But Wader’s Creek had its own graveyard. There wasn’t a crypt or a plot for Ivy, Abner, Sulla, or Delilah in Perpetual Peace.

Then I found a red X behind what my mom had said was one of the oldest tribute markers in the graveyard, and I knew it had to be the one.

So I folded up the map and decided to check it out.

Minutes later, I found myself staring at a white marble obelisk.

Sure enough, the word SACRED was carved into the crumbling veined stone, right above a gloomy-looking skull with empty eyes that stared at you straight on. I never understood why a single creepy skull marked a handful of Gatlin’s oldest graves. But we all knew about this particular tribute, even though it was tucked away on the far edge of Perpetual Peace, where the heart of the old graveyard sat, long before the new one was built up around it.

The Confederate Needle—that’s what folks around Gatlin called it, not because of its pointed shape but because of the ladies who had put it there. Katherine Cooper Sewell, who founded the Gatlin chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution—probably not long after the Revolution itself—had seen to it that the DAR raised enough money for the obelisk before she died.

She had married Samuel Sewell.

Samuel Sewell had built and run the Palmetto Brewery, the first distillery in Gatlin County. Palmetto Brewery made one thing and one thing only.

Wild Turkey.

“Pretty smart,” I said, circling to the back of the obelisk, where the twisted wrought iron fencing bowed and broke into pieces. I didn’t know if I would’ve been able to see it back home, but here in the Otherworld, the trapdoor of a Doorwell cut into the base of the rock was plain as day. The rectangular outline of the entrance snaked between rows of engraved shells and angels.

I pressed my hand against the soft stone and felt it give way beneath me, swinging from sunlight into shadow.

A dozen uneven stone steps later, I found myself on what sounded like a gravel pathway. I made my way around a turn in the passage and caught sight of light pooling in the distance. As I got closer, I smelled swamp grass and waterlogged palmettos. There was no mistaking that smell.

This was the right place.

I reached a warped wooden door, propped halfway open. Nothing could keep out the light now—or the hot, sticky air, which only got hotter and stickier as I climbed the steps on the other side of the door.

Wader’s Creek was waiting for me. I couldn’t see past the first fringe of tall cypress trees, but I knew it was there. If I followed the muddy path in front of me, I would find my way to Amma’s home away from home.

I pushed through the palmetto branches and saw a row of tiny houses, just off the edge of the water.

The Greats. It had to be.

As I made my way down the path, I heard voices. On the nearest veranda, three women were crowded around a table with a deck of cards. They were fussing and swatting at one another the way the Sisters did when they played Scrabble.

I recognized Twyla from a distance. I suspected she was going to join the Greats when she died on the night of the Seventeenth Moon. Still, it was strange to see her here, hanging out on the porch and playing cards with them.

“Now, you can’t throw that card, Twyla, and you know it. You think I can’t see you cheatin’?” A woman in a colorful shawl pushed the card back toward Twyla.

“Now, Sulla. You may be a Seer, cher. But there’s nothin’ there to see,” Twyla responded.

Sulla. That’s who she was. Now I recognized her from the vision—Sulla the Prophet, Amma’s most famous ancestor of all.

“Well, I think you’re both cheatin’.” The third woman tossed her cards down and adjusted her round glasses. Her shawl was bright yellow. “And I don’t want ta play with either one a you.” I tried not to laugh, but the scene was too familiar; I might as well be home.

“Don’t you be such a sourpuss, Delilah.” Sulla wagged her head.

Delilah. She was the one in the glasses.

A fourth woman was sitting in a rocking chair at the edge of the porch, with a hoop in one hand and a needle in the other. “Why don’t you go on in and cut your old Aunt Ivy a slice a pie? I’m busy with my stitchin’.”

Ivy. It was weird to finally see her in person after the visions.

“Pie? Ha!” An old man laughed from his rocking chair—a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand and a pipe in the other.

Uncle Abner.

I felt like I knew the man personally, though we’d never met. After all, I’d been in the kitchen when Amma made him more than a hundred pies over the years—maybe a thousand.

The giant crow flew down and landed on Uncle Abner’s shoulder. “Won’t find any pie in there, Delilah. We’re runnin’ low.”

Delilah stopped, one hand on the screen door. “Why would we be runnin’ low, Abner?”

He nodded in my direction. “I’m guessin’ Amarie’s busy bakin’ for him now.” He emptied his pipe, tapping the old tobacco over the side of the porch railing.

“Who, me?” I couldn’t believe Uncle Abner was actually talking to me. I took a step closer to all of them. “I mean, hello, sir.”

He ignored me. “I’m guessin’ I won’t be seein’ another lemon meringue unless it’s the boy’s favorite, too.”

“Are you gonna stand there starin’ or come on over here already?” Sulla had her back to me, but she still knew I was there.

Twyla squinted into the sunlight. “Ethan? That you, cher?”