When it was over, five of Tyler’s close friends—and Grey—served as his pallbearers. In her black Louboutin heels, she stood taller than the men around her, the image of a veiled specter from a haunting as she floated back down the aisle with an empty coffin in her hands. As she passed me, I could see her crying. I could feel that she wanted me to reach out to her, to place a hand on her shoulder, to tell her that it would be all right. My fingertips tingled, aching to comfort her. Time froze as she stood in front of me, silently begging. Then, as quickly as she came, she was gone again, the procession moving past us, toward the church doorway now glutted with press. I exhaled and unclenched my fingers. Outside on the street, police were stationed to control the roiling mass of fans who’d come to lay flowers on the steps of the church and to witness Grey’s grief. They wailed as the coffin past.

There was an extravagant after-party planned, naturally—how else would you bid farewell to Tyler Yang?—but we left after they buried the coffin. It felt wrong to linger with the people who had known him for longer than I had, better than I had. I had known him for a handful of days and only liked him for half of them. I had held his hand and led him through a doorway to another world. I had kissed him once, a clandestine kiss stolen from a man who was not mine to kiss.

We wandered across the wet lawn of the cemetery beneath our umbrellas, away from the mourners, to the grave of Gabe Hollow, beloved husband and father. Cate, who usually visited most weeks, hadn’t been since Grey had gone missing. She knelt to pull the weeds that had begun to sprout at the base of his headstone, then parted the soft earth with her fingers and opened a hole, into which she placed the three strips of fabric I had brought back from the Halfway. All that remained now of Iris, Vivi, and Grey.

“They’re all together,” Cate said as she closed the hole and pressed her palms into the dirt.

When she stood we held her, and then we all went home.

* * *

I went back to school two weeks after the Halfway let me go, when my ribs were healed enough to sit at a desk all day.

Justine Khan made a loud ugh sound as she caught sight of me in the hall. “Was it too much to hope she was dead?” she muttered to Jennifer and her other friends as they passed me in a giggling group. “We should be so lucky.”

“Is there something you wanted to say to me, Justine?” I said. I had never confronted her directly before. Years of torment—muttered jokes in class, dead birds slipped into my backpack, bloody witch smeared across my locker—and I had never once called her out to her face. Let it go. Leave it be. It will be easier if you don’t fight back.

Justine and Jennifer both ignored me, so I followed them and said again, louder this time, “Is there something you wanted to say?”

Finally, Justine had no choice but to turn and come face-to-face with me. “Um,” she stammered, searching for something witty to say and coming up empty-handed. “No.”

“Are you sure? Now’s your chance. You have my full attention.”

“Oh, screw you, witch.”

“Not so brave now, are you? Not when you have to look me in the eye.”

Justine stared at me, lips pursed and nostrils flared, but she didn’t say anything. I lunged forward in a feint. Justine screamed and clutched at her heart and stumbled backward, landing hard on the ground behind her, taking Jennifer down with her.

“If you mess with me,” I whispered as I knelt by her side and tucked a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear, “I will make you shave your pretty head in front of the whole school again. Do you understand?”

I was not like my sister. I would not use the power that had been forced upon me through blood and violence to hurt more people, destroy more lives.

I knew this—but Justine Khan didn’t need to.

Justine swallowed and nodded. I extended my hand to help her up but she scrabbled back in horror, so I stood, and I left her there, and I went to class.

I was not Grey Hollow. I was not Iris Hollow, either.

I was something stranger.

Something stronger.

For the first time, I felt the power of what I was coursing through my veins, and it didn’t scare me.

It made me feel . . . alive.

EPILOGUE

“There have been mills in this area at least since Saxon times,” our tour guide said. “This site has been a flour mill, a gunpowder mill, and a gin distillery in its time, among other things.”

“Fascinating,” I replied, for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Tell us more,” Vivi said. I elbowed her in the ribs, hard. If I could tell she was being sarcastic, our guide could too.

We were walking down an interior corridor of the ancient mill complex, the same one Grey had explored the week after Gabe died. The exterior was all brickwork but here, inside, the walls were wood, warped and weathered by age.

Our guide paused. “I must say, I was delighted when you reached out to book a private tour. Not enough young people are interested in tidal mills anymore.”

Vivi smiled her wicked smile. “One of the true failings of our generation.”

Three Mills Island was only a short walk from Bromley-by-Bow. I’d been back at school for several weeks, but I’d been finding it hard to concentrate. My entire understanding of the world and my place in it had shifted—but that wasn’t the only reason.

In the weeks since we came back, Grey Hollow had resumed her extraordinary life. I knew this because I continued to follow her on Instagram, saw her triumphant return to regular posting about parties and catwalks and celebrity friends, saw the announcement of her eight-figure book deal about her harrowing “kidnapping” ordeal and the equally rich movie deal to go along with it, in which she would play herself. I saw her on the cover of magazines in the grocery store and I saw her when I turned on my TV.