There is everything and nothing. But this is not nothing. This is merely the absence of everything, a white-fogged wasteland that fills Harvest’s eyes with static. The only sound is the chain clunking as she looks around. The sound echoes against something in the distance—a wall, a building, or maybe even a mountain.

She steps toward the something in the distance and finds herself surrounded by pink. The air is cold, and it shifts with a soft sigh until she is standing on a thick, plush carpet, and the static is contained within four walls.

A familiar room, with walls covered in famous works of art. Pink bed linens. A bookshelf of dusty spell books sandwiched between romance novels.

Amy, wearing a matching manacle, stands by the dresser, admiring herself in the mirror. She holds the wand in different positions, the amethyst blindingly bright despite the lack of light. She casts an unsee spell with a flick and swish. She maneuvers through the characteristic swirl of a levitation spell. She waves the wand around to emphasize her words as she carries on a fake conversation with her reflection.

Then she sighs and puts the wand down. The chain between them drags against the carpet as Amy turns to look at Harvest.

“It’s just a hunk of useless wood,” she says, looking despondently at the wand.

“I’m sorry.” Harvest steps closer, pulling the coat tighter around herself. Frank hadn’t been exaggerating about the temperature in Death.

Amy grimaces. “It’s stupidly cold here, isn’t it? Smart that you brought a coat.”

“I was lucky. Someone gave me good advice before I came. Do you know why I’m here?”

Amy nods and grabs a sweater from the back of the desk chair. She jumps onto the bed, pulling the sweater over her head. “I died.” She pauses to straighten the sweater and frowns as if she’s just remembered why she’s here. “He killed me.”

Harvest sits delicately on the bed beside her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The words barely leave her lips when the room begins to tilt. Harvest blinks against the sudden change in light.

Seagulls are fighting over a french fry, but when Harvest and Amy walk by, they scatter noisily, strutting away and circling back around once they pass. The boardwalk is dreary, and it takes Harvest a few seconds to realize that it’s not the weather but the nature of the place. Everything is desaturated and dull. Zapped of warmth and, more importantly, life.

Harvest feels the same. Drained. The manacle around her wrist feels tighter. She has the inexplicable desire to curl up on the park bench and close her eyes. She shivers and pulls the coat tighter, slipping her hands into the sleeves to warm up her fingers.

“I met him at that bar,” says Amy, pointing toward the Lighthouse, a gray column against a vast gray sky.

“Ozias?”

“What? No, I met Ozzy through Hazel. I met Nico at the Lighthouse.”

“Who’s Nico?”

“The owner of the bar.”

“You mean Dominic?”

Amy smiles wistfully and takes a step. The chain that connects her to Harvest drags both of them forward.

They are inside the Lighthouse now. It’s packed, but with shadowy figures that are misshapen and blurred. The corners of the room recede into darkness. The neon sign is buzzing, but the light it casts is milky white, too bright to look at.

Amy is sitting on a bar stool, her long blonde hair almost as white as the neon lights. It’s longer, though, and it drapes over her shoulders, highlighting her chest and tiny waist. She looks older than the waifish twenty-something Harvest saw at the souvenir shop.

Because, of course, this isn’t Amy.

This is Audrey.

Audrey rests her elbow on the bar and smiles at Dominic. “Hey, you,” she says.

Dominic looks up from what he’s doing and gives her a smirk. “Hey. What can I get you, darling?”

Audrey leans forward and whispers something into his ear, her lips brushing against his cheek as she pulls back.

He straightens up and frowns. “I told you. I won’t do that. Ozias can try to bait me however he wants. I’m not letting him use my bar for that. Besides,” Dominic leans forward, his hand brushing against Audrey’s knuckles, “you shouldn’t be hanging around him in the first place.” He looks up at her, his eyes raking over her face, landing on her slightly parted lips, before trailing up to her eyes. She leans closer to him.

Harvest blinks, but auras do not exist here.

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Instead, she observes Audrey’s glassy eyes and the way she sways slightly. She can hear the smoothness of Dominic’s voice, his accent slightly deeper and tinged with something ancient, like the smell of frankincense or an unknown letter with too many lines. He gently caresses the inside of Audrey’s wrist, where the skin is thin and sensitive, a direct line to her heart. They look like they are about to kiss.

Audrey suddenly straightens up and looks at Harvest. When their eyes meet, she is Amy again, thin with straight hair, all bones and angles. “He would do this all the time,” she complains. “It used to drive me crazy. I know he was doing it because he cared about me. He never actually compelled me to do anything. Just made suggestions. Not like Ozias would. But still. I asked Hazel to give me something to protect me against compulsion. She was still working on it when…” Amy pouts and looks around the room. The crowd’s laughter picks up and grows louder until it melds into the sounds of the ocean outside, which is suddenly to her right.

They are on the boardwalk and Amy spins the rack displayed by the open door of Sandy Shores Souvenirs. She sighs and makes her way into the store, taking her place behind the sales counter. Harvest recognizes this as the memory of when she and Quinn first started looking for Hazel. When they first met Amy.

The store looks sad without its bright blue walls. The aisles look the same, but when Harvest looks closer, the products sitting on the shelves are blobs of muted purples and blues, inky blacks, and steely silvers. Harvest looks at herself as she walks around the store, following a trail of Hazel’s aura.

Over by the counter, Quinn is leaning close to Amy, his fingers brushing the inside of her arm much like Dominic had only moments ago—or at least it felt like it was moments ago. There are no clocks here; only faceless circles hang on the wall.

“I knew what he was doing,” Amy says, looking down at Quinn with a sad smile. “But I was scared to let you know that I know Hazel and he never asked me if I knew her anyway. She burst in here the day before, crying. She was scared and hurt, and I didn’t want to make it worse for her.”

Amy moves from behind the counter, the chain scratching against the perspex covering, cloudy from years of use. She stands next to Harvest and looks at Quinn with a wistful sigh, eying his profile. But then she straightens up and looks at Harvest with wide eyes, the chain rattling as she grips Harvest’s coat sleeve. “I went to her right after you left. I tried to tell her. I just wanted to warn her.”

With a tug, the world tilts again, and Amy plops down on the blue velvet sofa and holds a pillow to her chest, her neon pink sweater clashing wildly with the jewel tones surrounding her. They are in the living room of a house. Harvest takes a glance out of the window, but the street is a blurry haze.

Amy’s memory of the living room has a surprising amount of detail. The hardwood floor is covered in a thick, tufted rug that depicts peacocks in a field of green, unknowingly hunted by a tiger hiding among spiky tendrils of vines. The walls are bright white and covered in oil paintings in gilded frames. A Titian. A Bouguereau. A Velázquez. Harvest assumes they are prints, but leaning closer, she suspects they are originals.

Or, at the very least, that’s how Amy remembers them.

“I was going to move in here with Hazel in a few months,” Amy says, sliding back into the couch cushions. She said she wouldn’t charge me rent, but I wanted to help out at least. I was saving up.”

“Your parents said something about that—that you were saving up.”

“You spoke to my parents?” she asks, sitting up. “Are they okay?”

Harvest shakes her head. “They’re hurting. They miss you a lot.” She wonders if it’s insensitive to tell a ghost that her loved ones seem lost without her. “They feel a little responsible, I think.”

Amy’s face crumples with emotion and unshed tears. “I miss them too. They were good parents, you know? Even if they had a hard time understanding what it’s like to not know magic. They tried.”

“But you did know magic? A little?”

“Stone fruit,” she says with a smirk. Her hand is cold and clammy when she grasps Harvest’s arm. She moves to stand up, and suddenly they are in the kitchen, surrounded by brushed gold details and marble countertops. There is a fruit bowl on the island, filled with peaches, plums, and cherries.

“I couldn’t do the spell, but I did a lot of the prep work.” Amy slides onto a stool and plucks a cherry from the fruit bowl. “Stone fruit was, like, code for them, in case anyone was listening. It was my idea.” She lets the cherry fall back into the bowl. “Ozzy liked it. He would let me use as many as I wanted for free, as long as I helped out, and ran a few errands for him.”

Harvest picks up the fallen cherry and considers it for a moment, rolling the stem between her forefinger and thumb. “And they worked? They gave you magic.”

“For a while. They hurt like hell afterward. You have to throw them up eventually, or they burn your stomach. I saw a vampire refuse to vomit a portal one up, and his stomach just slowly disintegrated. It was gross.” Amy wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “I used to use an illusion when I met with Nico. I knew it wasn’t right. It’s like lying to someone, isn’t it?”

Harvest shrugs. “I’m not an expert on relationships. Someone once told me that lying is what keeps people together.”

“Do you think that too?”

Harvest looks out of the window. A fluffy gray tree moves like static in the breeze outside. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat. “No,” she says after a moment of thought. “I think life isn’t so black and white.” She turns back to Amy. “Did Nico ever agree to help Ozias?”

“No, never. To be honest, I was glad. For one, it meant I had an excuse to keep going back. And two, well, it meant that I could keep him to myself. That’s a childish thing to say isn’t it?”

“A little, but, to be fair, he is kind of dreamy. I don’t blame you.”

Amy laughs. “You look so much like Hazel, sometimes.” Then, the smile disappears, replaced with a broken, teary-eyed look. She sniffs as she looks down at her hands folded in her lap. When she looks back up at Harvest, there are glowing tears in her eyes. “You know, I think I may have had a crush on her. Just a little. She always knew what to say or do. In any situation. And she could make you feel so special. She really cared, you know? She tried to stop him so many times…”

Harvest steps closer, the chain rattling as she places a gentle hand on Amy’s arm.

Amy seems to shatter under Harvest’s touch, and she begins to cry in earnest—great, wracking sobs shuddering through her chest. If Amy was alive, her skin would be red and splotchy. Instead, her cheeks grow paler, a bright white covered in streaks of silver tears. Harvest pulls her into a hug, the coldness of Amy sinking through the rough wool of her coat.

The sound of a door slamming shut startles them both, and Amy looks at Harvest, stricken and even whiter than before.

“He’s here,” Amy whispers. She pulls back from Harvest in panic, shoulders shaking, hands gripped around her torso. “I can’t—I don’t want—I can’t go through this again.”

Harvest hears the footsteps getting closer, impossibly loud in this cold echoing place in Death, and she just sees a glimpse of who must be Ozias, tight-lipped and steely-eyed in anger. She turns to Amy, grabs the chain between them, and pulls.