts strangely. Whenever I speed up, it does too, and whenever I slow down, it too slows. It wants to be followed, but at a distance, it seems. So one after the other, the cloud and I snake our way through the trees.

I’m tired and my feet hurt and my heart feels heavy. And though I’m determined to keep up with the cloud, with every step, I’m thinking about only one thing: I had a brother.

Small mysteries click together, now making sense—my feeling of missing a second half, my mom’s long days of staring out the window at the sea. He’s out there, swimming. Waiting for me.

The Murderer said that’s where they took him and dropped him in.

And there is one thing I know now, most of all: it was never some powerful secret that saved me at the hospital that night, not any key to undoing witches. It was a mistake. I should have been taken, not him.

This is the thought that makes my feet as heavy as lead. I have to force myself to keep going or I’d curl into a ball and never get up.

Soon I can hear the ocean again, louder and louder, and I know I must be getting close to the shore. It’s mistier here. The wet air tickles my face, and I squint to see the cloud ahead as it blends with its surroundings.

And then I take a step and nearly fall over as my stomach drops out from under me. I am standing on the edge of a cliff overhanging the sea.

I jerk back and steady myself. The cloud has disappeared ahead of me into the fog. I can’t follow any farther.

My hope faltering, I call out, “Hello?”

Nothing but stillness. I begin to panic.

“Please come back!”

Nothing.

I sink down to sit at the cliff’s edge.

Don’t give up, sweetie, I think.

But the truth is, I give up.

I stare down at the ground between my knees for a few minutes, thinking I’d rather be a blade of grass, an ant, a speck of dirt—anything but a girl who can’t save her mom, a twin with a missing half. I’ve tried my best and accomplished nothing. I’ve only found more trouble than I started with.

And then I feel a tickle of moist air on my cheek, and look up.

The cloud is hovering inches away from me.

I see a face loom out of it, made of mist—a round face that disintegrates and rearranges into a long and thin face, then into a bushy-browed face, and then it has no eyebrows at all. But every face appears to be a kind one. It smiles at me gently again and again as it changes.