She looks at me, waiting to hear what happened in the woods. When I hesitate, she presses.

“Did you catch the cloud shepherd?”

I nod.

“Did it tell you anything important?”

I look at her for a long moment. And then I shake my head. This may be the first lie I’ve ever told Germ, even with a nod or a shake. But I’m thinking of the whistle, and the shape that rose from the waves. And I decide, I will keep my mom’s great secret a secret for now. The witch I’m after is here on earth, hiding somewhere in the now. And that’s my only concern.

I look around me at the spectacle of hundreds of ghosts gathered on my lawn. “What are they singing?” I ask. I see that Homer and Ebb are now floating toward us.

“It’s a song for Crafty Agatha,” Germ says, turning solemn as she follows my eyes. “I guess it turns out that when a ghost is killed by a witch, it’s forever. No going Beyond. She’s just”—Germ looks down sadly—“been turned into nothing.”

Floating up beside her, Homer shakes his head. “We’re singing to the moon, in a language even the earth can understand, to mourn her. We’re mourning that witches exist at all.”

I think of Crafty Agatha, who never bothered or hurt anybody. And my heart fills with rage at all that the witches have done. What could the world be like without them? What if their ugliness and greed were not just an inevitable thing? I guess that question is what sent my mom wandering across the earth looking for ways to destroy them in the first place. For once, I can imagine what compelled her so strongly to go.

“Does the singing help?” I ask.

Homer tilts his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know why it helps to just share how we feel, and to sing something beautiful at the darkness, but it does.” He clears his throat and wipes a small tear from the corner of his eye.

“How are you feeling, my dear? I hear you were touched by the witch?”

“Just barely.” I think about the strange sense of memories being lost, yet still leaving their mark on my heart. I think of my mom and how it must feel for her, to have it go so much deeper. “I feel a little… empty in places?” I admit.

“You must have the smallest graze of a curse, but manageable,” he says. “The moths may pilfer a memory or two here and there if they can get close to you. But you got very lucky, considering.” He looks at me a long time, sympathetic.

“Ebb told me what you learned from the Murderer,” he says sadly.

I swallow. “Do you think my brother could still be alive?” I ask.