“Ah, yes, yes, yes,” the witch said. “I arrived very recently. Although I doubt I’ll be able to stay long.”

Through the parlor they went and then through a dining room filled with a long spiral-wood table. A chandelier topped with melted candles hung above, swinging slightly in an unfelt draft.

Then they entered a small, cluttered kitchen at the very back of the house. Well-worn copper pots and tinted glass jars and what seemed like a hundred teacups littered the counters. The appliances were faded and old-fashioned.

“Have a seat,” the witch said, gesturing toward a little table in the kitchen’s center. “I will make some tea for us. There is no milk, but there may be sugar.”

She began opening cabinets. Each one squeaked as if it had not been touched in years. Wunder found a rusty stool and sat down. He couldn’t tell if the kitchen table was made of DoorWay Tree wood because it was completely hidden. Newspapers were spread everywhere.

Faye sat next to him on a paint-flecked wooden chair.

“Remember,” she hissed. “Don’t drink anything. Pretend if you have to.”

“She’s not a witch,” Wunder whispered back.

But he wasn’t so sure. He was less sure now than ever. He watched as the witch found an iron teakettle and filled it with water from the tap. He watched as she lit the gas stove with a long red-tipped match and then set the kettle on the flames. Her movements were easy and fluid. It was if she were two people at once: the old woman with the wrinkled face, and someone else, someone young with long black hair and strong limbs.

And with every passing second, it seemed more and more likely that the stone of his heart was going to split wide open. He had let go of Faye’s hand, but he was still clutching his own side so tightly that his fingertips were tingling. Everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus, like a dream.

“Wunder,” Faye whispered, interrupting his thoughts. “Look down.”

Wunder looked down at the table.

And right into his sister’s face.

Chapter 17

The newspaper on the table was open to Milagros’s obituary. Wunder’s father had put it in the paper the day before her funeral, although Wunder’s mother had not wanted him to do that either. In the picture, Milagros was wearing the little white knit cap that they had given her at the hospital. She was surrounded by tubes and wires, and she was looking at the camera with serious eyes, black eyes.

“They’re all open to the obituaries,” Faye whispered to him.

“The tea is almost ready,” the witch said from the counter where she was selecting teacups. “And I have much to talk about with you two. Yes, yes, yes. There is much to discuss.”

Wunder looked from his sister’s eyes to the other newspapers. More faces gazed up at him. Family pictures and individual portraits, a man in a military uniform, a young woman smiling in front of a red-roofed house. Faye was right. They were all obituaries.