For a minute, I forget the smell of cat urine, the hunched woman before me, and even my fear—I forget everything except the feel of Tai’s hand in mine, and the obsessive magic of this place.

This house is the home to creatures I’ve never seen, too—with halves made of different animals. Half sparrow, half mouse. And spirits with almost-human features, contorted into cheerful or hostile expressions. I notice a fox that looks almost coy, and I remember a similar fox figurine resting on Mama’s bookshelves in the library, long-gone now.

She’s been here.

The woman hides behind her desk, as put off by us as we are by her. Her hands, curled into gnarled fists, clench again, and she winces. Arthritic, I’m guessing—thinking of Aunt Marion, whose own hands ache when the weather changes.

It occurs to me then: This woman wasn’t the one to carve these. At least not in years.

“No touching,” barks the woman, before recoiling, as if surprised by her own outburst. We both flinch away from the displays, even though we hadn’t come close to them.

“Where’s the money?” she asks, in a low growl.

“The carvings are incredible,” I offer.

“They’re creatures, not carvings,” she snaps, her voice a muted garble. “Who are you, then? I have very few visitors anymore.”

“No one special. A friend of ours told us to visit your shop,” I say. “She lived around here a long time ago.”

The woman jerks toward a chunky log book on the desk. “Your friend never came in my shop. Never.”

“How do you know?” Tai asks. “We haven’t told you anything about her.”

“I remember everyone who comes into my shop,” she says, thumbing through the book, “and no fancy woman ever came here.”

“We didn’t say she was a fancy woman,” Tai says, and I grab her hand. It’s bloodless, chilled.

The woman’s head whips up—her expression is one of unfathomable frustration. “This is my logbook, where I record everyone who comes into my shop. Now, I’m telling you that she did not come into my shop, ever.” She rocks herself gently with her knobby arms crossed, like she’s soothing herself. I move the pressure from one foot to the other, slippers crunching.

And I swear I hear the faint sound of heavy flesh being dragged along wood, somewhere above our heads. My bones turn to jelly, just as Tai digs her nails into the meat of my palm.