I look out through the gray day, light leaking back into the corners.
“What do we need to do,” I ask, “to make things right?”
“Well, first,” says Magda, finishing her tea and pushing herself to her feet. “First, you’ve got to find the witch’s body. You’ve got to find the bones.”
“And put them to rest,” murmurs Dreska, almost with reverence.
“Properly buried.”
“Properly kept.”
“That is the way with witches.”
“And with all things.”
“Where?” I ask, standing.
“Where she lived,” they answer.
The sisters lead us from the house. Outside, the air is cool, not bitter, but enough to make my skin prickle.
“Yes, I know it’s around here somewhere,” says Magda, scratching her wrinkled cheek with a dirt-caked nail. “Ah yes, right there.” She points to the second patch between the cottage and the low stone wall, the one beyond her garden. The patch that’s always seemed scraped clean, strangely bare in a place overrun with grass and weedy flowers. I lean down and realize that the ground, close up, is burned. Barren, devoid of grass. I run my fingers over it, the whole patch turned to mud from the storm. It doesn’t make sense. The fire would have been centuries ago. The grass should have recovered. And yet, I can almost see the scorch marks. As if the ground’s been freshly ruined.
“This was her house,” I murmur.
“And the garden’s almost ready,” says Dreska, gesturing down at the soil bed between the stone cottage and the scorched spot of land. Magda’s garden. It was the Near Witch’s first.
“The witch deserved respect, in life and death,” says Magda, so quietly that Dreska shouldn’t be able to hear. And yet they nod beside each other, heads bobbing at slightly different paces. “Instead what she got was fear, and then fire and murder.”
“But how will we find the bones?” I ask. “They could be anywhere.”
Dreska lifts a tired hand to the east, to the open moor.
“That is the way they took her body. That is the way you’ll find the bones. How far out, I do not know.”
A hand comes to rest against my shoulder, and Cole is there, behind me.
“We’ll find them,” he promises. Magda and Dreska turn back to the house, and we are alone at the edge of Near.
“It seems impossible,” I say, my back still to him. “Where do we even start?”
I look out at the moor, and my heart sinks. The world rolls away. Endless. Hill after hill after hill, flecked with trees. The moor always seems to be eating things. Half-digested rocks and logs jut out from the sloping hillsides. And somewhere out there, it has swallowed the Near Witch, too.
I LOOK OUT AT THE UNENDING hills, and all I feel is hopeless.
Cole takes a step forward, but I pull him back.
“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head. “We can’t just walk out onto the moor. We need a plan. And they’re going to come for you, Cole. Otto and his men will follow us.”
He just looks at me.
“There are people I need to visit. I can be as persuasive as my uncle when I need to be.” I won’t need long.
Cole still says nothing, and I realize how quiet he’s been since the sisters told their story. I turn in his arms, and his gray eyes are still strangely dead, looking in instead of out. When he finally speaks, his voice is hollow, almost angry.
“That’s a waste of time, Lexi.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter. What they think of me doesn’t matter.” The wind around us thickens, like a weight on my chest.
“It matters to me. And if Otto and his men catch you, and you’re put on trial, what people think will matter a great deal.”
He closes his eyes. I bring my hands up to his face, his skin cool against my fingers.
“What’s wrong?”
The crease between his brows lessens a fraction at my touch, but he keeps his eyes closed. I can hear his breath filling his chest in short, uneven gasps, as if being torn from his lungs the moment he draws it in. I keep my hands there, on his face, until his skin grows used to my touch, until his breathing grows easy, and the wind around us settles back into a gentle breeze. I could stay right here forever.
“I sometimes wonder what I would do,” he says at last, without opening his eyes, “if anyone had survived the fire. Would I have confessed and let them punish me? Would that have eased anyone’s pain?”
“Why would you talk like that?” I am surprised at the anger in me. “How would that have made anything better?”
His eyes float open, the lashes black against his pale skin.
“You heard the sisters. Sometimes people need something—someone—to blame. It gives them peace until they can find the real answers.”
“But they don’t need to blame you. They can blame the Near Witch, and we can prove it, as soon as we find the children.” I try to fill my voice with enough determination for the both of us. So this is what he was thinking in the sisters’ cottage, when he offered me his sad smile. Was he wishing there had been hunters alive to catch him, to punish him, so he couldn’t punish himself?
He softens, but it doesn’t go beneath his skin. He shakes his head a fraction, and then he’s there again, seeing me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice is bare, honest.
“Cole, you’re not a rock,” I say. “You’re not a tree, or a bunch of grass, or a cloud. And you’re not just something to cast aside, or burn down, or walk over. Please tell me you understand that.” He holds my gaze. “And you’re not just the wind, either. You’re here, and real, and it may be in you, but it isn’t all of you. It doesn’t make you less than human.”
He gives a soft nod. I slide my arms around his waist, his cloak wrapping around us both.
To every side, the moor is calm, the light is crisp, and the air feels warmer. Right now it does not seem as if any evil could pass through such a place.
In this small moment of peace, my uncle’s words creep in: I cannot save her now. What did he mean? I tighten my grip on Cole. He bends his head against mine.
“You have a gift,” I whisper. He smells like ash still, but also wind, the way clothes smell when left to dry in sun and morning air. “And I need your help. I need you.”
I reach up and brush the hair from his face, and his eyes fall shut as he exhales, the tension in his body ebbing.
“When do we start?” he asks.
“We’ll find the bones tonight.”
“I thought you needed a plan first.”
I flash him a smile. “By then, I’ll have one.”
I give him one last kiss, and I cannot hide the small pleasure I feel when the wind rustles around us.
“I’ll see you tonight, then,” he says.
I nod and let my arms slide away from him, unfastening the clasp of his cloak. Then I slip it back around his shoulders and make my way down the path. The wind around me weaves through my hair, which I’ve forgotten to tie up today. It plays with the dark waves, brushes against the back of my neck. When I cast a last glance back, he is not watching the clouds or the rolling moor. He’s watching me, and he smiles.
Smiling back, I head down the hill, eager for night to come.
But there’s work to do first.
I REACH A NEST OF HOMES just south of the sisters’ cottage and the center of town. Houses are sparse on the eastern side, as if the villagers lean, like grass, away from Magda and Dreska.
I’m cutting through the cluster of houses, thinking over my plan, when a small boy darts out, followed by the muffled protests of his mother. Riley Thatcher.
Eight years old and as sharp as a bundle of sticks, Riley sprints across the yard, stumbles in the dirt, and is up again in a blink. But in that moment something is different. Missing. He’s already heading for another house when I catch sight of the small thing left in the weedy grass. I kneel an
d lift the sisters’ charm, the pouch of moss and sweet earth, its cord now broken.
“Riley,” I call after him, and the boy turns back. I catch up and return the pouch to him. He nods, smiles, and shoves it in his pocket just as a woman’s hand clamps down on the back of his shirt.
“Riley Thatcher, you march yourself inside; I told you not to come out.”
Mrs. Thatcher turns him about-face with one hand and gives him a firm shove back through the doorway. I suppress a laugh as she sighs.
“He’s so restless. They all are. Not used to being shut inside while the sun’s still up,” she says.
My laugh dies away. “I know. Wren’s allowed to run errands with our mother, but she still misses her freedom. Thankfully it’s been damp. If the sun comes out for too long, we’ll have to tie her to a chair.”
Mrs. Thatcher nods sympathetically. “But with all that’s happening, what else can we do? And that stranger, nowhere to be found.”
“What are people saying?”
She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “Don’t you know? They’re scared. It doesn’t look good for a stranger to show up here, the day before all of this…” She waves her hand, gesturing to the cottages, to the footprints Riley made in the dirt, to everything.
“That doesn’t mean he’s responsible.”
She looks me over, and sighs.
“Come inside, dear,” she says. “No reason to talk in the open air. Especially with the weather fickle as it is.”
I cast a nervous glance back at the sky, but the sun is still high enough, so I follow her in.
Mrs. Thatcher is a strong woman. She has a way with her hands, like my mother, and she makes most of the village’s pots and bowls. Where Riley and his father look like sticks connected with rough twine, she is shaped like one of her pots. But round as her sides might be, her eyes are ever sharp. She does not treat me like a child. She and my mother have always been close. Even closer before my mother became a ghost.
“The stranger, what did you say his name was?” She wipes her hands on a towel that always rests on her shoulder.
“I didn’t. It’s Cole.”
“Well, he hasn’t said a word to anyone in the village. And now they go to question him, and he disappears. And I gather it’s not the first time they tried to find him. I say good riddance if he’s gone, and fair hunting if he’s not.”
“But it’s not Cole.”
She turns back to the table, preparing a tray.
“Really, now? And how are you so sure, Lexi Harris?”
I swallow. She won’t believe it’s the Near Witch. “Mrs. Thatcher,” I whisper confidingly, leaning forward like Wren does, “I’ve been searching, too, at night. And that boy Cole has been helping me. He’s smart. He’s a good tracker. I’m a lot closer to finding the real thief because of him.”
Her back is to me, but I know she’s listening.
“Otto and his men have no idea who’s taking the children, and they don’t want to look like fools, so they picked Cole. They could have picked anyone. And if they run him from the village, we might never find out who’s really taking the children.”
“He’ll be lucky if that’s all they do.”
My throat tightens. “What are they going to do?”
Mrs. Thatcher sets a plate of cookies on the table between us, circular disks that look as hard and set as her pottery. Within moments, Riley is there, snatching two or three in a single swipe. Mrs. Thatcher’s large hand catches his arm before the cookies can make their way into his pocket. Riley has a wicked grin that reminds me of Tyler when he was that age. I watch as his free hand slips two more cookies into his back pocket.
“Off with you, Riley,” she says, and the boy takes one more swipe at the tray and cheerfully departs, having gathered half a dozen cookies between his pockets and palms. I lift one, biting into it politely. The cookie resists. I bite down until my teeth ache, but it’s no use, so I lower it into my lap.
She gnaws on a cookie, her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know, Lexi. Everyone is growing restless. They want to see someone pay. Do you really think the stranger is innocent?”
“I do. I’m sure of it. Do you believe me?”
“Oh, I’m inclined to,” she says with a sigh. “But unless you and your friend find those children soon, it won’t matter what I’m inclined to think.”
And I know she’s right. I push myself up and thank Mrs. Thatcher for the cookies, and for listening. She smiles, tight but genuine. As I step outside, the cold air bites at my cheeks and hands. The sun slips lower. I turn back and find her waiting in the doorway to see me off. But when I go to thank her again, she is looking past me, her mouth a thin line and her hands crossed over her broad stomach. I turn to see a crow circling overhead, a black smudge against the pale sky.
“You need to convince those who’ve lost,” she says, still staring at the bird. “Those with missing children. The Harps, the Porters, the Drakes. I’ve heard Master Matthew has taken this hard.”
Master Matthew. And then my mind lurches. Matthew Drake. The third member of the Council. And Edgar and Helena’s grandfather.
“If you can find the children, do it fast,” Mrs. Thatcher says beneath her breath. And with that she slips back inside the house. But I’m already moving as fast as I can. My mind is racing and my heart is racing and my feet are catching up. I’m off toward Helena’s house.
Three people once knew where the witch was buried. That much I know.
The sun is slipping slowly down the edge of the sky as I head for the Drake house.
Three people. The members of the Council. When Dreska was fighting with Master Tomas, she called him a keeper of secrets and forgotten truths. Is the witch’s grave a secret that would have been passed down from Council to Council? I have to hope the knowledge has lasted this long. My only chance of finding the grave is to coax the answer from one of them.
Master Tomas fought with Dreska, and I can tell by his tone that he won’t budge.
Master Eli supposedly ordered Bo to plant the evidence, so he’s of no use either.
But Master Matthew Drake. He has been strangely absent during all of this. And the loss of a grandchild might be enough to sway any foundation. If there’s a chance of learning where the witch was buried, it lies with him.
I catch sight of Helena a field’s length before their home, and my feet drag to a halt. The guilt sits like stones in the pockets of my dress, like a bad taste in the back of my throat.
She looks wasted away, even from here. I urge my feet forward. I should have come sooner. Not to interrogate her, but to see how she was faring. My cheeks are burning from the run and the cold air, and when I reach Helena I see that her face is red, too, but in different ways. Red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks. Her cool blond hair is tied back against the wind, and she’s washing clothes in a stream.
Helena has been transformed. Cheerful Helena, my Helena—who craved the eyes and ears of the village when she announced she’d seen the stranger, when she joked about how attractive he was—now looks gaunt, exhausted. She hums to herself, wandering through melodies like a ghost through rooms. Every now and then the melody strays into the Witch’s Rhyme. As I draw closer I can see her hands, red from the cold of the water. When she catches sight of me she tries to smile, a tug of her lips that is closer to a grimace. I slide down beside her in the grass, and wait. She continues rinsing something dark and blue. A boy’s shirt. I wrap my arms around her shoulders.
“I want everything to be ready for when Edgar comes back,” she says, wringing her brother’s little blue shirt out over the water. “That way he’ll know we haven’t forgotten him.” Her fingers keep twisting the fabric. “I hope they find that stranger,” she says, and her voice doesn’t sound like her own. “I hope they kill him.”
The words hurt, but I don’t let her see.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper against her cheek. It takes several moments before her hands stop makin
g their small desperate motions over the clothing. I pull back enough to look at her, surprised at the sudden heat in her eyes. “We’ll find Edgar. I’ve been looking, too, every night.”
“Where have you been?” Her voice is so low and strained, I can feel my own throat closing. “All the others have come to see us,” she says, her voice sliding even lower as she adds, “to see me.” She breaks the look, letting her gaze escape out over the river. I start to say I’m sorry again—such a useless phrase, but I have to say something—when Helena cuts me off.
“Have you been tracking the stranger? That’s how you’ll find Edgar.”
I shake my head. “The search party is spreading lies, Helena. They do not know who, or what, is taking the children, and they are accusing this poor stranger because they have no suspect. But it’s not him. I know it.” I take her hands from the water, where they are still working furiously, and pull them out, trying to warm them with my own.
“What do you know?” she says, wrenching her hands from mine. “Would you be so sure if Wren was missing?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t seem to care. “I just want my brother back.” Her voice is quiet again. “He must be so scared.”
“I’m going to find Edgar,” I say. “But please don’t blame Cole.”
She looks shocked that I know the stranger’s name.
“He’s been helping me, Helena,” I whisper. “We’re getting closer to finding the real culprit. We all want answers,” I say, tucking a strand of stray blond hair behind her ear, and turning her face to mine. “But it’s not him.”
“What am I supposed to think, Lexi? Mr. Porter swore he saw him near Cecilia’s the night before last, when she vanished. And now Mr. Ward, he says he saw him outside our house the night Edgar disappeared.”
The breeze picks up, and I fight back a shiver as the sun seems to slip lower before my eyes. Helena puts her hands back in the icy water, and doesn’t flinch.
“It was the middle of the night,” I press. “How could they swear they saw anything besides darkness? I don’t want to argue with you, but think about it—why didn’t that other witness come forward sooner? Yesterday they claim someone saw him near Cecilia’s house, but no one said he was by yours. Today they suddenly add another, earlier sighting? And what was Tyler’s father even doing out this way at night? Any minute now someone will jump up and say they saw him by Emily’s window, too, when really they were all sleeping in their beds.”