Six witches had been standing at the iron gate since dawn. Iris Meadowrest counted them again from the porch of the small keeper's house, a chipped mug going cold in their hand. The witches did not shout. They waited, which was worse. Behind Iris, past the rows of small stones, the oldest tomb sat under moss the color of old copper. That tomb was the reason Iris had bought this land. Something slept beneath it, older than the graveyard itself, and Iris meant to wake it. But the ground would not answer while strangers pressed against the fence. The witches wanted their familiars back. Iris understood. Iris had buried each of those cats. Iris had also seen the three-legged white one climb out three nights after burial, shake off dirt, and sit blinking at the moon. Others had followed, one at a time. The witches heard. Now they stood at the gate with empty baskets, believing Iris was hoarding what belonged to them. Iris set the mug down and walked to the gate. A tabby ghost brushed past their boot and did not slow. Iris did not flinch. "They aren't cats anymore," Iris said through the bars. "Not the way you knew them. If I open the gate, you'll see." The tallest witch pushed a basket forward. "Then let us see." Iris unlatched the gate. This was the risk. If the witches came in and their familiars refused them, the witches would leave and stop watching the fence. If the familiars went home, Iris lost nothing but graves already emptied. The six stepped onto the path. Iris led them to the oak where the first tabby lay. Cats came from the stones without being called. A sweet black one wound around a witch's ankles, sniffed her hem, and walked away. A gray one hissed at its old keeper and vanished into the ivy. One by one the familiars refused. The three-legged white cat sat on a stump and stared through its witch as if she were fog. The tallest witch lowered her basket. "They're not ours." "No," Iris said. "They belong to whatever is under that." Iris pointed at the mossed tomb. A woman stepped out from behind the yew where Iris had not seen her enter. White hair, plain robe, a staff with a pale stone at its head. She pressed a hand to her jaw as if a tooth hurt. "Meridian Gravesight," she said. "I felt this place from the road. You have a spirit under that stone that is ready." "Ready for what," Iris said. "To be woken. Not settled. The cats know." Meridian looked at the witches. "Go home. Your dead have new work." The witches went. Iris latched the gate behind them and turned to the tomb. For the first time in weeks, the ground felt quiet enough to listen. A pink butterfly landed on the moss and stayed.