The party was in full swing long before the guest of honor arrived.

Nervously, Abby shuffled her feet back and forth at the hall's entrance, her fingers intertwining with the hem of her dress. Dozens of wealthy business men, women, and their children filled the dining hall, laughing and dancing, talking up a storm.

As she crossed the room, breath held, she mentally identified her guests' homelands based on their dress. Those from the capital—Mr. and Mrs. Daggert Lovelace—waltzed to the music in opulent silk dress and suit. Both were trimmed in gold, a common way of showing one's allegiance to the crown. They looked like real, honest to gods, royalty and Abby looked downward at her own dress, ashamed to be in their presence in such normal attire.

To her right, her father's northern guests stood, rigid and still, ignoring the siren's call of the violin being played on the phonograph. Instead, they clasped plates piled high with meat in their gloved hands, the furlined collars of their long coats acting as crumb catchers.

It was an unseasonably warm evening for late autumn in the sea country, but the northerners seemed unfazed in their traditional tweeds and brocades. The youngest of the northern brood, nine-year-old Evette Bryjhild, betrayed her quiet nature and let the dance sweep her along. She twirled and bounded off-beat to the music, her parents standing like stone sentinels behind her.

Drunken, dancing guests, Lucy meowed. A dangerous combination for those with tails.

You're a cat, Sebbi began as his brother gave him a cocked look. Yet you haven't a nimble bone in your body.

Lucy purred. I must've replaced all the nimble with handsome.

The cats followed beside Abby sidestepping some of the fanciest shoes they'd ever seen. Both felines kept an eye on the shadows, keeping close watch to make sure they danced the right way.

Meandering between the dancing guests and large round tables, Abby kept the smile on her face, nodding when someone threw a 'happy birthday' her way.

She curtsied almost endlessly, stopping once in awhile to shake hands with those guests who had outstretched their own. For the Bryjhilds, she remained upright and rigid, mimicking their own statuesque demeanor, and gave them a quick bow of her head. This, in the north, was the most appropriate way of greeting a guest.

Once at the end of the hall, Abby released a sigh, a flush going to her cheeks. Her stomach rumbled. Thankfully, hunger was never a problem at fancy parties.

In front of her, piled almost to the ceiling, were plates of meats, tins of homemade fudge and candies, and saucers full of gravy and jams. Without another moment to gawk at the spread, Abby plucked a plate off the table and began building herself a birthday feast.

Five minutes later, after four plates had been piled high with meats and treats, Abby was seated at one of the tables in the far back. With a piece of roast pig hanging from the crook of her mouth, she looked around her.

The hall dazzled with Mimi's hard work. The old maid had gone out of her way to breathe a certain magick into the old woodwork and yellowed stone of the room. The eerie blue light from the chandelier had been replaced with tall, white candles, three of each on every table, that burned naturally and made the space cozy and bright.

Hundreds of white lights had been strung up across the ceiling, whose ends trailed down the walls like creeping ivy. Each table had been adorned with pink organza and a vase of Mirthea. Tiny, white star-shaped blooms poked out from behind the plant's gold foliage.

Magick.

Long ago, Mimi had told Abby that the world held magick. And that one needn't bother with potions or alchemy to know it existed; one only had to look. That real, honest-to-gods magick existed all around them.

Mirthea, a plant who grew gold and blossomed during the coldest winters, was magick. Sebbi wearing a bow was magick. The party, even, held a certain amount of magick.

"Happy birthday."

The voice addressing Abby now, the one flat and boring and belonging to Vicrum Hudginns, however, was not magick.

"Thanks," Abby said as she tossed back her head and let a piece of chicken fall into her mouth. It wiggled its delicious way down her throat.

"Heathen," Poppy said.

Her voice too, Abby decided, was not magick. In fact, it was so un-magick, it was the opposite. Anti-magick. Poppy's voice was so shrill and abysmal it threatened to chase the ears right off Abby's head.

Maybe, in that way, Poppy's voice had magick, Abby thought.

Glancing up, she spied Crum, front and center, standing tall in an elegant black coat and tie. The bounce of his hair had been tamed with grease, so instead of hair like cotton candy or fattened clouds, Crum looked as though he'd fallen head-first into a very stylish oil slick.

Poppy stood beside him, everything impeccable, every last curl pinned in place. She wore a gown, one far more expensive and fancy than Abby's--typical, Abby thought--that was coral-colored and trimmed in gold. It complimented her smug face perfectly.

Polly, thank goodness for the best of the Mayweathers, stood behind her sister, eclipsed yet still beautiful in Poppy's shadow. She wore powder blue, hair bound and braided along either side of her face. Splatters of freckles on her cheeks and nose made Polly look as though she'd been put together from the Autumn constellations.

Henrich Jo looked awkward in his tailored suit- the sleeves were too long and the coat itself bulged, the seams stretched to bursting around Henrich's pudgy center. He must have known how silly he looked because he kept his head down, eyes trained on the scuff marks on his shoes.

Abby thought his worry was stupid and misplaced. He was the son of a Trade Councilman. No one would speak ill of how he dressed. At least, not out loud. Like Abby. She would keep to herself how she thought Henrich Jo right now resembled a fat squirrel who'd gotten mixed up in a hunter's net.

"Happy Birthday, Abby," another voice chimed in. The words sounded as sweet and sugary as the rice pudding on Abby's third plate. It took her a few moments to register it'd been Polly who had spoke. Abby'd never heard her voice before.

She beamed. "Thank you, Polly. You have a lovely voice." Abby turned and glowered at Poppy. "Very unlike your sister who sounds like a colony of sick gulls."

Poppy gave Abby her usual venomous glare while Polly placed a hand over her mouth to hide her grin. Fed up, Poppy gathered her siblings and taking them by their wrists, whisked them away.

Pride filled Abby's chest as she watched them melt back into the scenery. She had done her duty, and she had done it well. Rich, flaky pastry had stayed on her plate and slinked into her stomach. None had gotten smeared across Poppy's face, as tempting as that might have been.

Abby smiled, remembering Poppy covered in strawberry and cream, but then she remembered Crum had not left with the others. He was still there.

His presence chased Abby's smile from her face."What do you want?"

Crum looked taller that evening and Abby couldn't understand how that could be. He was three years shy of legal potion age and she was certain he hadn't been wearing raised soles. She leaned down and peered around the table for safe measure.

Regular shoes.

Why did Crum seem so much taller, so much straighter?

"What are you looking at?" he asked. Pulling out a chair, he sat opposite Abby.

"I didn't say you could sit there." She huffed and lifted a fork full of roast pork and apple jam to her mouth.

Crum eyed the chair. "And why not?"

"The chair's reserved for people I like."

Watching Abby clean off her second plate of meat and spiced eggs, he said,"You like my hair."

"Hair is hair. Not whole people. The chair is for people I like wholely."

Crum snorted. "You don't have many of those."

Abby was about to say something in rebuke, but the words just wouldn't come. Crumly Crum Hudgcrum was right. She didn't have many people she liked. Polly was acceptable. Twirling Evette Bryjhild was a whirlwind of delight. She liked her dad, obviously, and Mimi. Margo, while a little wobbly and wooden, seemed okay. Of course, she had her cats and Sir Simon Ogretree, but some might argue they were hardly people.

Abby gulped. "I miss her," she said, placing her fork next to her third empty plate.

Crum cocked his head up, eyebrows raised. "Who?"

"My mom. She should be here."

Crum nodded and shot up from his seat, hand outstretched. Abby raised a brow at him in surprise.

"Then let's go see her. It's not like you to sit around. You want to see your mom, go see her."

Abby stared on blankly. Her mother was dead. How was she supposed to see her?

Crum cleared his throat, his outstretched hand trembling. "You feel her in that place, don't you? Surrounded by all those dead trees? So go."

For all the things Crum had shown himself to be, this was the first time Abby thought him perceptive and a tad clever. Sneaking out to go to the grove, why hadn't she thought of that?

"Okay," she said, a genuine smile lighting up her face. "Let's go. But put your hand down, Vicrum Hudginns. Offer it all you want, but I'll never take it. You balded my favorite doll."

Crum blushed. "You kicked me in the crotch. Five times. I don't care whether you take my hand or not."

Abby and Crum made quick work of the crowd and snuck outside. Lucy and Sebbi followed behind after having their fill of roast meat and chilled milk. Cool air brought the scent of salt and clove to their noses. It was a nice change from the humid, stale air inside.

Abby inhaled and then, she did what she did best—she ran, her shadow made up of two very happy and fat cats. It felt good to stretch her legs. Her body grew hot, sweat forming on her brow and getting dried up by the breeze. Her breathing grew ragged, her heart racing.

By the time Abby reached the top of the hill, she was exhausted, but it was the good, welcomed kind of exhausted. Wind rustled through the persimmon trees' bare boughs, giving Abby a warm welcome home. She curtsied to each tree before plopping down under Simon. From her perch, Abby could make out the lights from the dining hall and the silhouettes of all her guests.

Sebbi and Lucy stayed near her— Lucy lying on her legs, Sebbi lounging on one of Simon's low-hanging branches. Stars sparkled overhead.

"I'm thirteen now," Abby said, eyeing the biggest, brightest star. If all the ministers had been right, and the stars were the souls of the dead, then this star, Abby decided, had to be her mother's. "Everyone's made it a big deal though I don't think it is."

She folded her hands in her lap. "You're not here." Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. "Because of me."

Was I worth it?

If it hadn't been for Abby, her mother would still be alive. Culpepper would have thrown fancy to-dos to celebrate her birthday. The grove would've been healthy and green. Poor Simon might have even bore fruit.

But she would never get her answer, never hear a single word uttered from her mother's mouth. The thing about the dead was, no matter how much you carried around their memory, they stayed dead. It was the truth, and no amount of magick could ever change it.

"Here."

Crum had finally caught up, his hair more like slippery eels now that the wind had blown it around a bit. His hand held a rolled canvas which he pointed at Abby's head. She looked at it as though it were made of steel and its pointy end had been shoved in her face.

Vicrum clicked his tongue. "It's a gift, alright? Take it."

Was Crum to be trusted? Was it really a gift? Or would Abby unroll it and find her awful full name scrawled across it?

Shuffling back and forth, Crum snorted and waved the canvas. "Take it."

Abby gave in and plucked the canvas from Crum's hand. A beautiful image of a girl running emerged as she unrolled it. A painted sun was at the girl's back as she crested a hill. At its top stood a barren tree, leafless branches slouching toward the ground. Two black cats made up the painted girl's shadow.

"Why that's me!" Abby exclaimed. "And Sir Simon at the top! And those black smudges, they're Sebbi and Lucy!"

Abby stopped looking at the painting and stared up at Crum. "You painted this? You? By yourself? With those spoiled fingers of yours? You found time among all your preening and pouting to make this?"

"You're welcome."

"It's really good." Abby marveled at the brown and black brushstrokes Crum had used to capture Simon's deadness. The oranges and reds used to capture the grove at sunset; it was one of the best paintings Abby'd ever seen.

Off in the distance, a flash of red coming from the house pulled Abby's attention away from her gift. She squinted, noticing the lights in the dining hall flickering before going out. The entire house was plunged in darkness.

"Strange," she said, getting up. She looked at the sky. "No storm clouds."

"It's probably nothing." As Crum spoke, the lights turned back on, smoke rising from the chimney. "See?" he said, his chest puffed out from being right.

The sound of music wafted up from the house along with loud, raucous laughter—

"No," Abby said. Why was smoke coming from the chimney? They'd snuffed out the fire midday. There shouldn't be any smoke. And the laughter, when had it gotten so loud? "It's not right."

Abby looked harder. Then, she saw. Smoke wasn't just rising from the chimney, it came from the cracked windowsills on the second floor, and from her balcony. Abby's heart raced. Her hands grew damp and cold. She felt a shiver rise from her feet and settle in her gut with a thud.

"What is it?" Crum asked.

The laughter grew louder, more frantic so Abby listened harder. Fear rose in her throat as she realized the laughter had stopped. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

"Abby?"

Turning, she looked up at Crum, her body shaking. "That's not laughter," she said, her voice small and frail. "It's screaming."

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