The Lamb house had been well fortified. Wooden planks, nailed together in tight rows, blocked the windows. A tower of seed sacks leaned against the side door. Stones and broken glass speckled the front yard.

All was silent.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lucas asked.

Kara advanced slowly, careful to avoid the debris in her bare feet. “Fen’de Stone said my family was here.”

“Maybe at some point. It sure looks empty now.”

“I have to see for myself.”

They climbed the porch steps. Kara remembered her last visit to the house. It had been an unusually cold day, and Mrs. Lamb had given Taff a pair of mittens.

Hardly a season ago. It seemed like a lifetime.

“Hello!” Lucas shouted. He reached past Kara to knock on the front door, and she grabbed his arm, knowing with sudden certainty that Taff was dead and that if they stepped into this house there would be no turning back, and the loss of her brother would become a real thing, a forever thing. But it was too late. The door opened, and Jacob Lamb stepped onto the porch. Three days’ stubble roughened his cheeks, and he stank of moondrink. The wart beneath his eye leaked a thick, clear fluid.

He held a hatchet in his grimy hands.

“Come to gloat, witch?” he asked, his words a drunken slur. “You come to celebrate? We’re done for. All of us.”

“Where’s my father?” Kara asked.

Jacob leaned closer. His breath was warm and rank.

“Maybe she sent you. You’re one and the same. Evil through and through.” He gazed blankly at a point just to the left of Kara’s eyes. “We should have roasted you along with your mother when we had the—”

Suddenly Jacob stiffened. His throat emitted a low, rumbling sound.

“Drop the hatchet,” Lucas said, holding the fen’de’s dagger against Jacob’s neck. “Grace is our enemy. We have to work together, not fight with each other.”

Kara tensed, waiting for Jacob to do something. Lash out with the hatchet. Spit in her face. Grab the dagger from Lucas’s hand.

The last thing she expected him to do was cry.

“It ain’t fair,” he said, his eyes welling up. The hatchet slipped from his hands and clattered to the wood below. “Why did it have to be her? She never hurt anyone her whole life.”

A numbing cold sunk through Kara.

“Constance?” she asked.

Jacob winced at the mention of his wife’s name. “She ran. But she wasn’t fast enough, not for something like that.” He turned to Lucas. “Why didn’t it go after me, boy? I ain’t walked the Path like she did. Why didn’t it go after me instead?”

Lucas lowered his dagger. Kara stepped forward, intending to offer some words of consolation, but Jacob turned from her.

“I called her Connie, when we was alone,” Jacob said. Despite the tears a bright smile filled his face. “Even at the end, I was the only one she ever let call her that.”

He stumbled off the porch and into the bleak afternoon. They watched him for a few moments and then entered the dead woman’s house.

Father lay on the floor of the master bedroom, deeply asleep with no blanket to cover him. His breathing was light and rapid. Kara stepped over him and looked down at the small form in the bed. “Taff,” she whispered. Several quilts were tucked carefully beneath his chin, and a small washbowl filled with murky water sat on the table next to him. Even standing an arm’s length away Kara could feel the heat radiating off his body. The bandage around his head had been freshly changed, yet it did little to contain the black stench of infection that spoiled the air.

“You’re here,” Father said, joints cracking as he pushed himself into a sitting position. Though he seemed genuinely relieved, he looked too exhausted to embrace her. “I wanted to get you myself, but I couldn’t leave him.”

Kara studied her brother. There seemed less of him somehow. She was glad the windows had been boarded up. She feared the slightest breeze might blow him away.

“Taff is more important,” Kara said. “You did the right thing.”

“We should let him sleep. It’s the one comfort we can offer him right now.”

“I’ll wait here. Lucas is out back. He can tell you what happened.”

“We need to talk. There are decisions to be made.”

Father tried to take her by the arm, but Kara shook him off, so he sat on the edge of the bed and cupped her cheek with his hand. Kara’s tears ran freely between his fingers.

“It’s not your fault,” he said.

“I need to be here when he wakes up.”

“He’s not going to wake up, Moonbeam.”

It was the name—the name he hadn’t called her since before Mother died—that convinced her. She allowed him to guide her downstairs into the kitchen. He lit a small fire and heated a pot filled with thick gruel. Kara watched the flames sputter and crackle. She thought, Taff is going to die. Time passed. She looked down and saw a steaming bowl in front of her. Kara had no desire to eat, but her stomach grumbled rebelliously, responding to the smell.

Father sat across the table from her. His eyes were red and swollen but filled with a clarity she hadn’t seen in years, as though this latest sorrow had awoken him at last.

“He hasn’t spoken for two days,” he said. “I change his bandage, make sure he’s clean. Cover him with quilts when he’s cold. Pry open a few planks when he’s warm. I don’t know what else to do.”

“There are weeds in the Fringe that can cool his temperature,” Kara said. “That’s the most important thing. We have to control his fever to give his body a chance to fight the infection. I can leave now, be back with what we need before nightfall.”

Father shook his head.

“I don’t pretend to know as much about healing as you do. But I know when an infection has made its home for good.”

“Wendsdil might help too. Hard to find this time of year, but not—”

“It’s a fool’s errand.”

“I’m not giving up!”

Father looked at her, his eyes hard. “I’m not either. We’re leaving the island first thing tomorrow. Six families in total, plus a few children with nowhere else to go.” He spoke the words slowly, for even now the thought of leaving De’Noran was difficult for him. “If we follow the shore and avoid the village, we should be fine. We aim to steal the ferry and take our chances in the World. I’ve heard there are medicines there that can cure anything.”

“It’s a three-day journey, Father. What if he doesn’t make it?”

“We have to try.”

“We can heal him first and then go.” Kara’s voice grew quiet. “There’s a spell.”

Father absentmindedly stroked his chin. Usually there was stubble there, but he was clean-shaven today. “So it’s true,” he said. “What they say about you.”

“No! I mean, I can do magic—that part’s right—but I never meant to hurt anyone! I was trying to protect Taff. I’m not bad, not like they say! You believe me, Father, don’t you? Please tell me you believe me!”

Kara’s father did not reply. Instead he gathered her into his arms, and Kara let herself sob freely. It had been years since he’d held her, and it felt so good to feel safe and protected. To be a little girl again.

When Kara returned to her seat, she was suddenly starving. “Grace knows a spell that can cure Taff,” she said between mouthfuls of gruel. “I have to convince her to help me somehow. Or maybe I can steal the grimoire and—”

“No,” said Father.

“No?”

“That’s right. No.” He removed a notebook from his back pocket. Kara half expected him to pull out a quill and start writing the usual words, but instead he just twisted the book in his hands. “I realize I haven’t been the best parent since your mother died, but you are still a twelve-year-old girl, and I am still your father. And I am telling you no.”

“You can’t—”

“You’ve been locked up in a cell. You have no idea how Grace Stone has changed. That girl has killed people, Kara. You can’t just waltz into the village and expect her to listen to reason.”

“What other choice do I have?”

“Heal Taff yourself.”

Kara slammed her hands against the table in frustration.

“You’re not listening to me! Even if I wanted to use magic again, even if I knew what spell to cast, Grace has the grimoire!”

Father shook his head. “Grace has Abigail’s grimoire.” He slid the battered notebook across the table. “You have your mother’s.”

Kara stared at the book. Dumbfounded.

“Father?” She spoke slowly and softly, as she did whenever he had an episode. “That’s just a schoolbook. There’s nothing magic about it. You can buy one at the general store for three browns.”

“One of your mother’s more clever ideas, actually. From what she told me, most witches’ grimoires are bulky, ornate tomes—a bit of an ego thing, apparently. What better way to hide it than as a simple notebook?”

“But you’ve written in hundreds of these. I’ve seen you!”

“You assumed there was more than one book, because that’s the reasonable thing to think. But magic isn’t a thing of reason.”

He opened the book and folded it back to the most recent entry of FORGIVE ME sliced into the page. Kara watched as a single E bubbled to the surface and cascaded down the page, vanishing before it hit the kitchen table.

“Every day I fill this book,” Father said. “And by morning it’s blank again. Every day. For seven years.”

He held out the book to her, his hands trembling. Kara looked into his eyes and saw the pleading there: Please take it. Please rid me of this curse.

Kara took it.

She knew the moment she touched the book that it was indeed her mother’s. This is right, it seemed to be saying. You have found your path at last.

Kara opened the book.

Her father’s words had vanished, replaced by the same liquid-black leaves she had seen in Grace’s grimoire. Kara placed her finger into one of them and sent concentric ripples to the four corners of the page.

My mother used this page to cast a spell, she thought. But it’s closed to me.

Kara turned to the next two pages. Both black. She flipped frantically through the book, trying to control her rising panic. Black, black, black. Is this some sort of joke? Why would Mother leave me a useless spellbook? She flipped the book over and started from the back. The last page was torn and yellowed with age, but blank. Except that one doesn’t count, Kara thought, remembering Abigail’s horrifying final screams. I can’t cast it. She flipped to the previous page and sighed with relief: At least she could use this one.

Kara worked her way backward, counting castable pages. It did not take long.

“Five spells,” she said. “That’s all she left me. Not counting the Last Spell, which is—”

“—not an option. Ever.”

Father’s quick response surprised her. “You sound like you know a lot about it,” Kara said.

Father shrugged wearily. “Just enough,” he said. “Helena explained it to me one night and never spoke of it again, which was fine by me—I could overlook the fact that she was a witch because I couldn’t imagine a life without her, but I never got comfortable listening to the details. She said that a grimoire, like a lantern, needs fuel to power it—except instead of kerosene it burns the life force of witches foolish enough to have used it. When such a witch is all used up—when the grimoire has sapped her completely dry—she just fades from existence. This process might take decades. Or centuries. But according to your mother—and I have no reason to doubt her—the pain is so excruciating that you would be driven mad within the first hour.” Father looked at her with a curious expression. “But all it takes is one spell to heal Taff. As far as I can tell, you have more magic than you need.”

Kara leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. There was no longer any need to confront Grace at all. The spell Kara needed to save her brother’s life was right in her hands.

Once she figured out how to cast it.

Kara filled the washing basin and splashed some water onto her face, then tied her hair back so it wouldn’t get in her eyes. The candle next to Taff’s bed had been reduced to a misshapen stub, so she worked with the last vestiges of daylight filtering through the wooden beams.

She placed the grimoire on the bed and smoothed the first blank leaf with a trembling hand.

This is going to work. The other grimoire only let me conjure creatures, but this is different. This is Mother’s—and Mother was a healer.

Taff’s breathing had become even weaker since she had last seen him. There was a fresh spot of blood on his pillow, where he had turned and coughed in his sleep. Thin blue veins pressed against his skin.

He already looked more dead than alive.

She laid her hand over the notebook. Unlike Aunt Abby’s grimoire, this one did not call to her; there were no seductive promises of power. On the one hand, this was encouraging. Maybe a grimoire could be good or evil, and if so this one was definitely good. That meant it would be more likely to grant her a healing spell.

On the other hand, some kind of sign would have been nice. When Kara touched the page of the grimoire, she felt nothing. Summoning animals had become second nature to Kara, and although she had not used magic in over a week, she had little doubt she could still do it with ease. Casting a healing spell was not the same thing. Conjuring was a language she spoke. Healing wasn’t.

With no idea what to do, Kara wished for Taff to be well again.

Nothing happened.

She commanded him to be well, and when that didn’t work, she said it out loud. “Taff Westfall, let your wounds heal and your body be whole again!”

For a moment she thought the page might have moved slightly, but she decided that it was just a wisp of breeze playing a trick on her.

Kara strained harder, visualizing a Taff shed of his illness. His cheeks no longer wan but rosy with health. His laugh, bursting with life. Kara bent forward until her forehead pressed against the notebook. She reached out and took Taff’s cold hand in her own, willing him to health with feverish intensity until her clothes were soaked with sweat and the room’s last remaining candle burned away.

Taff’s hand remained motionless.

Kara picked up her chair and hurled it across the room. “Why isn’t this working?” she screamed. “Am I a witch or not?” There was a concerned knock at the door, but Kara ignored it and eventually it stopped. “What do I do? Will someone please tell me what to do?” She touched her locket for strength, then climbed into bed and cradled Taff in her arms. It was like holding fire—except flames, at least, flickered with life. The only sign that Taff remained in this world was a vague flutter in his chest.

Nothing so fragile could ever survive the journey to the World. Her magic had been his last, desperate hope.

If Kara could have taken his illness as her own, she would have done so without hesitation. However, there was no spell for such an act of redemption, so she simply held Taff close, allowing guilt to envelop her like a black cocoon. None of this would have happened if I had followed the Path and listened to the lessons of my people. They had been right the entire time: Magic was a corrupting force, an evil temptation that could lead only to darkness and death. She had been a fool, and her brother had paid the price.

The night grew dark and quiet. Eventually the heat of Taff’s body against her own became so unbearable that she slid a little to her right, and in doing so felt something unusual beneath the blankets. A book. At first Kara thought it was the useless spellbook, but no—this new book had fewer pages, not all the same size. Kara turned to the first page and, squinting through the darkness, was able to make out a child’s drawing. There was a boy and, judging from the length of hair, a girl. . . .

With a thrill of recognition, Kara realized that it was the book she and Taff had created together. Father said that Taff had still been able to speak earlier in the week—he must have insisted that they bring it here. Kara wondered if Father had actually read it to him. A mere week ago, he would have burned the book after the first mention of magic, but she supposed that in this new world a small bit of comfort was worth far more than superstition.

But had it just been for comfort? Or is Taff trying to send me a message?

An idea burst to life, a swarm of glow-wings in her head.

“That’s insane,” Kara said. “That can’t possibly work.”

And yet . . . would it hurt to try?

Resting the grimoire on her lap, Kara closed her eyes. Without a live example to work from, she was forced to envision the Jabenhook in her mind, in much the same way she had pictured a healthy Taff. The results, at first, were dishearteningly similar. But then she felt something. A vague sensation of pulling, as though the spell were a lost memory just out of reach but right there, right within her grasp, if only she could find the clues to lead her there.

And so Kara told the story.

“Long before the remembrance of the oldest man on earth, there was a boy called Samuel. He and his sister liked to play with tadpoles and climb tall trees and dance to the music of the river, until one day Samuel was visited by a dread sickness and could not play any longer.”

The words, so often repeated, came easily. As is always the case with the best stories, the mere telling of it was a comfort, and by the time Samuel and his sister spoke to the Spider Lady, Kara’s mind had been primed to embrace the impossible. Her fingertips drifted toward the open grimoire, and strange new sigils rose to the surface. Golden light, brighter than the sun, speared the cracks between window boards.

“As Samuel lay in bed shivering, the Jabenhook drifted across the room. . . .”

Kara opened her eyes. There was no need to finish the story.

The Jabenhook had arrived.

It was different than she’d imagined it. Kara had no idea how this was possible—the creature was, after all, a figment of her imagination—but so it was. Its wings were the same golden hue she had pictured in her head, but their span was so much greater, even greater than the room itself, the wing tips (flecked with green, another new detail) forced to bend against the walls, giving the impression that, instead of hovering above Taff, the Jabenhook was holding itself up. Its eyes—a gentle amber that spoke of sleepy summer days and long naps in the shade—gazed down at Taff like a new mother.

“Thank you,” Kara said. If it happened the same way it did in the story, it was going to be fast, and she wanted to make sure she had a chance to say it.

In this most important aspect, at least, the story proved true. Opening its fleshy beak, the Jabenhook cawed, the sound monstrously loud in such a confined area. Taff’s bedpan clattered to the floor, and the walls shook in response, jarring loose what little glass remained in the window frames. Kara heard pounding at the door, but the Jabenhook’s left wing held it firmly shut.

From Taff’s mouth something was rising.

It was black and viscous and alive, a shapeless lump of cruelty and hopelessness. The cough that comes with a wet morning and never leaves. The mad crush of stone and earth. A baby’s cry, cut off in the middle of the night.

It was death itself, cold and calculating and implacable.

The Jabenhook ate it.

If Kara had blinked, she would have missed the feeding entirely. The Jabenhook was fast, impossibly fast, snatching her brother’s Death from the air as easily as a bird plucking a worm. There were no sounds of swallowing; its beak clacked shut, and that was all. For a brief moment, the Jabenhook regarded her with what might have been bemusement, then blinked out of existence. In the story it had left Samuel a feather, but here the only proof of the Jabenhook’s visit was the faint smells of pinecones and honeysuckle.

The door crashed open. Father and Lucas burst into the room.

“Are you all right?” Lucas asked. “We heard strange noises, but no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t break down . . .”

Lucas’s words trailed off when he saw Taff sitting on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs back and forth.

“Is it dinnertime yet?” Taff asked.