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the same girl, perfectly identical: the same hair, same eyes, same hands. Yet one of us is gone. A stupid name was our only difference—is that why I survived? Because I’m Gretchen, and she’s a girl who doesn’t even have a name anymore?
    My sister and I—we were born together. I thought we’d die together. I didn’t expect her to just… not die. And not live. To just not be . We were the same—if I could run fast enough to escape the witch, so could she. But she didn’t, and now everything about my life is wrong, wrong, wrong, because of her—
    I slam the window shut; it creaks against stale paint and old grime, but I feel the familiar fear and fury subsiding. We’ll go to the ocean tomorrow. Calm down. I breathe slowly, like Ansel does, until another fear strikes me—one I had forgotten about until I climb into bed and pull the crisp sheets up over my body. Stay away from her. Stay as far away from her as you can .
    He spoke as if he was afraid of her. He spoke of Sophia the way I used to speak of the witch.
    But what about Sophia Kelly would warrant such a dire warning?

CHAPTER THREE

     
    L oud, sharp clanks of a hammer on nails wake me up the next morning. When I peer through the curtains, I see Ansel on the roof of the shed out back, forest looming behind him. I’m not surprised he’s good at this handyman role—he kept our home from physically falling apart after Dad died, even if he couldn’t repair my family’s heart.
    In my bedroom, the sun cuts through the white curtains so easily that they might as well not exist. I rummage under my suitcase of novels for a sundress—the last of my clean clothes—and quietly open the door. I’ve got no idea if Sophia is awake yet. Her door is open; I pause for a moment to look inside.
    It’s still dark, even in the daylight—I can see the silhouette of one of the large oaks swaying just outside a window and reason it must be blocking most of the sun. There’s a small bookshelf packed with philosophy books, and another with classics— Little Women, Moby-Dick , the Narnia books, all old and worn down, begging me to flip through their pages. On Sophia’s tiny wicker nightstand is a small lamp and, beside that, a Nietzsche book.
    A bark startles me; I whip my head toward the staircase and see Luxe panting happily at the open doorway, a tennis ball at his feet. I smile and walk toward him; he sits obediently while I rustle the fur on his head and then descend the stairs.
    I’m relieved when the scent of the chocolatier strikes me; something about it makes me relax, makes me forget about the thick forest just outside. Sophia is making something with coconut—she must be, because it smells like islands and sunshine in the storefront. Coming down the stairs, my eyes find a piece of wood nailed above the chocolatier’s front door.
    The wood is polished smooth, and painted in pale blue are the words “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”
    Odd quote for a chocolatier, I think as I walk around the glass display cases and look over the saloon doors, to the kitchen.
    I was right—Sophia is standing over a half dozen split coconut shells. She’s gazing out the window, at my brother, I realize, with a sad sort of look on her face. I pause, watching her. It’s as if she’s remembering something, or wishing for something, something she can’t have—
    I step through the saloon doors; they creak and Sophia whirls around, smile on her face, any semblance of melancholy gone.
    “You’re up! Are you hungry? Because I’m not so good at making breakfast—actually, I’m not good at making much of anything except candies… but I have a toaster that makes awesome toast, and about a hundred different kinds of preserves,” Sophia says, pointing to a cabinet behind me. “My mom, she could make anything. Grits, biscuits, pancakes in the shape of hearts, you name it…” The tangerine-colored radio behind her plays