But why did Oliver come here now, to Willa Walker’s resting place—a Walker who wept into the lake and made it bottomless? Who cried more than any Walker who ever lived. Whose tears were said to be as salty as the sea. Whose nightshade could drown the world.

I hold my palm against the gravestone, as if I could feel the past within the worn surface. As if I could see Oliver standing over the grave and recall what he felt, conjure up the thoughts that clattered around inside his skull. If only that was my nightshade, to draw forth memories from objects. Then I’d always know the truth.

But no memories skip through me, and I release my hand, lowering it to my side. If I were any other Walker, I might be able to glean some hint of the past, conjure some speck of moonlight to show me what I cannot see. But instead, I feel only the cold air against my neck. The snow beneath my feet. Nothing of worth.

Still I wonder, why did Oliver come here? What was he looking for?

What does he remember?

My hands tremble, and I feel an odd swaying sensation in my chest, like the trees and the charcoal sky are wobbling, rolling like a ship about to capsize. It happened last night in my room, this morning on the porch. And now again. Like the world is teetering along the edges of my vision, about to slip out of alignment.

I blink and force the sensation away.

Beside me, Fin’s nose twitches in the air and he skims past my legs, back out through the cemetery gate—trailing the footprints that circle back around to the lake. Oliver didn’t wander any deeper into the cemetery; he didn’t linger. He came to Willa’s grave and then left.

Maybe he hated it here as much as I do.

The sad-looking graves and the bones resting beneath the soil. The constant wind coiling along my neck. The fear that I might see one of the dead, loping among the dying trees, unaware of what they are. Gray, rotted fingers reaching out for me. Pleading. Trying to draw me farther into the cemetery. Don’t be afraid, my grandma would tell me whenever we passed by here. All Walkers can see the dead.

But I don’t want to see one tonight, so I stand and walk to the cemetery gate.

Fin starts up the shore again, toward the boys’ camp, but I call him back.