"Then Selene was dead forever? You won?"
Morgan sighed again. "No, not exactly. A witch that powerful-her body had died, but her spirit had escaped and moved into another physical form. She took over the body of a hawk and continued to live that way. And later she came back again, to try to kill me once and for all."
"Goddess, Mum. She came back again?"
Thoughtfully, Morgan said, "I think… I think I reminded her of herself, of her own potential. I was powerful because I'd been born that way. She was powerful because she had used dark magick to increase her powers. She had fed off others. She saw me as a threat because I wouldn't join her. And if I grew up, increased my strength, became initiated-I could only be her enemy. In the end she knew that if I went against her as a grown-up, I would defeat her. So she went against me as a teenager, but I defeated her anyway. And of course after her only son died trying to save me, she hated me more than ever. She killed Cal, and she knew it. But she blamed me." "She's not still around, is she?" Moira looked worried, pinching her bottom lip between two fingers, the way she had when she was young.
"No," Morgan said, looking out through the small living room window. Outside, it had clouded over and the first drops of rain began to hit the ancient, wavy panes of glass. "No, she's dead. She came after me for the third time, and that time she was finished."
"Finished how?" Moira's voice squeaked.
"I killed her," Morgan said sadly, watching the heavy gray clouds outside.
"When she was a hawk?"
"Yes."
Silence. Morgan still had very faint, thin white lines on one shoulder where Selene the hawk had ripped her skin with razor-sharp talons. She would always have those scars, but compared to the scars inside, which no one could see, they were nothing.
"How?" Her daughter's voice sounded fearful, as if she needed to know for sure that Morgan's old enemy was truly no longer a threat.
Morgan wondered if she had already said far too much and knew there was so much more her daughter didn't know. "I shape-shifted," she said. "I became a hawk, and I caught her, and I… trapped her spirit inside the hawk so that it couldn't escape again. And then she was really dead forever."
Moira was staring at her as if seeing her for the first time, and Morgan knew that it wasn't only because of her terrible story. It was also about knowing the depth and extent of Morgan's own powers. Morgan cast out her senses-Moira was both horrified by and afraid of her own mother. It felt like an athame piercing her heart to know she'd inspired her only child to feel this way. But there was something else. Awe.
Moira was quiet for a moment; then, unexpectedly, she rose and came over to hug Morgan. "I'm so sorry, Mum," she whispered, tears in her voice. "I'm so sorry you had to go through all that. I had no idea." Feeling a warm rush of love, Morgan hugged her tightly back.
"I can't believe you shape-shifted," Moira said, pulling back and looking into Morgan's eyes. "I thought shape-shifting was just in folktales. I didn't think anyone could do that."
"It isn't that common," Morgan acknowledged. "Moira, listen: I would do anything to make sure that you never had to go through anything like that. Do you understand?"
"You mean Ian. And Lilith Delaney."
"Yes," Morgan said pleadingly, wishing she could get through. "It's like watching my life flash before my eyes- only it's worse because it's you and I need to protect you. Just knowing you're seeing him makes me feel panicky, sick."
"But Mum, Lilith isn't Selene, and Ian definitely isn't Cal," Moira said earnestly, and Morgan's heart sank. "I see the parallels. I see why they would make you feel scared. But I still feel that I need to give Ian a chance. I need to give me a chance with him. If it's a mistake, I'll find out. But I need to find out-I can't just take your word for it, even though you lived through that nightmare when you were young, with another son and another witch. Ian and Lilith aren't Cal and Selene. And I'm not you." Her face looked open, concerned, eager for Morgan to understand.
Morgan sighed, mentally draping a cloak of protection over Moira. Everyone had to make her own mistakes. But did that mean Morgan had to let Moira walk into disaster? "I'll be more on my guard, Mum," Moira promised. "I understand now why you're so worried, and I don't want you to be afraid for me. Can I see Ian if I always tell you where and when I'm meeting him?"
It wasn't a bad compromise. "Yes," Morgan said reluctantly, and Moira's face lit up. "But I can't promise I won't scry to find you if I feel you're in danger. And if I find out definitely that Ian is involved in dark magick, you have to promise me you won't see him."
"All right," Moira said, somewhat unenthusiastically. She glanced at the clock. "I was hoping to see him this afternoon. I was going to send him a witch message to meet at Margath's Faire. All right?"
Morgan nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wanted to ground Moira, to keep her home. She wanted to follow her, to make sure she was safe. In the end she could do neither: if she tried to protect her daughter in those ways, she would only ensure losing her forever. She watched as Moira put on a jacket.
"I won't be too late, all right?"
Morgan nodded again and cleared her throat. "All right."
Then her daughter was gone, and Morgan was left with her memories.
5. Moira
Moira realized she had shredded her paper napkin into unrecognizable strips. She swept them into a little pile and walked up to the counter to throw them away. As she was turning back to her table, her senses prickled, and she saw Ian at the top of the stairs. He was smiling at her, and she gave him a wide smile in return. She pointed to her table, and he met her there.
"I'm so glad you suggested meeting," he said, sitting down. "It was a bit of a wiggle to get away-Mum wants me to gather some moss for her. What's that, an iced coffee?"
"Yes," Moira said. She felt just the faintest bit of unease when he mentioned his mum. Looking into his blue eyes, full of light, she wondered if there was some way of testing him or if she simply had to trust her instincts and wait. She'd meant it when she'd assured her mother that she was convinced of his innocence, but at the same time… maybe those stories about Selene and Cal had gotten to her more than she'd realized. She had promised she'd be careful, and she intended to be just that. "Do you want to order something?"
"Well…" Ian looked at the board. "Not really, actually. I was wondering if you wanted to get out of here. Do you want to come help me collect plants by the copper beeches, down by Elise's Brook?"
Moira knew Elise's Brook-it was one of dozens of tiny waterways that feathered through the southeastern part of Ireland. This particular one was just outside of town and bordered on both sides by woodlands. Since it was halfway between Cobh and Wicklow, Moira and her parents had often gone there for picnics or herb gathering. Besides the copper beeches, there were willows, sloes, furze, and hazel. She'd had to learn their Gaelic names for herbology class: faibhille rua, saileach, airne, aitheann, and coll.
"All right," Moira said slowly. "Is it raining yet?"
"Not yet," Ian told her as they got up. "I'm hoping it'll hold off. We should have almost an hour if we're lucky."
It took almost twenty-five minutes to walk to the brook. The late-afternoon sun was hidden behind thick gray clouds, and Moira wished the fleeting sunshine had lasted longer. As they walked, Moira took a moment to send a witch message to her mum, telling her where they were going, as she had promised.
As soon as they were out of eyesight of the town, Ian took her hand and held it as they walked. His hand was warm and strong and gave Moira a pleasant tingle. Their eyes were level with each other since they were the same height, and it was both comfortable and exciting walking along as if they were officially boyfriend and girlfriend. "Does your coven have circles on Saturdays, then?" Ian asked. Instantly Moira was overtaken by memories of what had happened just last night. Why was he asking? Did he know something? She glanced at him quickly, but his face seemed open, with no hidden meanings.