2. Morgan

"Thank you for coming." A man with a weathered face and brown hair gone mostly gray stepped forward and took one of Morgan's hands in his.

"Hello," she said quietly, giving him a smile. Automatically Morgan sent out waves of reassurance and calm, trying to soothe nerves stretched taut by fear and worry. Since she'd lost her husband, Colm, six months ago, it had been a struggle to continue her work without her emotions interfering. But she needed the salary from the New Charter to support herself and her daughter, and also, she needed the relief from her own sadness that came from helping others. Luckily Morgan had been honing her skills as a healer for years now, and the routine of easing someone's concern was second nature.

"You must be Andrew Moffitt," she said. She was in the county hospital in Youghal, a town not far from where she lived, right outside of Cobh, Ireland. The Moffitts' daughter was in the last bed in a long, old-fashioned ward that housed eight patients. "Aye," he said with a quick bob of his head. "And this is my missus, Irene."

A small woman wearing an inexpensive calico dress nodded nervously. Her large green eyes were etched with sadness, the lines around her mouth deep and tight. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, practical for a farmer's wife.

"Hello, Irene," Morgan said. She reached out and took one of Irene's hands, sending her a quick bit of strength and peace. Irene gave her a questioning glance, then shot an anxious look at her husband. "Irene, you seem unsure." Morgan's voice was gentle and compassionate.

Irene's eyes darted around the room, pausing to linger on the pale, thin girl lying in the hospital bed. The hushed whoosh, whoosh of machines filled the small room, with a steady beeping of the heart monitor keeping time.

"I don't hold with this," Irene said in a low voice. "We're Catholics, we are. I don't want to lose my Amy, but maybe it's the Lord's will." Her face crumpled slightly.

Morgan put down her large canvas carryall and deliberately sent out more general calming waves. "I understand," she said. "As much as you desperately love your daughter and pray for-her recovery, you might not want it if it means endangering her soul. Or yours."

"Yes," Irene said, sounding relieved and surprised that Morgan understood. Of course Irene couldn't know that Morgan had been raised by devout Catholics, Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands, and knew better than many the fears Catholics had about witchcraft. "Yes, that's it exactly. I mean, she's my baby, but…" Again, withheld sobs choked her. "It's just-Eileen Crannach, from church-she told us what you'd done for her nephew, Davy. Said it was a miracle, it was. And we're so desperate-the doctors can't do much for her."

"I understand," Morgan said again. "Here, sit down." She led Irene to one of the two nearby plastic visitor chairs and sat down in the other one. Looking up, she beckoned Andrew to come closer. In a low voice she said, "I can promise you that anything I do would never have evil intent. I seem to have a gift for healing. My using that gift feels, to me, what you would describe as the Lord's will. Here's another way of looking at it: maybe it was the Lord's will that brought me to you. Maybe your Lord wants to do his work through me."

Irene gaped. "But you're not Catholic," she whispered. "You're a… witch!" The word itself seemed to frighten her, and she looked around to make sure no one else had heard.

Morgan smiled, thinking of her adoptive mother. "Even so. He works in mysterious ways."

An unspoken consultation passed between Andrew and Irene, looking into each other's eyes. Morgan sat quietly, using the time to cast her senses toward Amy. Amy was in a coma. From what Andrew Moffitt had gruffly told Morgan on the phone, Amy's brother had been practicing fancy skateboard moves, and in one of them he'd shot the board out from under his feet. Amy had been playing nearby, and the edge of the board caught her right in the neck, cracking her spine. But they hadn't realized the extent of her injuries, and over the next several days the swelling and injury had been worsened by her everyday activities. They hadn't even known anything was wrong until Amy had collapsed on the school playground.

She'd had surgery six days ago and hadn't come out of it.

"Do what you can for Amy," Andrew said, calling Morgan back to the present. "All right," said Morgan, and that was all.

Because she was in a county hospital, with people coming and going constantly, Morgan couldn't use any of her more obvious tools, like candles and incense and her four silver cups. However, she did slip a large, uncut garnet beneath Amy's pillow to help her in her healing rite.

"If you could just try to keep anyone from touching me or talking to me," she whispered, and wide-eyed, the Moffitts nodded.

Morgan stood at Amy's bedside, opening her senses and picking up as much as she could. Right now Amy was on a respirator, but her heart was beating on its own and everything else seemed to be working. There was an incision on her neck with a thin plastic drain running out of it. That was where she could start.

First things first. Morgan rolled her shoulders and tilted her head back and forth, releasing any tension or stiffness. She breathed in and out, deep cleansing breaths that helped relax and center her. Then, closing her eyes, she silently and without moving her lips began her power chant, the one that reached out into the world and drew magick to her, the one that helped raise her own powers within her. It came to her, floating toward her like colored ribbons on the mildest of spring breezes. Feeling the magick bloom inside her, Morgan felt a fierce love and joy flood her. She was ready.

As lightly as a feather, Morgan placed two fingers on Amy's incision. At once she picked up the drug-dulled sensations of pain, the swollen sponginess of inflamed cells, the cascading dominoes of injuries that had escalated, unchecked, until Amy lost consciousness. Slowly Morgan traced the injuries until she reached the last and mildest one. Then, following them like a thread, she did what she could to heal them. Clots dissolved with a steady barrage of spells. Muscles soothed, ten-dons eased, veins gently reopened. Morgan's mind traced new pathways, delicate, fernlike branches of energy, and soon felt the rapid fire of neuron impulses racing across them. Love, she thought. Love and hope, joy and life. The blessing of being able to give. How blessed I am. These feelings she let flow into Amy's consciousness.

The injury itself was complicated, but Morgan broke it down into tiny steps, like the different layers of a spell, the different steps one had to learn, all throughout Wicca. As with anything else, it was the tiny steps that added up to create a wondrous whole. Morgan banished the excess fluid at the site, dispersing it through now-open paths. She calmed swollen muscles and helped the skin heal more rapidly. The final step of this first stage was the actual crack in the spinal column, where a minute shift of bone had compressed the nerves. The bone was edged back into place, and Morgan felt the instantaneous Tightness and perfect fit of it She encouraged the bone to start knitting together. The crushed nerves were slowly, painstakingly restored, with new routes being created where necessary. Then she waited and listened to the overall response of Amy's body. It was sluggish, but functioning. With every beat of Amy's heart it got stronger, worked better, flowed more smoothly. It would take longer to heal completely, Morgan knew. Maybe months. But this was a great start

Her own strength was flagging. Healing took so much energy and concentration that Morgan always felt completely drained afterward. This was the most difficult case she'd had in months, and it would leave Morgan herself weak for several days. But it wasn't over. Amy's body was functioning. Now she had to find Amy. Ignoring her fatigue, Morgan concentrated even deeper, silently using spells that would link Amy's consciousness with hers in a tath meanma, a joining of their minds. Amy wasn't a blood witch, so it wouldn't feel good for either one of them, and Amy's ability to either receive or send energy was going to be very limited. Amy's spirit was sleeping. It had shut down and withdrawn to escape the horror of paralysis, the pain of the injury and the surgery, and the flood of nerve- shattering emotions that everyone around Amy was releasing.

Amy? Are you there?

Who-who are you?

I'm here to help. It's time to come back now. Morgan was firm and kind.

No. It's too yucky.

It's not so yucky anymore. It's time to come back. Come back and see your mum and dad. They're waiting for you.

They're still here?

They would never leave you. Come back now.

Will it hurt? Her voice was young and afraid.

A little bit. You have to be strong and brave. But it won't be as bad as it was before, I promise.

Very slowly and gently Morgan eased her consciousness back, then swayed on her feet as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. But she backtracked quickly to herself, sent a last, strong healing spell, and opened her eyes. She blinked several times and swallowed, feeling as if she were about to fall over. Slowly she took her hand away from Amy's neck.

With difficulty, she turned to Andrew and Irene and smiled weakly. Then, knowing Amy could breathe on her own, she carefully disconnected the mouthpiece from the respirator.

"No!" Amy's mother cried, lunging forward to stop her. Her husband grabbed her, and in the next moment Amy coughed and gagged, then drew a deep, whistling breath around the tube that was still in her throat.

Her parents stared.

"You need to get a nurse to take out the tube," Morgan said softly, still feeling only half there. She swallowed again and glanced at the clock. It was three in the afternoon. She'd arrived at nine that morning. Time hadn't made an impression on her during the healing.

Then Andrew seemed to notice her, and his heavy eyebrows drew together in concern. "Here, miss. Let me get you some tea." Awkwardly Morgan moved to a chair and dropped into it. Andrew pressed a hot Styrofoam cup into her hand and appeared not to notice her quickly circling her hand over her tea. She drank down half of it at once. It helped.

Irene's anxious calls had alerted a nurse, who, faced with the undeniable fact that Amy was breathing on her own, removed the respirator tube. She watched in shock as Amy gagged again and took several convulsive breaths. Andrew and Irene gripped each other's hands tightly as they stared down at their daughter. Then Irene tentatively reached out and took her daughter's hand.

"Amy, darling. Amy, it's Mum. I'm right here, love, and so is Da. We're right here, lass."

Morgan sipped her tea. There was nothing more she could do. Amy had to choose to come back.

In the hospital bed the pale, still figure seemed small and fragile. She was breathing more regularly now, with only the occasional cough. Suddenly her eyelids fluttered open for a moment, revealing a pair of green eyes just like her mum's. Her parents gasped and leaned closer.

"Amy!" Irene cried as a doctor strode quickly toward them. "Amy! Love!"

Amy licked her lips slightly, and her eyes fluttered again. Her mouth seemed to form the word Mum, and her pinkie finger on her left hand raised slightly.

"Good Lord," the doctor breathed.

Irene was crying now, kissing Amy's hand, and Andrew was sniffing, his worn face crinkled into a leathery smile. Morgan finished her tea and got to her feet. Very quietly she picked up her canvas bag. It seemed to weigh three times as much as it had that morning. And she still had an hour's drive to Wicklow. She was suffused with the happiness that always came from healing, an intense feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. But the happiness was tinged bittersweet, as it had been every time she'd healed someone since Colm's death-because when her husband had needed her most, she hadn't been there to heal him.

She was almost out the door when Irene noticed she was leaving. "Wait!" she cried, and hurried over to Morgan. Her face was wet with tears, her smile seeming like a rainbow. "I don't know what you did," she said in barely more than a whisper. "I told the nurses you were praying for her. But it's a miracle you've done here, and as long as I live, I'll never be able to thank you enough."

Morgan gave her a brief hug. "Amy getting better is all the thanks I need." * * *

"You're working too hard, lass," Katrina Byrne said as Morgan came up the front walk.

Morgan shifted her heavy tote to her other shoulder. It was almost five o'clock. Luckily she'd had the foresight to ask her mother-in-law to be here this afternoon in case she didn't get back before dinner.

"Hi. What are you doing? Pulling up the carrots? Is Moira home?"

"No, she's not back yet," said Katrina, sitting back stiffly on her little stool. "I would have expected her by now. How was your day?"

"Hard. But in the end, good. The girl opened her eyes, and she recognized her mum."

"Good." Katrina's brown eyes looked her up and down. The older woman was heavyset, more so now than when Morgan had met her, so long ago. Katrina and her husband, Pawel, and her sister, Susan Best, had been among the handful of survivors of the original Belwicket, on the western coast of Ireland. Morgan had known her first as the temporary leader of Belwicket, then as her mother-in-law, and the two women had an understated closeness-especially now that they were both widows.

"You're all in, Morgan," Katrina said.

"I'm beat," Morgan agreed. "I need a hot bath and a sit-down."

"Sit down for just a moment here." Katrina pointed with her dirt-crusted trowel at the low stone wall that bordered Morgan's front yard. Morgan lowered her bag to the damp grass and rested on the cool stones. The afternoon light was rapidly fading, but the last pale rays of sunlight shone on Katrina's gray hair, twisted up into a bun in back. She wore brown cords and a brown sweater she'd knit herself, before her arthritis had gotten too bad.

"Where's Moira, then?" Morgan asked, looking up the narrow country road as if she expected to see her daughter running down it.

"Don't know," Katrina said, picking up a three-pronged hand rake and scraping it among the carrots. "With her gang."

Morgan smiled to herself: Moira's «gang» consisted of her friends Tess and Vita. She let out a deep breath, hoping she would have the energy to get back up when she needed to. Lately it seemed she'd been working harder than ever. She was often gone, leaving Katrina to come look after Moira, though Moira had started protesting that she could stay by herself. Last week Katrina had accused her of running away from grief, and Morgan hadn't denied it. It was just too painful to be here sometimes-to see the woodwork that Colm had painted, the garden he'd helped her create. She felt his loss a thousand times a day here. In a hotel in some unknown city, with work to distract her, it was easier to bear. Now she waited for her outspoken mother-in-law- her friend-to get something off her chest.

"When were you thinking of accepting the role of high priestess?" Katrina asked bluntly. Her trowel moved slowly through the rich black soil. She looked focused on her gardening, but Morgan knew better.

She let out a deep breath. "I was thinking maybe next spring. Imbolc. Moira's to be initiated on Beltane, and it would be lovely for me to lead it."

"Aye," agreed Katrina. "So maybe you need to cut back on your traveling and start preparing more to be high priestess." She looked up at Morgan shrewdly. "Meaning you'll have to be home more."

Morgan pressed her lips together. It was pointless to pretend not to know what Katrina was talking about. She scraped the toe of her shoe against a clump of grass. "It's hard being here."

"Hard things have to be faced, Morgan. You've a daughter here who needs you. You've missed two of the last five circles. And not least, your garden's going to hell." Katrina pulled up a group of late carrots, and Morgan was startled to see that below their lush green tops, their roots were gnarled, twisted, and half rotted away.

"What…?"

Katrina clawed her hand rake through the dirt: The whole row of carrots was rotten. Morgan and Katrina's eyes met.

"You did all the usual spells, of course," Katrina said.

"Of course. I've never had anything like this." Morgan knelt down and took the small rake from Katrina. She dug through the soil, pulling up the ruined carrots, then went deeper. In a minute she had found it: a small pouch of sodden, dirt-stained leather, tied at the top with string. Morgan scratched runes of protection quickly around her, then untied the string. A piece of slate fell out, covered with sigils-magickal symbols that worked spells. Some of them Morgan didn't know, but she recognized a few, for general destruction (plants), for the attraction of darkness (also for plants), and for the halting of growth (modified to pertain to plants).

"Oh my God," she breathed, sitting back on her heels. It had been so long since anyone had wished her harm-a lifetime ago. To find this in her own garden… it was unbelievable. "What are you thinking?" Katrina asked.

Morgan paused, considering. "I really can't imagine who would do this," she said. "No one in our coven works magick to harm…." She trailed off as something occurred to her. "Of course, there is another coven whose members don't share our respect for what's right."

"Ealltuinn," Katrina said.

Morgan nodded. "I never would have thought they'd do something like this," she murmured, almost to herself. It wasn't unusual for more than one coven to be in a certain area; sometimes they coexisted peacefully, sometimes less so. Belwicket had been in the town of Wicklow, right outside Cobh, for over twenty years now; they were a Woodbane coven who had renounced dark magick. Ealltuinn, a mixed coven, had started in Hewick, a small town slightly to the north, about eight years ago. There hadn't been any problems until about two years ago, when Lilith Delaney had become high priestess of Ealltuinn.

Morgan had never liked Lilith-she was one of those witches who always pushed things a little too far and didn't understand why it was a problem. But it was more that she'd work minor spells out of self-interest, nothing dangerous, so Morgan hadn't been too concerned. She'd spoken with Lilith several times, warned her that she didn't agree with the direction Lilith was taking her coven in, and Lilith hadn't been too pleased with that. But would she really have shown her anger like this? By ruining Morgan's garden? The spell was minor, petty, but it was working harm against someone-which was always wrong.

Morgan looked around her yard, distressed. This home had always been a haven for her. Suddenly she felt isolated and vulnerable in a way she hadn't for decades. A ruined garden wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Morgan, but that someone was actively working to harm her… She didn't believe Lilith would want to hurt her-but who else could it be?

"When was the last time you saw Lilith Delaney?" Katrina asked, as if sensing Morgan's thoughts.

Morgan thought back. "Two weeks ago, in Margath's Faire. Hartwell Moss and I were there, having a cup after shopping. Lilith was sitting with another member of Ealltuinn, and they looked deep into something together."

"Do they know where the power leys are?" Katrina asked, her eyes narrowing.

Morgan felt a flash of fear. Why was Katrina asking that- was she worried that Ealltuinn was more of a threat than Morgan had thought? "Not that I know of," Morgan replied, her throat feeling tight. "Now that I think of it, though, every once in a while I see someone from Ealltuinn out on the headlands, crisscrossing them, like they're looking for something."

The two women looked at each other. In fact, Morgan's very house was built on an ancient power ley, or line, as was Katrina's house and the old grocery store that she and Pawel had run in the early days of their marriage. The building was now empty, and Belwicket held many of their circles there. But Ealltuinn must have heard the legends of the power leys, the unseen and often unfelt ancient lines of energy and magick that crisscrossed the earth, like rubber bands wrapped around a tennis ball. Those who worked magick on or around a power ley saw their powers increased. The town where Morgan had grown up in America, Widow's Vale, had had a power ley also, in an old Methodist cemetery. Morgan dropped the rotten carrots in disgust and retied the little pouch. She would have to dismantle it, purify the pieces of it with salt, and bury it down by the sea, where the sand and salt water would further dissolve its negative energy

"Morgan, I'm concerned about Ealltuinn," Katrina said seriously. "With Lilith Delaney at their head, what if they become bolder in their darkness? I'll be honest with you, lass: I wish I were strong enough to take them on. I've got some righteous anger to show them. But I'm not. I'm fine, but I'm not you."

"I don't know," Morgan said. "It's been a long time…. I'm different now."

"Morgan, you could still pull the moon from the sky. In you is the combined strength of Maeve Riordan and Ciaran MacEwan, Goddess have mercy on them both. You alone are powerful enough to stop Lilith in her tracks, to keep Belwicket safe. Twenty years ago you saved your town from a dark wave-you stopped a dark wave when no one dreamed it was possible."

"It was Daniel Niall and another witch," Morgan corrected her. "I just helped. And besides, this is hardly another dark wave."

Katrina gave her a maternal look, then brushed her hands off on her corduroy pants. "It's getting late," she said. "I'd best be getting back. You know, sometimes I still expect Pawel to come home to tea, and he's been gone six years."

"I know what you mean," Morgan said, her eyes shadowed.

"Think on what I said, lass," Katrina said, getting stiffly to her feet. She gave Morgan a quick kiss, then let herself out the garden gate and headed back up the narrow road to her own cottage, less than a quarter mile away.

For another minute Morgan sat in her garden, lookingdown at the row of spoiled carrots. She was torn between feeling that Katrina had to be overreacting and her own instinct to believe the worst after everything she had experienced in Widow's Vale. But that was all far in her past, and she hadn't seen anyone practice true dark magick in ages. Of course, she also hadn't seen anyone use magick for harm at all, even on such a small scale as hurting some vegetables. But Lilith was a small-minded person who obviously couldn't handle having someone tell her she was wrong.

Morgan looked up at the sky, realizing that it was getting dark and Moira wasn't home yet. It wasn't that unusual for her to be late, though usually she called. Maybe Morgan was being foolish, but this little pouch had really spooked her, and she wanted her daughter home now.

Six twenty-two. Exactly two minutes since the last time she'd looked.

Six twenty-two! Moira was two and half hours late and no doubt off with her friends somewhere. Morgan was sure no harm had come to her daughter. After all, Wicklow wasn't exactly Los Angeles or New York. Everybody tended to know everybody-it was hard to get away with wrongdoing or mischief.

Trying not to look at the clock, Morgan moved methodically around the small living room, kicking the rug back into place, straightening the afghan draped over Colm's leather chair. Her fingers lingered on the cool leather and she swallowed, hit once again with the pain of missing him. Sometimes Morgan would get through part of a day with moments of amusement or joy, and she would grow hopeful about starting to heal. Then, with no warning, something would remind her of Colm's laugh, his voice, his warm, reassuring presence, and it was like a physical blow, leaving Morgan gasping with loss.

Even Moira being so late would have seemed okay if Colm were here with her. He would have been calm and matter-of- fact, and when Moira came home, he would have known exactly what to say. He and Moira were so much alike, both outgoing and cheerful, friendly and affectionate. Morgan had always been on the shyer side, a bit more insecure, needing to have the t's crossed and the fs dotted. Since Colm had died, it seemed that Morgan had developed a gift for saying the wrong thing to Moira, for flying off the handle, for botching what should have been the time for mother and daughter to grow closer. If she were home enough for them to grow closer, she thought with a pang of guilt. She had to quit running. Hard things had to be faced, as Katrina said. Still, how many hard things was she going to have to face in this life? Too many, so far.

Morgan glanced around the already tidy room and caught sight of her reflection in the windowpane, the dark night outside turning the glass into a mirror. Was that her? In the window Morgan looked sad and alone, young and slightly worried. Her hair was still brown and straight, parted in the middle and worn a few inches below her shoulders. It had been much longer in high school.

Morgan gazed solemnly at the window Morgan, then froze when a second face suddenly appeared beside hers. She startled and whirled to look behind her, but she was alone. Eyes wide, heart already thumping with the first rush of adrenaline, Morgan looked closer at the window-was the person outside? She looked around-her dog, Finnegan, was sleeping by the fireplace. Casting her senses told her she was alone, inside the house and out. But next to her own reflection was a thin, ghostly face, with hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, but so pale and blurry that she had no clue who it could be. She stared for another ten seconds, trying to make out the person, but as she looked, the image became even less distinct and then faded completely.

Goddess, Morgan thought, sitting abruptly at the table. She realized her hands were shaking and her heart beating erratically. Goddess. What had that been? Visions were strong magick. Where had that come from? What did it mean? Had it been just a glamour, thrown on the window by… whom? Or something darker, more serious? Feeling prickly anxiety creeping up her back, Morgan took a few breaths and tried to calm down. This, on top of the hex she'd found in the garden. What if Katrina was right? What if Lilith and Ealltuinn were up to something? Morgan hadn't experienced anything like these things in so long.

Standing up, Morgan walked back and forth in the living room, casting her senses strongly. She felt nothing except the sleeping aura of Finnegan, the deeply sleeping aura of Bixby, her cat, and silence. Outside she felt nothing except the occasional bird or bat or field mouse, vole, or rabbit, skittering here and there. She felt completely rattled, shaken, and afraid in a way she hadn't felt in years. Was this part of missing Colm? Feeling afraid and alone? But the pouch and the image in the window-they were real and definitely involved magick. Dark magick. Morgan shivered. And where is Moira?

Morgan looked at Moira's cold, untouched dinner on the worn wooden table and felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Even though moments ago she'd been certain Moira was fine, now she needed her daughter home, needed to see her face, to know she was all right. She even felt an impulse to scry for her but knew that it wasn't right to abuse Moira's trust and use magick to spy on her daughter. Still, if much more time passed, she might have to push that boundary.

Try to calm down. Worrying never helped anything, that was what Colm always said. If you can change things, change them, but don't waste time worrying about things you can't change. Tomorrow she would talk to Katrina, tell her about the face in the window. For now, there wasn't much she could do. Sighing, Morgan began to stack dishes in the sink. She couldn't help turning around every few seconds to glance at the windows. Conveniently, she could see the whole downstairs from the small kitchen tucked into one corner. A dark blue curtain covered the doorway to the pantry. Off the fireplace was a small, tacked-on room for Wicca work. Upstairs were three tiny bedrooms and one antiquated bathroom. When Colm was alive, Morgan had chafed at the smallness of their cottage-he'd seemed to fill the place with his breadth and his laugh and his steady presence. Along with Moira, two dogs (though Seamus was buried in the north field now), two cats (Dagda was now also buried in the north field), and Morgan, the cottage had almost seemed to split at the seams.

Now there were days when Moira was at school and the cottage felt overwhelmingly large, empty, and quiet. On those days Morgan threw open the shutters to let in more light, swept the floor vigorously both to clean and to stir up energy, and sang loudly as she went about the day's chores. But when her voice was silent, so was the cottage, and so was her heart. That was when she looked for an opportunity to go somewhere, work someplace else, for just a while.

What a horrible irony. Morgan traveled constantly on business-her work as a healer had grown steadily in the last ten years, and she was away at least every month. Colm had been a midlevel chemical researcher for a lab in Cork and never needed to travel or work late or miss vacations. The one time his company had decided to send him on a business trip to London, he'd been killed in a car accident on his second day there. Morgan, the powerful witch, the healer, had not been able to heal or help or be with her husband when he died. Now she wondered if anything would ever feel normal again, if the gaping hole left in her life could possibly be filled.

She had to be strong for Moira-and for the rest of the coven, too. But there were times, sitting crying on the floor in her shower, when she wished with all her heart that she was a teenager again, home in Widow's Vale, and that she could come out of the shower and see her adoptive mother and have everything be all right.

Her adoptive parents, Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands, still lived in Widow's Vale. They'd been crushed when she'd moved to Ireland-especially since it had been clear she was going to fulfill her heritage as a blood witch of Belwicket, her birth mother's ancestral clan. But now they were getting older. How much longer would she have them? She hadn't been to America in ten months. Morgan's younger sister, Mary K., had married two years ago and was now expecting twins at the age of thirty-four. Morgan would have loved to have been closer to her during this exciting time, to be more involved in her family's lives. But they were there, and she was here. This was the life she'd made for herself.

Her senses prickled and Morgan stood still, focusing. Moira was coming up the front walk. Quickly Morgan dried her hands on a dish towel and went to the front door. She opened it just as Moira reached the house and ushered her in fast, shutting and locking the door after her. Suddenly everything outside seemed unknown and scary, unpredictable.

"Where were you?" she said, holding Moira's shoulders, making sure she was fine. "I've been so worried. Why didn't you call?"

Moira's long, strawberry-blond hair was tangled by the night wind, there were roses in her cheeks, and she was rubbing her hands together and blowing on them.

"I'm sorry, Mum," Moira said. "I completely forgot. But I was just down in Cobh. Caught the bus back." Her hazel eyes were lit with excitement, and Morgan could feel a mixture of emotions coming from her. Moira eased out of Morgan's grip and dumped her book bag onto the rocking chair. "I went out to tea after school, and I guess I lost track of time."

"It took you three hours to have tea?" Morgan asked.

"No," Moira said, her face losing some of its happy glow. "I was just at Margath's Faire." She casually flipped through the day's mail, pushing aside a few seed catalogs and not finding anything of interest.

Morgan began to do a slow burn, her fear turning to irritation. "Moira, look at me." Moira did, her face stiff and impatient. "I don't want to be your jail keeper," Morgan said, trying to keep her voice soft. "But I get very worried if you're not here when I expect you to be. I know we don't live in a dangerous town, but I can't help imagining all sorts of awful things happening." She tried to smile. "It's what a mother does. I need you to call me if you're going to be late. Unless you want me to start scrying to find you. Or send a witch message."

Moira's eyes narrowed. Clearly she didn't like the idea. Taking a different tack, Morgan thought back to her own parents being upset with her and then tried to do something different. "I need to know where you are and who you're with," she said calmly. "I need you to contact me if you're going to be late so I don't worry. I need to know when to expect you home."

What would Colm have done? How would he have handled this? "Were you with Tess or Vita?" Morgan asked, trying to sound less accusing and more interested. "Their folks don't mind if they're late?"

"No, I wasn't with them," Moira admitted, starting to pick at the upholstery of the rocking-chair cushion. "At least, I was at first, but then they went."

After a moment of silence Morgan was forced to ask, "So who were you with?"

Moira tilted her head and looked up at the small window over the sink. Her face was angular where Colm's had been rounder, but Morgan expected Moira to fill out as she got older. As it was, she'd been surprised when Moira had reached her own height last year, when she was only four-teen. Now her daughter was actually taller than she was. At least she had Colm's straight, small nose instead of hers.

"A guy from my class."

Light began to dawn. Despite her natural prettiness, boys seemed to find Moira intimidating. Morgan knew that Moira's friends had been dating for at least a year already. So now a boy had finally asked Moira out, and she'd gone, not wanting to blow her first chance. Morgan remembered only too well how it had felt to be a girl without a boyfriend after everyone else in class had paired up. It made one feel almost desperate, willing to listen to the first person who paid attention to her… like Cal. "Oh. A boy," Morgan said, careful not to make too big a show of it. "So a boy asks you to tea, and you forget the call- your-mom rule?" As an American, Morgan still said Mom, though Moira had always copied Colm and called her Mum, or Mummy, when she was little.

"Yeah. We were just talking and hanging out, and I got so caught up…." Moira sounded less combative. "Is it really almost seven?"

"Yes. Do you have a lot of homework?"

Moira rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Well, sit down and get to it," said Morgan. "I'll make you some tea." She stood up and put the kettle on, lighting the burner with a match. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said,"So who's the lucky guy? Do I know him?" She tried to picture some of the boys from Moira's class.

"Yeah, I think you do," Moira said offhandedly, pulling notebooks out of her book bag. "It was Ian Delaney, from Hewick, one town over."

Delaney. Morgan was speechless, her mind kicking into gear. Every alarm inside her began clanging. "Ian Delaney?" she finally got out. "From Ealltuinn?"

Moira shrugged.

Behind her, the teakettle whistled piercingly. Morgan jumped, then turned off the fire and moved the kettle.

"What are you thinking?" she asked Moira slowly, facing her daughter. In her mind she could picture Ian, a good- looking boy Moira's age, with clear, dark blue eyes and brown hair shot through with russet. Lilith Delaney, who was maybe ten years older than Morgan, had the same brown hair, streaked with gray, and the same dark blue eyes.

"You know the problems Belwicket's had with Ealltuinn," Morgan said. "They abuse their powers-they don't respect magick. And Ian is their leader's son." Their leader, who very possibly left that pouch in my garden, she added inwardly. She didn't want to tell Moira that part, though, without being sure.

Moira shrugged again, not looking at her. "I thought no one's sure about Ealltuinn," she said. "I mean, I've never seen anything about Ian that makes me think he's into dark magick or anything."

Morgan's breath came more shallowly. When she'd been barely older than Moira, she had fallen for Cal Blaire, the good-looking son of Selene Belltower, a witch who worked dark magick. Morgan would do anything to protect Moira from making the same mistake. Lilith was no Selene, but still, if that pouch had come from her…

"Moira, when a coven celebrates power rather than life, when they strive to hold others down instead of uplifting themselves, when they don't live within the rhythm of the seasons but instead bend the seasons to their will, we call that'dark, " said Morgan. "Ealltuinn does all that and more since Lilith became their high priestess."

Moira looked uneasy, but then Colm's expression of stubbornness settled over her face, and Morgan braced herself for a long haul.

"But Ian seems different," Moira said, sounding reasonable. "He never mentions any of that stuff. He's been in my school for two years. People like him-he's never done anything mean to anyone. I've seen him be nice to the shop cat at Margath's Faire when no one's even looking." She stopped, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. "He doesn't talk badly about anyone, and especially not about Belwicket. I've talked to him a few times, and it seems like if he was working dark magick, it would come out somehow. I would sense it. Don't you think?"

Morgan had to bite her lips. Moira was so naive. She'd grown up in a content coven with members who all worked hard to live in harmony with each other and the world. She had never seen the things Morgan had seen, had never had to face true dark magick, had never had to fight for her life or the lives of people she loved. Morgan had-and it had all started when Cal had promised he loved her. He had really loved her power, her potential. Moira showed the same power and potential, and Ian could very well be pursuing her at his mother's command.

But Morgan would never allow Moira to be used the way Cal and Selene had wanted to use her. Moira was her only child, Colm's daughter, all she had left of the husband she had loved.

"Moira, I know you don't want to hear this, and you might not totally understand it right now, but I forbid you to see Ian Delaney again," Morgan said. She almost never came down hard on her daughter, but in this case she would do anything to prevent disaster. "I don't care if he has a halo glowing around his head. He's Lilith's son, and it's just too risky right now."

Moira looked dismayed, then angry. "What?" she cried. "You can't just tell me who I can or can't see!"

"Au contraire," Morgan said firmly. "That's exactly what I'm doing." Then her face softened a bit. "Moira-I know what it's like when you like someone or you really want someone to like you. But it's so easy to get hurt. It's so easy not to see the big picture because all you're doing is looking into someone's eyes. But looking only into someone's eyes can blind you." "Mum, I can't live in a-a-a snow globe," Moira said. "You can't just decide everything I'm going to do without even knowing Ian or totally knowing Ealltuinn. Some things I have to decide for myself. I'm fifteen, not a little kid. I'm not being stupid about Ian-if he was evil, I'd drop him. But you have to let me find out for myself. You might be really powerful and a great healer, but you don't know everything. Do you?"

Moira was a much better arguer than Morgan had been at that age, Morgan realized.

"Do you, Mum? Do you know Ian? Have you talked to him or done a tath mednmo? Can you definitely say that Ian works dark magick and I should never speak to him again?"

Morgan raised her eyebrows, choppy images from the past careening across her consciousness. Cal, seducing Morgan with his love, his kisses, his touch. How desperately she had wanted to believe him. The sincere joy of learning magick from him. Then-Cal locking Morgan into his sedmar, his secret room, and setting it on fire.

"No," Morgan admitted. "I can't say that definitely. But I can say that life experience has shown me that it's very hard for children not to be like their parents." With sickening quickness she remembered that she was the daughter of Ciaran MacEwan. But that was different. "I think that Ealltuinn might be dark, and I think that Ian probably won't be able to help being part of it. And I don't want you to be hurt because of it. Do you understand? Can you see where I'm coming from? Do you think it's wrong for me to try to protect you? I'm not saying I want you to be alone and unhappy. I'm just saying that choosing the son of the evil leader of a rival coven is a mistake that you can avoid. Choose someone else." "Like who?" Moira cried. "They have to like me, too, you know."

"Someone else will like you," Morgan promised. "Just leave Ian to Ealltuinn."

"I don't want someone else," Moira said. "I want Ian. He makes me laugh. He's really smart, he thinks I'm smart. He thinks I'm amazing. It's just-real. How we feel about each other is real."

"How can you know?" Morgan responded. "How would you know if anything he told you was real?"

Moira's face set. She picked up her mug of tea and her book bag and walked stiffly over to the stairs. "I just do."

Morgan watched her daughter walk upstairs, feeling as if she had lost another battle but not sure how it could have gone differently. Goddess, Ian Delaney! Anyone but Ian Delaney. Slowly Morgan lowered her head onto her arms, crossed on the tabletop. Breathe, breathe, she reminded herself. Colm, I could really use your help right now.

It was just eerie, the similarity between what was happening now to Moira with Ian and what had happened to her so long ago with Cal. She had never told Moira about Cal and Selene- only briefly skimmed over finding out she was a witch, then studying in Scotland for a summer, then how Katrina had asked her to come to Ireland. Moira had read Colin's Books of Shadows, and some of Morgan's, but none from that tumultuous period in Morgan's life. Cal and Selene were still Morgan's secret As was Hunter. As was the fact that Morgan was Ciaran MacEwan's daughter. She'd never actually lied to Moira-but when Moira had assumed that Angus Bramson was her natural grandfather, Morgan had let her. It was so much better than telling her that her grandfather was one of the most evil witches in generations and that he had locked Morgan's birth mother, Maeve, in a barn and burned her to death.

Likewise with Hunter. What would be the good of telling Moira that Colm wasn't the only man Morgan had loved and lost? After Hunter had drowned in the ferry accident, Morgan hardly remembered what happened-losing Hunter had snapped her soul in half. She remembered being in a hospital. Her parents had come over from America, with Mary K. They'd wanted to take her home to New York, but Katrina and Pawel had convinced them that her best healing would be done in Ireland and that it would be dangerous to move her. There followed a time when she lived in Katrina and Pawel's house, and the coven had performed one healing rite after another.

Then Colm had asked her to marry him. Morgan had hardly been able to think, but she cared for Colm and in desperation saw it as a fresh start. Two months later she was expecting a baby and was just starting to come out of the fog.

It had almost been a shock when it had finally sunk in that she married Colm, but the awful thing had been how grateful she'd felt for his comfort. She was terrified of being alone, afraid of what might happen while she was asleep, and with Colm she'd thought she would never be alone again. She'd struggled for years with the twin feelings of searing guilt and humbling gratitude, but as time passed and Moira grew, Morgan began to accept that this had been her life's destiny all along. She'd never been madly in love with Colm, and she felt that in some way he'd known it. But she'd always cared for him as a friend, and over the years her caring had deepened into a true and sincere love. She'd tried hard to be a good wife, and she hoped she'd made Colm happy. She hoped that before he'd died, he'd known that he had made her happy, too, in a calm, joyful way.

She'd also found fulfillment in the rest of her life. Gifted teachers had worked with her to increase her natural healing abilities, and as Moira had gotten older and needed less attention, Morgan had begun traveling all over the world teaching others and performing healing rites. When she was home, life was peaceful and contented. Time was marked by sabbats and celebrations, the turning of the seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon. It wasn't the flash fire of passion that she'd felt with Hunter, the desperate, bone-deep joining of soul and body that they'd shared, but instead it was like the gentle crackle of a fireplace, a place to soothe and comfort. Which was fine, good, better than she could have hoped.

And until this moment she'd never thought of her life in any other way. She loved her husband, adored her daughter, enjoyed her work. She felt embraced by her community and had made several good friends. In fact, the last sixteen years, at least until Colm's death, had been a kind of victory for Morgan. In the first year of discovering her heritage she'd undergone more pain-both physical and emotional-felt more freezing fear, had higher highs and lower lows than she could have possibly imagined a human being experiencing. She'd had her heart broken ruthlessly, had made murderous enemies, had been forced to make soul-destroying choices, choosing the greater good over the individual's life-even when that individual was her own father. And all before she was eighteen.

So to have had sixteen years of study and practice, of having no one try to kill her and not being forced to kill anyone else, well, that had seemed like a victory, a triumph of good over evil.

Until today, when she'd found a hex pouch in her garden and seen a vision in her window. Now she couldn't shake the feeling that not only was she at risk, but so was her daughter.

Morgan sighed. Was she overreacting because of her past? Getting up, Morgan made sure Bixby was in and that the front door was locked-an old habit from living in America. In Wicklow many people rarely bothered to lock their doors. Then she turned off the downstairs lights and cast her senses strongly all around her house. Nothing out of the ordinary. Later, writing in her Book of Shadows in bed, she heard Moira in the bathroom. Long after the house was quiet, after Morgan sensed that Moira was sleeping and that Bixby and Finnegan had passed into cat and dog versions of dreaming, Morgan lay dry-eyed in the night, staring up at the ceiling.