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The scene changed, and for one strange, disorienting moment she saw herself.

She was standing on the hillside outside of Chateau de Laurier, but through the lens of Henry’s memory she hardly recognized herself.

She looked different in his mind, all dark, windswept hair and flashing gray eyes.

Not prim or severe like she’d always imagined herself, but wild and mysterious, and achingly, searingly beautiful.

That image disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and slowly, Lydia began to feel something like dread churning up from the riverbed of Henry’s memories.

She saw things she didn’t understand—doors, dozens of them, standing open, with nothing on the other side but a black, yawning void.

She saw eyes, all pearly white and glowing, set into faces that looked like death masks.

She heard whispered voices making demands.

She felt cold hands pawing at her, fingers scrabbling at her face, her eyes, her mouth.

One of them worked its way into her throat, and Lydia gagged.

Reeling, she stumbled away from the dead eyes and the desperate, probing fingers, fighting toward the silent, lurking thing at the center of Henry’s mind.

It was a cold, empty space, far away from everything else, as if whatever lived there had driven every other memory into hiding.

And there, surrounded by the droning of corpse flies, she saw it—an ancient book, with a cracked leather binding.

Lydia braced herself as the power in the cave awoke, as it began to thrash and howl.

It was wilder than any magic she had ever encountered, and more powerful—nothing like the tame, orderly magic she had experienced in the ceremonial chamber of the academy.

She felt her breath quicken as it coursed through her, lifting her up out of her body on a current, electric and intoxicating.

She felt a stomach-churning tug as she was pulled through space and matter.

For one terrifying moment it felt as if she would be torn apart and become one with the magic itself.

She tried not to scream as she twisted and writhed within it. Then, abruptly, all was quiet.

She was in a farmhouse.

She let the frenzied magic of the cave leave her, feeling her pulse return to normal. She blinked to clear the spots from her vision and looked around.

The place was abandoned. A bitter wind blew through the open door, and the hearth was cold. Remnants of some long-ago meal sat forgotten at the kitchen table, the bread gone moldy. A chair lay overturned on the wood floor, surrounded by shards of blue and white crockery.

“ Hallo .” A woman stood by the open window, moonlight turning her blond hair silver. Even though her image trembled like water, Lydia recognized her.

“You . ”

The blond witch tilted her head and grinned. Lydia could make out faint shapes in the darkness behind her. Other women, standing shoulder to shoulder in some candlelit room, far, far away.

“You’re not alone,” Lydia said. Isadora was right , she realized with a rush of grief and pride. They have a coven.

“But you are.” Her English was clipped, with a distinctly Germanic flavor. “Interesting. Has your high council abandoned you, then?” She chuckled softly. “Oh dear. That is unfortunate.”

Lydia wanted to hurt her. She wanted to do it with her hands, no spells, no magic. She wanted her to die the way Kitty and Isadora had. Bleeding and afraid.

The witch seemed to know what she was thinking. “It’s not personal, you know. We have no quarrel with you. We are not so different from one another, after all.”

Lydia was filled with revulsion. “We have nothing in common.”

“No?” The witch raised an eyebrow. “We are all followers of the old ways.”

“You twist the old ways to support the cause of a madman. How could you do it?”

The witch shrugged, amused.

“Answer me!”

She looked around, considering her reply. “What will you do after the war? Will you go back into hiding? Continue to cast your little spells in secret while your country forgets you? While the witches of Britain fade into myth?”

Lydia did not respond.

“My mother lived her whole life in secret, you know. Ashamed of what she was, unable to control her powers. She thought she was losing her mind. And soon enough, she did.” The witch’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“ That is what comes from a life lived in secret. Suffering and death, nothing more. But the Führer remembers that once the witches of Germany were more than fairy stories. He knows that returning Germany to her true glory will require the power of the witch.” She stepped closer, so close they could have touched.

“The Führer will bring about a Thousand-Year Reich, and when he does, the witches of Germany will be by his side. We are done hiding in the shadows.”

Lydia couldn’t conceal her contempt. “Selling your soul to the most evil man in Europe in exchange for power and glory.”

The witch laughed. “So self-righteous! But just wait. When Germany is victorious, you will see how much better life can be for people like us.”

She’s distracting you , Lydia thought. She forced herself to turn her back on the witch and focus on the task at hand. Plaster walls, wood floor, humble furnishings. She stole a glance at a book, sitting open on a tattered armchair. It was written in French.

The witch seemed uninterested in investigating the farmhouse, as if she had all the time in the world. Instead, she watched Lydia, chuckling to herself.

“So, you’re a Projectionist,” Lydia said. “A Projectionist, and a Glamourer, and a Traveler. That’s rather rare, to be all three.” The witch smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Why, so you can use it to hex me?” The witch clicked her tongue. “I think not.”

“Just exchanging pleasantries.”

Lydia made her way to the window. Outside, scrubby hills lay bare under a clear night sky.

No mountains , Lydia thought. No cities, no church, no landmarks.

A giant oak tree stood in the distance, branches twisting in the wind.

She strained her eyes against the darkness.

There was something odd about the tree, something she couldn’t quite make out.

Something slumped against the massive trunk, framed in moonlight.

A body.

Lydia stared. It was the body of a man, but that was all she could make out in the dark. Behind her, the blond witch laughed softly to herself.

“You know, when we have the Grimorium Bellum , the witches of England will be wiped from the earth, along with the Juden, and the Homosexuelle, and the Zigeuner. A necessary evil, you understand. All who oppose the Führer must be exterminated.” She grinned wide.

“Unless, of course, you join us. What has Britain done for witches, after all? Hanged them and despised them and drove them into hiding.” Her voice became serious.

“Swear your allegiance to the Führer. Join the Witches of the Third Reich. And the Grimorium Bellum will spare you.”

Lydia turned to face her. “You’ll never find the Grimorium Bellum. ”

“On the contrary. I’ve already found it.”

Lydia felt cold dread rising in her. “Nonsense.”

“You should think about my offer. It would be a shame if any more of your friends died in vain.”

Hate swelled in Lydia’s chest. “You should know I’m going to kill you.”

The witch grinned. “Perhaps. But not tonight.”

Lydia did not respond.

“Auf Wiedersehen, Lydia Polk.”

And she was gone.

Lydia stood in the silence as despair began to slowly close around her like water. The Nazis had discovered the location of the book. And they were coming for it.

“ Focus , damn you,” she hissed. There was still time.

Without the witch to distract her, Lydia could begin to feel the hideous call of dark magic that filled the house. She went and stood where the humming was loudest, and thought she could feel the book reaching up, clawing at her through the floorboards, wanting to be found.

She scoured the room, looking for letters, anything with an address.

She scanned the horizon, searching again for signposts, buildings, mountains, anything to give her a hint to the location.

She paced the room, taking an inventory of every detail: knitting left half-finished in a basket.

A pair of glasses. An unusual silver ornament nailed to the doorframe.

A child’s drawing, with the name Jean-Luc scrawled in clumsy script at the bottom.

She considered the body in the yard. Perhaps it held some clue, some hint about the location of the house.

The problem, of course, was the Grimorium Bellum —her projection was tied to it, and wandering very far from its location would be impossible.

She stood in the open doorway and looked out at the slumped figure.

Even here, she could feel the book drawing her back like gravity.

She took one step forward, then another, but collapsed under the weight of its pull.

She turned back, hysteria rising in her.

She’d been projecting for too long. Her body was beginning to tire, and she was no closer to discovering the location of the house.

She choked back a sob. She had seen everything the house had to offer her. And it wasn’t enough.

She returned to her body with a gasp.

“ Jesus. ” Henry held her shoulders as she gulped air. “Your hands were so cold. And you were so still. For a minute I thought…”

“That happens. I’m all right.”

To her surprise, he didn’t let her go right away. He kept his hands on her, steadying her as she caught her breath. She could feel his eyes on her, watching as the color returned to her cheeks. He seemed to be catching his breath as well, like he’d been holding it, waiting for her to come back.

“Did you find it?” There, under his words, Lydia could hear the other silent question. Did you find René?

The cave seemed to swim around her. How long was I gone? , she wondered dimly.

“Lydia?”

“I could feel it. I was there, I could feel the book, but I don’t know where I was.”

“Okay, but you can try again, right?”

She felt as if she might burst into tears. “No. You don’t understand. This was my one chance. I can’t track the book again until the next full moon, and by then it will be too late.”

Henry was quiet. “And the Germans?”

“They sent someone, but she left before I did.” Lydia’s voice shook. “It was the same woman, the one who killed Kitty and Isadora. She knows the location. I don’t know how, but she does.”

Henry’s eyes went wide. “If René is still there…”

“He isn’t.”

Tell him , a voice inside her head commanded. He deserves to know.

“Henry, when I was at the house…I saw what I believe was the body of a man. I couldn’t see his face, but…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. She watched him as the full meaning of her words sank in.

Henry slumped back against the cave wall.

They sat in the yellow glow of the kerosene lamp, the only sound the dripping of water somewhere deeper in the cave.

After a long moment, Henry ran a hand over his face and stared up at the painted menagerie of ancient deer and oxen, as if asking them for the answer to some question.

“Tell me what you saw at the house.”

She shook her head. “Nothing useful. No street markers or letters, nothing with an address.” She hung her head. “Besides, we’re too late. It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters ,” Henry said sharply. “It matters to me.”

Lydia looked at his face, all hard angles in the sputtering lamplight.

Like a father. That’s what Henry had said about René. René, who more than likely was out there even now, cold and alone under that oak tree.

“I didn’t mean…” She stopped. “I’m sorry. I only meant that it’s too late to find the book. The other witch, the one who was there with me at the house. She’s a Traveler.”

Henry’s brow furrowed. “You’ve lost me. What’s a Traveler?”

“A Traveler is a witch who can move from place to place at will. All she has to do is close her eyes and she can be anywhere. Which means she probably has the book even now.”

“Did you see her take it?”

The room stopped spinning. She looked at Henry. “No.”

“So maybe she didn’t figure it out, after all. Maybe she was lying.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. But you didn’t see her take the book, so there’s still hope. And if René is—” He stopped. There was a quick sound in his throat, a sort of choking spasm. Lydia knew it well. “Please. Tell me about the house.”

“It was just an ordinary house. The books were in French, so maybe France, but it could just as easily be Belgium or Switzerland, or a hundred other places. It was abandoned, like everyone had been spirited away in the middle of dinner.”

Henry closed his eyes, thinking.

“Any landmarks?”

“No.”

“Rivers? Lakes? Bodies of water?”

“No. I looked everywhere. No address, no landmarks, no photographs.”

“Artwork? The Louvre hid pieces in homes and castles all over France, maybe René went to one of them.”

The cold, helpless feeling was rising in her again, ready to drown her. “No. The only art was a child’s drawing. And some sort of silver ornament hanging by the door.”

Henry tilted his head. “An ornament?”

“Yes. Long and narrow, the size of a finger. Nailed to the doorframe.”

He closed his eyes. “A mezuzah.”

“A what?”

“A mezuzah. Jewish families hang them on their doorposts as a sign of faith.” His voice was low. Almost mournful.

Lydia remembered the overturned chair, the broken crockery. Food left on the table, as if the family had been dragged away mid-meal.

“What about the drawing?” He didn’t look at her, but Lydia could feel something dark and heavy slip into the room with them. Something ugly.

“It was a cat. It was signed ‘Jean-Luc.’?”

Henry stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. He was silent for a long time.

“Jean-Luc is René’s nephew.”

The heaviness crawled inside Lydia’s chest, coiling itself around her heart.

“How old is Jean-Luc?” She’d nearly said, How old was Jean-Luc?

“Nine.”

Mother, protect him , she thought.

She looked at Henry. His posture was rigid, as if even the slightest movement would cause everything he was feeling to burst out of him.

She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to tell him she understood what it was to lose someone, how it feels like you’re the one who’s dying, even when you keep on living, day after day.

“Maybe it isn’t René.” She almost reached out and took his hand, but something in the shape of his body let her know the gesture would not be welcome. “The body. Maybe it’s someone else.”

Henry didn’t look at her. Instead he stared into the darkness in front of him, grappling with some monster only he could see. After a moment his eyes cleared. He looked at her, his face resigned.

“I know where the house is.”