Her startled eyes met Ian’s. "What did you do?" he asked with a mixture of amusement and concern.
"I let them be what they wanted?" Moira said uncertainly.
Another huge crack of lightning split the air not far away. Moira smelled the sizzle of ozone and felt her hair fill with static electricity. The enormous clap of thunder that fol-
lowed the lightning sounded like a cannon going off right beside her ear.
"I think it wants to be a mother of a storm," Ian said, standing up and taking her hand. "Please tell me it won't last long."
"Four minutes," Moira said, then gasped as the sky opened and sheets of chilly rain dumped onto the streets. All around them people scurried for shelter. Dogs whined and barked, shoppers ducked back into stores they'd just come out of, and the whole world looked as if someone had turned off the light.
"Teatime," Ian said as another wave of thunder crashed down around them. He pulled Moira quickly up the block, then turned and ran down another street. By now they were soaked and Moira's teeth were chattering. Two more blocks seemed to take hours, with the frigid rain pelting their faces and clothes, their wet backpacks becoming heavier by the second. Finally they could see the sign for Margath's Faire and Moira leaped through the door after Ian.
Oh, warmth, blessed warmth, she thought, shivering. Light. The smells of cinnamon and tea and something baking and candle wax.
For a minute Ian and Moira stood inside the door, silently dripping. Then they headed upstairs to the cafe, where Ian spotted an empty table. They grabbed it, shrugging out of their sodden jackets and dropping into seats still warm from the last customers. Ian shook his head, and fine droplets of water hit the table. Moira held up her hand. "Hey! I'm wet enough."
He grinned and took a paper napkin from the dispenser. Leaning over, he gently patted her face dry, which made Moira practically glow. "I can see why you were concerned about playing with clouds," he said low, so no one could hear.
Moira made an embarrassed face. "Sorry," she said. "I thought the clouds would just make themselves into a nice picture."
"Your clouds seem to have had delusions of grandeur," Ian told her, and she giggled.
Privately, Moira was unnerved that she had worked such powerful magick. She just prayed her mum or gran never found out. They would have her hide.
Ian fetched them both hot tea and a plate of scones with cream and jam. You are wonderful, Moira thought, suddenly ravenous. She checked her watch-an hour before dinner.
"I better let my mum know where I am again," she said apologetically, feeling like a baby. But she had promised. Moira looked off into the distance, concentrating but not closing her eyes. She formed her thoughts and sent them out into the world, aimed at her mother.
I'm at Margath's Faire with Ian. I'll be home when the rain stops.
All right. See you soon. Be careful.
Blinking, Moira came back to the moment and smiled ruefully at Ian. He was looking at her curiously.
"Did you send a witch message to your mum?"
"Uh-huh. She likes to know where I am. She worries."
"You can send witch messages, and you're not initiated yet?"
Moira looked up in surprise from where she was spreading jam on her scone. "Well, mostly just to Mum. Tess and Vita and I practice, but it's not so reliable."
"That's amazing," said Ian, warming Moira inside. She shrugged self-consciously and took a bite of scone. "And you always let your mum know where you are? Like yesterday, at Elise's Brook?"
Now she was embarrassed. He must think she was a total git.
"Yeah," she mumbled, looking at her plate.
"No, no, don't get me wrong," he said, leaning over and putting his hand on her knee. "I'm not trying to tease you. I just think it's amazing you can do that. All right?"
Moira looked at him, at his earnest face, his eyes, the lips that had kissed her so many times yesterday. He meant it.
"All right," she said, but she still felt self-conscious.
"Anyway-everything okay?" Ian asked lightly. "Did Morgan of Belwicket suspect you had anything to do with the storm?"
"I don't think so," Moira said, just as a man from the next table turned toward them.
Moira glanced over and found him looking at her. She frowned slightly and met Ian’s eyes, then looked back at her scone. The man seemed familiar-did she know him from somewhere?
"Excuse me," he said, in a strong Scottish brogue. "Did you say Morgan of Belwicket?"
"Why do you ask?" Ian said, a touch of coolness entering his voice.
The man shrugged. "I'm on my way to see her. Passing through town. On my way to Dublin. Thought I'd drop in." He took a sip of his tea, and Moira looked at him more closely. He looked very familiar. He was maybe a little older than her mum, with dark auburn hair and dark eyes. Moira didn't think she'd ever met him-she would have remembered. His face was very alive, very knowing, with laugh lines etched around his eyes and a half smile lingering on his lips.
"What do you want with her?" Moira asked. Things had been tense lately, with the attack on the coven and all. But she didn't want to sound overly rude in case he really was a friend of Mum's.
"Dropping in, like I told you. Usually she comes to see me-she travels a lot. This time I thought I'd save her a trip."
Moira's eyes narrowed. So he knew her mum traveled a lot. "Really? Who are you?"
The man smiled charmingly, and if Moira hadn't been on guard, her defenses would have melted. He was very attractive, she realized, startled to think that way about someone so many years older. But at that moment he radiated good will, humor, benevolence. Ian took her hand under the table and squeezed her fingers.
"I'm her brother, dear heart," the man said. "And who are you?"
Moira's eyes widened for a second before a look of suspicion came over her face. "She doesn't have a brother. She only has a sister."
"Actually, no," said the man with a friendly smile. "She has her American sister, the delightful Mary K., and then she also has me and two other siblings. Or half siblings, I should say."
"No," said Moira.
"How do you know?" the man asked playfully.
Ian squeezed Moira's fingers again, but not before she said,"I'm her daughter."
"Her daughter?" said the man, his eyes lighting up. "You're Moira, then. But I thought you were barely twelve or so. How time flies. Say hello to your Uncle Killian. Killian MacEwan."
Moira frowned. Why did that name sound familiar? Ian’s hand had tightened on hers almost painfully, and she shook her fingers free before he cut off the circulation. Had her mum ever mentioned that name? Had she ever mentioned a half brother? No. But then, Mum hadn't mentioned Cal Blaire or Selene Belltower or shape-shifting into a bloody hawk, either.
"How could you be her half brother?"
"We had the same da, sweetheart, though your mum didn't know it till she was practically full grown."
Moira thought back. "Angus Bramson? Maeve Riordan's husband?"
"Angus wasn't her Da. It was Ciaran MacEwan, my father."
He spoke softly, so probably no one else in the tea shop heard them. Still, to Moira it seemed as though the world stopped for a moment, all conversation ceased, every movement stilled.
She knew the name Ciaran MacEwan. Everyone knew it. It was right up there with other historical mass murderers.
"I don't understand," Moira said. "Ciaran MacEwan was your father? My mother's father?" A chill of fear went down her still-damp back, as if she expected him to whip out a wand and put curses on everyone in the room. Especially her.
Killian gave a long-suffering sigh that managed to convey his own personal regret that he hadn't chosen his parents better. "Aye, that he was, I'm afraid. And Morgan's, too. But if you're her daughter, why don't you know that?" He cocked his head and looked at her.