“Once,” the cloud shepherd says, “each of the thirteen witches was given a special whistle—forged for them by the Time Witch to help them travel into the past. The Memory Thief, forgetful as she is, lost hers one night. And your father found it in his nets.”

In the scene, my dad stares at something strange and small caught in the ropes of his fishing net. Then the scene vanishes, and another appears.

Now my dad is leading my mom down to a beach under a misty full moon. He opens his hand to her, and shows her what he’s found, and my breath catches in my throat. Even in the mist I recognize it. It’s the whistle I stole long ago from my mom’s room, with the shell engraved on it. The one that sits on my shelf back home.

“How did he know about magic, if he didn’t have the sight?” I ask.

“Love gave him the sight,” the cloud shepherd whispers. “Love can sometimes make us see what our loved ones do. And so, he gifted her with the magical item he had found. And it changed everything.”

I watch as, in the scene, my mom holds the whistle to her lips, and blows. And something rises out of the water. An enormous shape emerges from the waves.

My legs go weak. I take a deep breath.

This is the secret my mom found, I realize, my heart knocking around inside me. She was never talking about my dad waiting for her, swimming in the sea. She was talking about something else entirely.

There are three things that I know at once are true:

The sea really does contain the past.

The witches are hidden in it.

And now I know how my mother planned to reach them.

I don’t know I’m crying until the face of the cloud reappears, and reaches out a hand of mist to touch my cheek, and smiles sadly at me.

“My dad drowned at sea,” I say. “He’s never coming back, is he? I thought before, it might be him in the sea, but no. He’s gone Beyond.”

The face is blinking at me, watching me with concern and kindness. It nods.

“Does he still watch over me, even though he’s gone?” I ask.

“That mystery is the beating heart of the world,” the cloud whispers. “Even we don’t know.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees, feeling small.

“Why did my mom’s weapon fail?” I ask.

“Simply because each hunter has to use her own weapon, not someone else’s. A weapon has to be just yours, and its power is limited only by the boundaries of your own heart.”

I take this in. It’s something I should have figured out, from reading The Witch Hunter’s Guide.

“And what’s my weapon?” I ask.