Moira sighed, smelling the dampness from her storm still on the grass, her mother's herbs, the stones. She'd felt so happy with Ian today. He made her feel as though she could do anything. He thought she was amazing. If only she could see him now-feel his arms around her, hear his soothing voice. It would be so comforting, so wonderful. It would help soothe this awful pain she had inside.
She knew where he lived-across the headland, around the curve of the coast, maybe three miles away. Moira glanced at the living room window. Killian was sitting at the table. Her mum was getting out plates. Gran was slicing bread. When they realized she was missing, Mum would scry to find her. But she might still have enough time to see him. Just for two minutes. Two minutes with him would feel so perfect. After another quick glance through the window, Moira got her bike from around the back and silently wheeled it through the garden gate.
Moira had never been to Ian’s house before, but she knew which one it was. He lived in the next village over, Hewick, and once Mum had taken some herbs to a friend who lived not far from Ian. She'd pointed out Lilith Delaney's cottage.
It was dark, going across the headland. There was no road here, only a rough, rutted trail that farmers used to move their sheep. The headlamp on her bicycle made a pale beam that bobbed every time she hit a pebble. Of course, Moira had magesight. Not as much as she would have after she was initiated, but she could see enough so that she could just manage to avoid killing herself by hitting big rocks or running off the road into a ditch.
Though Ian’s house wasn't far, it took Moira much longer to get there than she had expected. Once she had pulled up outside the cottage's fence, she had a wave of second thoughts. This was stupid, to show up uninvited. Mum couldn't stand Lilith Delaney-Lilith couldn't stand her mum, either. And there was still the question of the black smoke from Saturday night. What if her mother was right about Lilith having been behind that? Even if Moira was right about Ian, that didn't mean his mum was good as well. And no one knew she was here. She thought for a second about sending her mum a witch message, then thought better of it. She'd just ride home.
Quickly Moira swung her leg back over the seat of her bicycle and was about to set off when the door of the cottage opened. A rectangle of light splashed onto the lawn, and then Ian’s voice called, "Moira?" Moira winced. The first thing she would do after she had been initiated would be to learn a complete disappearing spell. What was the point of being a witch if you couldn't get yourself out of stupid, possibly even scary situations like this?
"Hi," she said lamely, getting back off her bike. "I was just out, and-"
"You're upset," Ian said. "What happened after I left? Can you come in and tell me about it?"
Moira paused, torn. Something was pulling her toward Ian-she'd come here even knowing deep down that it could be dangerous. Witches are supposed to trust their instincts, right? Anyway, if Ian or his mom were going to hurt her, they could do it now whether she came into the house or not. With a sigh Moira opened their garden gate and met Ian on the walk. "It was pretty horrible," she admitted. "I needed to get out of there for a while."
Ian smiled at her. "I'm glad you're here. I'm so glad you thought I could help." He put his arms around her and held her tightly, stroking her hair and resting his head against hers.
Moira's heart melted. Her hair and jacket were frosted with mist, but now that he was holding her, warming her, giving her all the support and comfort she had desperately needed, she barely felt the chill. It had been right for her to come here.
He released her and looked into her eyes to see how she was doing. She managed a tremulous smile, and they started toward the house. As soon as Moira crossed the threshold, she smelled slightly bitter and burned herbs. Several things caught her eye at once: the glass-fronted bookcase filled with ancient-looking leather-bound books, used candles, crumpled silk shawls, and incense bowls; a ragged, red velvet couch, pushed beneath the set of windows, their panes clouded and in need of washing; and then, to her left, an open archway leading into what had once been the dining room.
Most witches Moira knew kept their houses soothing and restful, with things put away and kept clean. This much disorder was unusual, and Moira felt the back of her neck prickle. Through the archway she finally noticed that Lilith was working at the table in there, looking into a large chunk of crystal propped up against an old book. She's scrying. Automatically Moira looked at the crystal. In its mottled, flawed surface Moira saw an image of a man. It was quite clear: he was middle-aged, with long, light hair and a scraggly beard. He was wearing rags, like a homeless person, and his skin was sunburned and deeply etched with wrinkles.
In the next second Lilith looked up, saw Moira, and passed her hand over the crystal. The image winked out. Moira remembered her mum talking about Lilith using dark magick and wondered what she'd been doing. It had looked like ordinary scrying, but she couldn't be sure.
Then, aware that she was meeting Ian’s mother for the first time, Moira managed a shy smile. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
Ian’s mother came over, wiping her hands on an age-worn housekeeping apron.
"Mum, this is Moira," said Ian, coming over to stand beside her. "I told you about her. From school."
"Oh, yes," said his mother. "It's Moira Byrne, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Moira. So Ian had told his mum about her. That was either a really good sign-meaning he liked her- or a bad sign, if her mother was right that this was all part of some kind of plan. "Welcome," said Lilith. "I'm so glad to meet you. Ian’s mentioned you to me, so you must be special." She smiled, and Moira smiled back, feeling an odd sensation and not recognizing what it was. It felt as if she were in the woods and had suddenly come across an animal or an insect she didn't know: a slight twinge of fear, but also curiosity.
"What brings you out at night like this?" Lilith asked. She moved through the living room and went into the kitchen, which was through another set of doors. Their house was a good bit bigger than Moira's, but not as neat or cozy. Just big, neglected, and cluttered. Moira wondered what Ian thought about it.
"Oh, just wanted some fresh air," Moira said as Lilith put the kettle on the stove. She was surprised by how uncomfortable she was. This kitchen was a disaster, and Moira blinked at Lilith's obvious flouting of witchy habits. Her mum's kitchen was tiny but usually scrubbed clean, things put away, fresh fruit and vegetables in bowls. This kitchen was the opposite. It could have been such a nice room, large, with big windows. But there were unwashed dishes stacked everywhere, cooking pots with remains of meals from who knew how long ago, bunches of wilted herbs or vegetables lying around. Moira half expected to see a mouse sitting boldly on a counter, eating a piece of dried cheese.
Ian, too, seemed to be becoming less comfortable. "Mum, I'll do that," he said, taking some tea mugs from the cupboard. "We don't want to interrupt you."
Lilith stopped and gave her son an appraising glance. Moira couldn't tell if she was angry or hurt, but she again wished she hadn't come here uninvited. Ian looked back at his mother steadily, and finally, with a somewhat brittle smile, she nodded good-bye to Moira and walked out of the kitchen. Ian stood silently for a moment; then the kettle hissed and he turned off the gas beneath it.
"I'm sorry, Ian," Moira said in a near whisper. "I didn't mean to barge in like this. I was so upset and just wanted to see you. I didn't mean to cause any trouble." At that moment Moira got a sudden, odd feeling, as if someone had just taken her picture. She looked around, but she and Ian were alone. Then she realized her mum was scrying for her and knew she was at Ian’s. Trouble was coming. Well, as long as she was already caught, there was no use in rushing home now.