The only other thing that remained of the place I’d once lived was the concrete barbecue that no one ever used except for on the Fourth of July. Only now, it was blazing with fire, and a single dark figure was hunched over it. The figure was both clear and indistinct at the same time—solid, but blurry at the edges. Then the figure broke apart, and I saw that it wasn’t one but three: from out of the darkness, a trio of women emerged, each of them wearing a heavy cloak in a different color: red, gold, and blue. Another cloak, a purple one, was lying in the dirt next to them, without an owner.

Witches. I recognized the one in red. It was Glamora.

In the distance, I thought I heard another voice calling my name—a voice that seemed familiar, but that I couldn’t quite place. It was a boy. A man. It was someone important, someone who mattered to me, but I couldn’t remember why.

“Rise, little witch,” Glamora said. “Take your place among us.”

I stepped forward.