After two days of sulking, I return to the brownstone in time for breakfast. I find the group around the formal dining table. The scents of coffee, maple syrup, and warm butter fill the room.

“Remember when I used to get headaches?” Madison asks. “I haven’t had one in ages and this morning I woke up with the feeling of an hammer banging on my forehead. That can’t be good, can it?”

I’ve been poking her all morning. This is the day we get answers. If we don’t act, we’ll miss the window.

Making the gesture for a poke to the forehead, I try to let Madison know I’m the cause of her headaches.

She tilts her head to the side and studies me but doesn’t announce my presence to the rest of the group. I mouth a silent “thank you” and sit in the chair at the opposite end of the long table from Geoffrey.

“Stanford is being released from the hospital this afternoon. Could that be it?” Andrew asks her, concern heavy in his eyes.

“Is he?” Geoffrey inquires, sipping his coffee. “Is anyone being charged with his attack?”

“I believe Mrs. Putnam has been brought in for questioning this afternoon based on what Stanford has told police so far.” Tate sets down his fork in a pool of maple syrup on his empty plate.

“What a vile woman,” Geoffrey says, his tone bitter. “I remember her at the club the summer I met Alice. Always moaning about the family lines being diluted and how our kind needed to stick together. She was horrible, especially to Alice.”

His words spark memories of that summer. At nineteen, I was still rebelling against my family and our history. Unused cogs in my mind grind together as missing pieces of the past click together.

A Fourth of July party at the summer house.

Mrs. Putnam wandering around upstairs, knocking on the wood paneling.

Me in my room, sneaking a cigarette out the window where I’d removed the screen for exactly that purpose.

Angry words. Demands to know where the secret room was hidden.

At twenty-one, I might have been more than a little rude to some random woman invading my room and telling me what to do.

I also might’ve called her a magically barren hag.

Still doesn’t forgive her shoving me out the window.

Ahh, this is why no one uses the house anymore. The Winthrops are unsentimental and superstitious. Plenty of other properties in the family that aren’t associated with untimely death and scandal.

Waving my arms, I get Madison’s attention. With my best charades skills, I mime out the last moments of my life.

She follows along and gasps when I disappear out of the window only to pop back into the room a second later.

“Alice remembers her death,” Madison tells the group.

“Who pushed her?” Geoffrey stands.

Madison stares at me. I draw a P in the air and then the rest of the letters.

“Putnam.”

“Does she also remember what happened to her bones? Are they with the other stolen bones at the Brahmin Club?” Questions flood out of Sam’s mouth.

I stare at Geoffrey. He’s the only one of us who might know.

“Geoffrey, she’s looking at you.” Madison’s attention bounces between the two of us.

He walks over to the window and stares down into the private garden surrounded by a tall, brick wall. I join him and brush my hand against his. Below us, a pattern of slate rectangles cover the ground. With the exception of one corner where the large rectangle is broken into three pieces. As if someone tried to lift it and it cracked.

“There was never a body in that casket in Mount Auburn. Alice was cremated. I stole her ashes and buried them in the garden for safe keeping.” He lowers his voice so only I can hear before continuing. “And I wanted you with me always.”

I stretch up on my toes to press my mouth to his. His lashes flutter closed for a brief second.

“So Alice isn’t a ghost because someone stole her bones?” Madison asks.

“No, if that were the case, Giles and Martha Corey would be haunting your grandmother’s farm,” Geoffrey explains. “I’m not certain why Alice’s spirit is trapped in between worlds. Or why only Madison can see her. I hate that I can’t.”

I squeeze his hand and rest my head on his shoulder, hoping he can feel me.

“Does this have anything to do with Sarah’s prophecy?” Andrew stands as well, joining Madison. “About Madison and I somehow being the catalyst to fight the rise of dark magic?”

A small crease appears between Geoffrey’s beautiful dark eyes. “When Alice and I fell in love, her grandmother made a comment about every generation having a great love that restored hope in the good in the world. We’re about fifteen years older than you. Perhaps you are this generation’s great loves. Times two.”

His attention lands on Tate and Sam as well as Madison and Andrew.

“The power of four,” Madison says quietly.

“In most magic, odd numbers are preferred. However, in the case of love, even tends to work out better.” Geoffrey turns and rests his back against the tall window frame.

“What now?” Tate asks.

“Proving Mrs. Putnam murdered Alice will be nearly impossible, but the attempted murder of Stanford Bradford should be an easy case and a scandal her family will want to avoid. We now have the upper hand to force them to give up their power play to control all magic. Balance will be restored.” Geoffrey smiles and it’s clear this knowledge makes him genuinely happy. “Our work here is almost done.”