I lie in my bed staring blankly at my homework and refusing to look at the bedroom furniture Elijah designed for his sister. Our conversation from earlier plays on a loop in my head. Where has he been all this time? Why didn’t he say something if he was here?

I smack my hand down on my bed. No. I’m not doing this. He’s here. I don’t care. That’s it.

A hand touches my arm. I look up quickly.

Ada. “Go away,” I say.

“Mum always told me that if you come across someone sad and you do not try to make them smile, then you have disgraced your own humanity,” Ada says in her British accent. “ ‘Everyone deserves happiness,’ she says.”

“I’m not sad. But I’m also not in a smiling mood,” I say.

“We shall see.”

My bed moves as Ada steps over me and plops down. The ruffles on her dress billow before settling in layers around her legs. Ada puts her head on my other pillow, her hand tucked under her cheek, so that we’re looking at one another.

“Is it a boy?” Her expression is serious, and her little eyebrows are furrowed. She’s so genuine about it that I almost do smile.

“What makes you think it’s a boy?”

“My sister did just what you are doing after she found out we were moving to America. She said that she had no friends in Florida and never would.” Ada nods her head against her hand. “But it turned out she was just upset to leave a boy. Well, that is what her diary said, anyway.”

I lift an eyebrow. “You read her diary?”

Ada’s eyes widen, like it’s me who said the shocking thing. “She was crying. No one was doing anything to help her, so it only seemed right that I take matters into my own hands. In life-and-death situations, it is acceptable to read other people’s diaries.”

“When you put it like that, it makes perfect sense.”

“Exactly.” Ada giggles, mischievous satisfaction dancing in her eyes. “I saw it, you know.”

“Saw what?”

“Your smile.”

“Did not.”

“Did so. It was small, but it was there.”

Now I do smile, but Ada disappears.

There are footsteps in the hallway moving closer to my room.

“Sam?” my dad says just outside my door. “Jaxon’s here.”

Jaxon? I look at my phone: 8:01 p.m. Crapola.

My dad knocks. “Sam?”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

I open my armoire. Stupid Elijah. I trade my hoodie for a black slouchy sweater and grab my knee-length black coat. Vivian bought it for me and was always trying to get me to wear it instead of my vegan leather jacket. Stupid Vivian.

I open my door. The sconces give the hallway a soft yellow glow. Paintings of long-dead relatives loom over me as I walk. I grab the banister and take the steps quickly. Jaxon waits at the bottom with my dad.

“Ready,” I say as my black boots thud dully from the Oriental rug onto the wood floor.

“There she is,” my dad says, and takes a good look at me. I can feel him trying to assess my mood.

I force a smile. “Rough homework night. I lost track of the time.”

My dad kisses me on the forehead. “Have fun. Call me if you need anything.”

I follow Jaxon out my door and into the fleeting light. The air smells of new grass, and the chill wakes me up.

Jaxon opens the door for me and I climb in his truck.

The more I breathe in the fresh air, the more I think getting out of my house is the best thing I’ve done in hours. And coming clean with Jaxon about Vivian is a relief. I’m so sick of secrets. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

Jaxon gets in and starts the engine. “Yeah, me too. It’s nice to see you go out for once. You should come out this weekend, too. I mean, I get why you’ve been at home with your dad. But Salem in the spring is pretty fun. All the crazies come out of hibernation. The ghost tours start back up, and the street fairs. There is even wand-making.”

I smile. “How did you grow up in this town and turn out even remotely normal?”

“Sheer willpower.”

“Did you ever make a wand?”

“Totally. It’s the highlight of every year.”

I laugh. “I call bullshit.”

He pretends to look shocked. “That’s it. I’m showing you my wand collection when we get back, and you’re gonna feel pretty ridiculous.”

As we near the edge of town, we turn down Derby Street toward the harbor. The tall masts of the Friendship stand out like black webs against the soft glow of lights from boats in the distance. The houses in this section of town are old and beautiful. And the narrow streets have a personality, like you can feel the centuries of families and international traders who lived and died here.

“Wait, there’s a pizza place down this way?”

Jaxon rolls to a stop at the curb. “Right here.”

I get out of the truck and look at the hand-carved wooden sign of an upscale Italian restaurant. Small tea lights frame the windows. “Um, do you mean this fancy place I’m not dressed properly for?”

“Trust me, when you taste their pizza, you’ll be thanking me.”

He opens the door, and a woman with long hair and weathered skin smiles at us.

Everything is dark wood and candlelight. The walls are a faded brown with burgundy grapevines painted on them. Shelves are made from old shipping crates, and they hold small glass bottles and antique postcards. When I have a house, I would love it to look like this.

The woman leads us to a table and gives us our menus.

Our table has a wine bottle on it with a portrait of an Italian villa painted on the glass. A candle sticks out of the top, and wax drips down the sides.

I scan the room. “Okay. I’ll hand it to you. This place is beautiful.”

Jaxon grins.

“Ciao, bella. Ciao, signore,” says our waiter, a cheery man with an apron. “What can I bring you young people on this wonderful evening?”

Jaxon gestures to me.

I look over the drink menu. “Can I have your hot chocolate with a scoop of peppermint gelato?”

The waiter kisses the tips of his fingers and lifts them in the air. “Gelato before dinner—a woman after my own heart.” He looks at Jaxon.

“I’ll have the house-made root beer. And actually, you can bring your arugula-and-parmesan salad, fettuccine ai funghi, and your burrata-and-basil pizza with pink sauce.”

The waiter nods approvingly and takes our menus. “Very well, signore.”

“Did you just order for me?” I ask as our waiter walks away.

“Yup,” he says.

I stare at him, trying to decide if I should object. But since I like all those foods, I’m not sure that arguing is to my benefit. “Okay, what gives? I mean, I’m impressed. Don’t get me wrong. But this is way more than casual pizza so we can chat about…everything.”

Jaxon smiles. “Take it as an apology. I definitely could have been nicer earlier. I got my back up. Also,” he laughs, “I’d like to note that any other girl would be oohing and aahing over me right now for planning all this. And here you are searching for ulterior motives.”

“Vivian taught me to be suspicious of nice people,” I say before I catch myself. It just popped out.

Jaxon’s smile fades. “You cool?”

“Uh, yeah. I just didn’t mean to say that. I forget sometimes.”

The waiter returns with my hot chocolate. The peppermint gelato floating in it is a thing of beauty. “After your father died and your mother was having all that trouble, how long did it take before you felt normal again?”

Jaxon’s blue eyes soften. “Man, I think it took me about a year before I felt like myself again. I was depressed for a while.”

I sip my drink. “Some days sail by and I think I’ve never been happier. Then all of a sudden I’ll remember everything that happened and I feel, I don’t know, like I’m kidding myself.”

The waiter returns with our arugula salad, which has the tangy scent of lemon vinaigrette and is teeming with shaved Parmesan.

Jaxon spears some salad with his fork. “You know how I told you that after my dad died, my mom was convinced that he was still around?”

I chew the spicy leaves. “Yeah.”

“Well, I was, too.”

I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Was he?” Is Jaxon saying he used to believe in spirits?

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But the town never liked that my mom dabbled in herbs and potions, and they especially didn’t like that she was so close to your grandmother. The way she used to talk to my father like he was still there pushed them over the edge. And I got caught in the crossfire.”

“But I thought people in Salem live for that stuff. You said it yourself…wand making is a thing here. How could they come down on your mom and you for that?”

“Yeah, but Salem’s selective. Also, my mom’s not a Descendant. Lizzie’s family was one of the ones that didn’t like her. So as I’m sure you can imagine, I became a target in school. Public humiliation was an everyday thing for a while, and as you know, when it’s about people you really care about, you can’t brush it off. It hurt every time someone brought it up. Dillon was actually my only friend through the whole thing.”

I never considered that Descendant politics would affect people like Jaxon, and definitely not in this way. “That’s horrible.”

Jaxon studies my face. “That’s why I have no patience for all this supernatural stuff.”

The waiter returns, placing the fettuccine on the table and the pizza on a stand. The smell of cream and mushrooms and fresh dough swirls around me like a hug.

I grab a slice of pizza. “I get that. My introduction to Salem magic wasn’t exactly gentle. And my dad would flip if he knew how intense things got.”

“So you don’t talk to him about it?”

I look at my food, not completely comfortable with the truth. “No. I basically act like it didn’t happen. We don’t talk about Vivian.”

“I get it,” he says, and I look back up at him. “Protecting your parent through selective information, I mean. I used to do the same thing.” Jaxon takes a sip of root beer. He sets his glass down and taps his fingers against it like he’s trying to decide something. “Also…what about the noise at breakfast the other morning? Was denying it about protecting him, too?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

Just then an awful briny smell fills my nose and I drop my fork. The drowned man appears next to our table, dripping salt water all over the floor. He has stubble on his cheeks, and his hat shadows his eyes.

My heart beats a muffled thrum in my ears.

“Sam?” Jaxon says, but I’m not looking at him.

The drowned man extends his arm toward me, holding an old-fashioned dog collar in his open palm.

I stand, shoving my chair away from the table.

“Sam, what’s going on?” Jaxon asks, standing now, too.

The drowned man steps forward, pushing the dog collar at me. “Don’t be daft. Take it,” he says in an accent that sounds Irish.

I step backward, colliding with the chair. I reach for the table to steady myself but secure only the tablecloth and manage to pull it and all the food down with me as I fall.

I hit the floor so hard it knocks the wind out of me. The drowned man tosses the dog collar under the table and blinks out. Jaxon is at my side in a flash, and the whole restaurant is staring. I pluck a napkin off the floor and wrap up the collar before Jaxon can see it.

“Sam? What happened?” Jaxon helps me to my feet. “You’re bleeding.”

There’s a patch torn out of my sweater, exposing a cut. “I have to go.”