"What I'm about to tell you will be hard to hear." I recited my confession in the bathroom mirror, trying to imagine Mom's point of view. In this party dress, with this sad, sorry face, how many years would I ground me? "But I want to start off by saying, I'm okay."

I glanced down to scan my handwritten script. I'd broken the Slumber family's number one rule of summoning—don't mess with human soulshine. Now I was haunted by a boy in my head and hunted by a ghost who would kill for my magic.

Definitely not okay.

I pulled a gel pen out from behind my ear and scratched out that last part. Reran the line. "What I'm about to tell you will be hard to hear. But I want to start off by saying"—I bit my pen—"it was an accident." Yeah. I jotted that down. "Accident."

You're thinking about this too hard, Pine said.

I know. I sighed. But if I have to tell Mom about you and Crow after the party, I need to make sure I get the words right. As right as I could, anyway.

Was there any future where this boss fight with my mom didn't end in a death screen? The odds were so slim I doubted even Dixon could've seen them.

"One minute," Mom sang from downstairs. Her voice made me jump.

I did a quick turnaround to double check my look for the exhibit opening. For somebody about to go up on the chopping block, I was having a surprisingly good hair day. I'd clipped my curls up so they all fell onto one side of my face—a Youtube trick I learned this morning. And this was an outfit I'd only worn once, for my thirteenth birthday, when Dad had taken me out to eat at that dandelion-shaped building in Dallas. My dress was short and rosy-pink, with just the right amount of poof in the skirt. I'd painted my nails pearly to match.

"How do I look?" I asked Pine.

Clean. He sounded so genuinely impressed that it was hard to be offended.

"Thanks."

I couldn't bring myself to leave my cheat sheet on the counter, so I folded it up and hid it in the secret pocket—under fluffy layers of tulle—with my phone and museum key card. Hopefully, I wouldn't need it.

Outside, Mom honked the car horn.

When I came out, I found her leaning against the 4Runner, touching up her lip gloss in the side mirror. Buttoned up in a white blouse, squeezed into black skinny slacks, and balanced on gold high-heels, she looked even more like a ringmaster than usual. In a good way.

She dropped her lip gloss in her scaley black-and-gold clutch, snapped it shut, and grinned at me. "Woo, look at you. To the nines." She slid into the car and drummed her hands on the wheel. "Girl's night out."

I forced a smile. It felt like I swallowed a horseshoe.

As we drove to the Hemming Museum, Mom turned up the radio and cracked the windows to let in the warm evening breeze.

I wrung the note in my pocket while my windpipe tied itself in a knot. As soon as Pine and I got through that new exhibit and dug up some answers about him and Crow, I would tell Mom the whole story. I had to. It was the right thing to do.

Watching the green and yellow fields fly by, I replayed my confession in my head.

What I'm about to tell you will be hard to hear. But it was an accident. An accident.

What is that? Pine's voice jarred me out of rehearsal.

I didn't see anything outside, not even a house. Then I realized he meant the crops. Corn, I think.

All in one place?

Yeah. Somebody put it there.

That's a good idea.

A long pause stretched tight between us. I got the sense there was something else he wanted to say.

How much time do you think has passed since . . . He didn't finish the thought, but I could feel him wondering about the night he died.

I don't know. He'd never heard of dogs. Never seen a farm. Was he around before things like that even existed? Maybe a lot.

Do you think my family is gone?

A pit formed in my stomach. I'd been so wrapped up in my own problems it hadn't even crossed my mind. I only picked up a tiny crack of nervousness in Pine's voice, but I knew he had to be worried about what we were going to learn.

I held my own hand, wishing I could hold his. We'll see what we see.

We parked outside the Hemming. This time, instead of sneaking through the loading dock in the back, we actually went through the main entrance.

The foyer was full of grown-ups in dresses and suit jackets, leather shoes and high heels, even some cowboy boots.

A stage was set up in front of the paleo lab window where a bluegrass band was covering Walls of Time. I wasn't really into banjo, but I had to admit that fiddle solo was something else. Plus, it was always fun to see a big standing bass.

The ropes for the ticket line had been cleared away to make room for a snack bar—and a bar bar, complete with a moustached guy making a show of mixing drinks. He filled up a teeny-tiny glass, whipped out a blowtorch, and lit the drink on fire. All the adults nearby clapped like they were watching golf.

I want one of those. Pine sounded hypnotized. He was a little bit of a pyro.

Maybe let's stick to Coke.

Dr. Jacobs wasn't kidding. Hemming parties were next level.

I tapped Mom. "I'm gonna hit the snack bar. You want anything?"

"No thanks." She stood on her toes to look over the crowd. "I'm gonna find the paleo team."

I split off on my own and worked through a sea of guests to the tanks of water, sweet tea, and pink lemonade. Just when I grabbed a plastic cup, someone bumped me from behind.

I glanced up just as Dixon leaned against the snack table. He was dressed in an off-white fitted blazer and slacks, holding a cherry-red Shirly Temple.

"Ugh." I scooted away from him. If I could smell his Old Spice, he was way too close.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

Ignoring him, I grabbed a big ice cube with tongs and plunked it into my cup. Whatever happened to howdy?

"My mother is furious." He followed me down the table to the lemonade tank, his voice low and dripping venom. "You're lucky she's so busy with this party, or she'd have scried what you did days ago."

I finished filling my cup and swirled my drink while he chewed me out. As Mom would say, I didn't appreciate his tone.

"See her?" He pointed out a lady dressed like she was running for mayor. She had a white-blonde curl in her bangs just like his and a smile brighter than a football field on a Friday night. A silver, teardrop-shaped brooch was pinned to her dress. "That's my mother. Right now, she doesn't know you exist, and we need to keep it that way. If she looks into your future—or your past—she'll know what happened in quarantine. And I'm not covering for you. Get it?"

I took a long sip of my lemonade and gave his all-white getup a once over. "You look like Colonel Sanders."

That would've been the perfect time to walk backward into mist and disappear. Instead, I power-walked into the crowd and let the party close in behind me. Almost as good.

Do I know him? Pine asked.

I scanned the foyer for Mom and the paleo team and coughed to cover my cringe. He, uh, stabbed you with deer antlers. And I'd watched. And sort of cheered. It was complicated.

Oh. Pine's soulshine soured. I thought I dreamed that.

"Cecelia." Across the foyer, Martina waved and bounced on the toes of her sneakers, flouncing her black lacy dress.

Dr. Jacobs lifted a glass of something on the rocks and tipped her hat at me. She was the only person I knew, other than Grandpa John, who could pull off a slide tie.

I squeezed into their huddle next to Mom.

"Honk, honk." Dr. Jacobs nodded my direction. "Here comes the steamroller."

My face went hot. "Rude." Then, I realized she was pointing past me.

I turned to see Dixon's mom clicking up to our group on high heels, smile shining.

"Oh, crud." I twisted back around, shielding my face with my drink. "I can't talk to her."

Dr. Jacobs nudged me with her elbow. "Ahh, don't be shy."

"No, she's right," Martina said. "Mrs. Hemming is a Master Diviner. She'll know Cecelia is, you know . . ." She made wiggly spirit fingers.

". . . Instead of me," Mom said.

Right. She was registered as the paleo lab's volunteer mage. Not me.

Mom shimmied to straighten her blouse and shook out her hands like she was preparing the biggest performance of her life. "I got this." She whipped around and walked tall toward the enemy. "Hi." When she intercepted Dixon's mom, she reached out for a handshake and guided her into a smooth turn. One big, easy motion that swept me out of eyeshot. "I just wanted to say, this is a great party."

Mrs. Hemming fanned the compliment away. "Oh, that's so sweet."

Martina and Dr. Jacobs scooted to close the gap Mom had left behind, blocking me with their bodies. I could still see Mrs. Hemming in the crack between them.

None of us said a word. We were all eavesdropping.

"I'm Christine," Dixon's mom said.

"Evelyn."

"Listen, I saw you from across the room and I couldn't help but scry some very impressive magic potential in your bloodline. I hope I'm not being too forward, but are you"—Mrs. Hemming dropped her voice to a scandalous whisper—"a necromancer?"

Mom held her smile steady, but I saw the rest of her body cringe. Our family never used that word. "I'm a summoner."

"I've been waiting for someone like you to turn up. I'd love to buy you a coffee sometime and talk about this new exhibit." She gave her a wink. "Maybe pitch you an opportunity."

"I'm booked up." Mom switched subjects before Mrs. Hemming had a chance to reply. "I love your pin, by the way."

"Thank you." She touched the upside-down teardrop brooch on her dress. "I had it made. I love your earrings." She lifted a manicured finger like a TV anchor getting breaking news. Her eyes glazed over like she was reliving a memory. "You got them in Nashville. After a show. You were a singer?"

Mom laughed a little too loud. "That was a long time ago."

Mrs. Hemming leaned in and grinned like they were sharing secrets. "You were good, weren't you? You left Glen Rose for it." She put a hand to her temple. "Wait, wait, don't tell me. Your band was called . . ." She snapped her fingers. "Quarter Horse."

"Close. The Mighty Hightowers. It came down to a coin toss."

Mrs. Hemming made a tch sound. "Heads or tails. It always gets me."

Mom never told me any of this. I knew she could play a little guitar and I heard her hum around the house. But nobody said anything about music being, like, a career.

"You should get up there and sing something." Mrs. Hemming nodded at the stage. "Just two songs. I have to make a quick announcement in between. Easy-peasy."

Mom waved her hands. "Oh, no. Nobody wants to hear that."

"Please. It'll be so fun. They'll love it." The sureness in her smile made it seem like she'd already glanced into the future and checked.

Mom gritted her teeth and looked over Mrs. Hemming's shoulder. We made eye contact. "I should really get back to . . ."

I made a chopping motion at my neck before she could finish the thought. She could absolutely not bring Dixon's mom over here. If she did, I'd be busted for sure.

Mom forced a smile for Mrs. Hemming. "You know what? Sure."

They went up to the stage and talked to one of the techs.

"Oh my gosh." Martina swiped on her cell. "Your Mom was a one hit wonder." She flipped her phone around to show me where she already searched her name.

I scrolled through pictures and pictures of college Mom playing under multicolored stage lights. She wouldn't let me wear half the stuff she had on back then. "No. Shut up." I swiped to a photo of her playing in a low-lit coffee house and zoomed in on an old guy in a baseball cap in the background. "Is—is that R.L. Burnside?"

Who? Pine said.

I swear I recognized him from the CDs in Grandpa's truck. No way. Maybe it was just some lost senior citizen who looked like R.L. Burnside.

I swiped to another picture. "Where is this?" I showed Dr. Jacobs and Martina a photo of Mom playing in a smokey bar. She stood in front of a neon sign with symbols I couldn't read. "Is that Japanese? When was my mom in Japan? Why don't I know about this?"

"Dang." Dr. Jacobs took a long slurp of her drink, totally unsympathetic. "It's like she had a whole life before you."

The front man for the bluegrass band helped Mom onstage.

As she adjusted the mic, she scanned the crowd. She looked a little awkward, out of practice. But when she made eye contact with me, she smiled. "This one goes out to my Baby."

The standing bass behind her plunked out a funky beat, and the rest of the band fell into this jazzy, liquid sound I never guessed bluegrass strings could make.

"This is her song," Dr. Jacobs whispered to me. "The song."

It stopped the whole crowd—maybe because everybody already knew this number. But I'd never heard anything like it before.

Mom nodded to the beat, rolled her shoulders, and hung on the mic stand like she was reaching deep down inside for the first note. Then she opened her mouth and let loose this rich, soulful sound.

I swear, it knocked everyone in the room back a step.

She transformed like a house catching fire, tearing up that swinging song with wild coyote howls and growls. I could hear her smile. And I was so wrapped up in her voice, I wasn't even listening to the words.

She had that whole party stomping and whooping. Martina let out a little scream.

Watching her on that stage, singing with her whole body and glittering with gold, something happened inside me. It was like she wasn't my mom anymore. She was kind of . . . amazing. I think I wanted to be her.

And I'd never seen her this happy. It was like years of worry went up in smoke. Maybe about thirteen years of worry.

Was she just like that onstage? Did it set her free, like magic?

Or could it be that, for the first time ever, she believed I had my magic under control? That maybe everything—maybe I—would turn out okay?

The song went out in a fiddle finale, and everybody clapped and whistled.

Mom had turned her face away from the mic to catch her breath, but she caught my eye and grinned.

I smiled back, but my hand found the crumpled script in my pocket, and I went cold all over. This wasn't the happy ending either of us were waiting for. Not until I poofed Crow.

"Give it up for Christine Hemming." Mom stepped out of the spotlight and drew out the applause as Dixon's mom came onstage, bubbling champagne in hand.

Mrs. Hemming took the mic. She waited until the audience simmered down to silence before she spoke. "Eighty years ago, my great-grandmother Blanche foresaw this very night."

I hugged my stomach. All of a sudden I felt watched.

"She believed the fossils you are about to see had the power to change our world—so much that she founded The Hemming Museum of Nature and Science to one day house them." She flashed a presidential smile. "It is my great honor to see her dream come to life."

Everyone clapped. I followed along.

But Dr. Jacobs just took a sip of her drink, her ice cube clinking the rim of her glass. She stared from under the shadow of her hat like a red-tailed hawk. I'd never seen her so stone cold.

"I'd like to extend a special thank you to the Order of the Handaxe." Mrs. Hemming unclipped her teardrop brooch and held it up to the stage lights. "Anyone you see wearing this pin has played an important part in bringing this wonderful new exhibit to the Hemming."

I glanced around. None of my paleo team pals had pins. But I did see a few stuck in suits, scarves, and collars.

"I'd also like to introduce Dr. David Cruz, a dear friend of the museum." Mrs. Hemming gestured behind her at a dark-haired man in a suit and glasses. "Dr. Cruz will be overseeing some cutting-edge magical research techniques available only here in the Lone Star State. He escorted these fossils all the way from Gibraltar, so let's give him a big Texas welcome." She led the crowd in another round of applause.

"Hold on." I frowned. "Gibraltar is real?"

"Of course, it's real," Dr. Jacobs whispered.

"I thought it was just something people said. Like 'all the way to Timbuktu.'"

"Timbuktu is also real."

Somebody shushed us.

Mrs. Hemming picked up a glass from a nearby table. "It is my pleasure to present a species that enjoyed this planet almost a hundred thousand years longer than we have." She raised her glass. "May their memory guide us into a peaceful future."

Everyone around us toasted, except Dr. Jacobs. She snapped a sharp-eyed glance back and forth, like she was worried we might be in one of those snake-handling churches.

Mrs. Hemming lowered her drink. "Introducing, for the first time in the United States"—she opened her arms as golden confetti fluttered down and a banner behind her unfurled—"The Lost Neanderthals of Gorham's Cave."

The crowd exploded with applause. Camera flash snapped all around the room.

Dr. Jacobs spit out her drink. I think some of it even came out her nose. She covered her face with a cocktail napkin, eyes watering.

"Neanderthal?" Martina shrieked over the uproar. "The Hemmings have Neanderthal bones?"

"Did she say cave?" That one word rang in my head. "Cave, as in caveman?"

I don't get it, Pine said.

Behind us, a set of double doors slid open, revealing a dark hall I didn't even know was there. Another banner unrolled above the entrance—an exact image of the big, white mountain from my dreams.

"Oh my gosh," I said.

That mountain. That's where I live. Pine's soulshine flared hot inside me. Take me there.

On it, I said.

Mrs. Hemming had pulled Mom back up to the mic, and the bluegrass band started up again.

A harmonica intro moseyed up to what should've been Mom's first note. But she just stood there, frozen with her mouth open and no sound coming out. So horrified that she didn't even seem to hear her cue.

We made eye contact. She set her jaw and shook her head. I read her loud and clear—don't you dare.

But I had to do this for Pine. I might not get another chance.

After a long, uncomfortable stare, I scooted back into the flow of the crowd.

"Cecelia." She snapped my name into the mic—a warning.

My stomach clenched. I whipped around and started booking it toward the open doors. Come on, Pine. No matter what, I was getting him some answers.

It was a good day to be short. I ducked and twisted to squeeze between guests until I popped out in the exhibit.

A worker wearing a jacket embroidered with the Hemming Museum logo hooked a velvet rope across the entrance, cutting the line off behind me. "Sorry, folks. Only thirty guests at a time."

And just like that, the automatic doors slid shut, sealing the exhibit off from the world.

I stood in the dim hall and held my breath, waiting for ten-story Momzilla to tear off the roof and grab me out of here like I was a Barbie doll.

My phone buzzed in my dress pocket. That had to be her, probably circling the foyer like a shark.

I was too scared to even decline the call. I just muted the ringer and put it back in my pocket.