Moira's mind was reeling from so much new information about herself, her mother, her family. Suddenly everything she'd believed about herself, her mum-it was all wrong. She was the granddaughter of one of the most evil witches in generations! His blood ran through her veins, Moira thought, staring down at her wrist. Her stomach contracted as she was overcome by a wave of nausea. How could her mother have kept all of this from her? She didn't even know who her mum was anymore. And the one thing that had still been true-the love Mum and Dad had shared, that Moira had seen for herself-even that had been a lie. Colm and Morgan hadn't been each other's muirn beatha dans.
Moira blinked back tears. How could her dad have borne knowing he wasn't Morgan's muirn beatha dan? Moira couldn't imagine being with someone who wasn't hers.
Moira ran over all the stories she'd heard about how her parents had gotten together. Mum had fallen apart after Hunter died. And when she'd fallen apart, Gran had taken care of her, and then Mum had married Dad and they'd had her.
Still trying to sort through it all, Moira drifted off to sleep.
Moira's mother was in labor. Her brown hair, very short, was damp in tendrils around her flushed face. Mum looked very young and wide-eyed. Next to her stood Peggoty MacAdams, the village midwife, and with her June Hightown, another midwife. Peggoty was holding Mum's hand, and June was wiping her forehead with a cloth.
Morgan was breathing hard. Her eyes looked a question at Peggoty.
"It won't be long now, my dear," Peggoty said soothingly. She placed her hand on Morgan's forehead and murmured some gentle spells. Morgan's breathing slowed, and she looked less panicky. June poured some tea, pale green and fragrant, and Morgan gulped it down, wincing at the taste.
Finally Morgan was pushing, her face damp, the muscles in her neck taut and ribboned with effort.
Moira was startled to realize that this was her, being born.
Peggoty said, "Just a bit more, dear, there you go, that's right, and here's her head "
"Oh, what a lovely baby," Peggoty crooned, scooping up the infant and swathing her in a clean white blanket. "She's a big, fine baby, Morgan. She's beautiful."
"Is she okay?" Morgan asked.
"She looks perfect, just perfect," Peggoty said with approval. "Goodness-she's nine pounds even. A lovely, plump baby." "Oh, good," Morgan said weakly, her head falling back against the pillows.
Peggoty beamed. "And now I bet the proud papa would like to hold his little girl?"
A man stepped forward hesitantly and held out his arms.
Moira's stomach tightened-it wasn't Colm.
It was a stranger. He was severe-looking, tall and fit, with light hair, the palest blond. He appeared nervous but held out his hands, glancing over at Morgan. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
With a kind of wonder, the man held baby Moira gingerly, as if she might disappear in a puff of smoke. He looked down into her face, and her eyes opened. The two of them stared at each other solemnly, as if to say, Hello. I belong to you. I will belong to you forever.
With a gasp Moira awoke. Her room was still dark; there was a faint streak of pink coming in at the bottom of her window shade. She was breathing hard and looked around her room to make sure nothing was out of place. Quickly she cast out her senses. Everything was normal. Or about as normal as it could be, given the past few days. Goddess, what a dream. She had seen herself being born. Everything about it had seemed so real, except for her father. Who was that? Why hadn't she dreamed about her dad?
Abruptly Moira sat back in bed, thoughts swirling in her head like leaves in the wind. Goddess, think, think.
Colm was her father. Everyone knew that. But Moira knew her dream meant something. She'd taken a dream interpretation class for her initiation. So what had this dream meant? That Colm hadn't been her father?
Moira sat up again, panicked. No, of course he had been. She would have known. Mum would have known. Surely her mother couldn't have lied about that. No. But then what did it mean?
Moira was wide awake. She raised her window shade so the palest light of the new dawn illuminated her room. Then she fetched her parents' Books of Shadows, Colm's and Morgan's, from the year she was born. She had read other Books of Shadows, but not these. Not yet. In Colm's she read about his growing feelings for Morgan, his admiration for her, his combined awe and respect for her «significant» powers. He thought she was beautiful and friendly but not openly interested.
Then she flipped through Morgan's, skimming the pages. She had moved to Cobh. She was growing to love Katrina and Pawel and Susan and all the others. She thought she might want to stay there forever. Except she missed Hunter so much, all the time. Her heart cried out for him. She ached to be with him-nothing was as good, as right, as when they were together.
Moira couldn't help feeling a pang as she read about just how deeply her mother had loved Hunter. Hunter, who wasn't Colm. Some protective instinct made Moira turn back to Colm's Book of Shadows. His job in Cobh was going fine. He was thinking it was time to settle down. He had dated several girls but couldn't get Morgan out of his mind. He knew she was seeing someone else. His feelings for her grew, and he decided he was falling in love with her. Not that it would do him any good. But he thought she was a one-in-a-million woman. Then it happened: he heard from his mother that Morgan had lost someone she loved. She was so upset that she couldn't think straight. She'd been hospitalized in Wales.
Colm traveled there and met Morgan's American parents and sister. Morgan had had a breakdown, and his heart bled for her. In her grief she'd hacked off all her hair, the thick, shiny chestnut hair that had almost reached her waist. Now it was as short as a boy's, but it made her no less beautiful. He loved her so much; if only he could take care of her. It was all he wanted: the chance to take care of her.
On the next page Colm was elated: the unthinkable had happened. Morgan had agreed to become his wife. He knew she was heartbroken, though she wouldn't talk about it. She still seemed very ill, but he was sure she would be fine in time. She just needed warmth and love and care and good food. He knew he could make her happy.
Moira kept skimming the pages. Outside, the sun was just starting to creep over the horizon, mostly covered by clouds. Great. Just what they needed-more rain.
Shortly after their wedding Morgan was pregnant. They hadn't realized it at first because of her illness. Colm was ecstatic. He loved his wife: she seemed healthier and more beautiful every day. Slowly her grief was going underground-she had almost smiled the other day.
Moira swallowed hard. It was so sad to read about it- how much her dad had loved Mum, how long it had taken Mum to be able to truly return his affection.
Going back to Morgan's Book of Shadows, Moira read about how Morgan was waiting for Hunter at a tea shop in Wales. There was no entry from later that night, when they had committed to being together. And no more entries for two months. Then a short one, in a weak hand, that acknowledged Morgan's marriage to Colm. And then another, two months after that: Morgan was expecting a baby. She was happy about it-it was a ray of sunlight piercing her gray shadow world. A few words about Colm-how kind he was, how gentle, how Morgan appreciated his care. There was no mention of Hunter, only a sentence about being ill and deciding to stay in Ireland.
And no magick. Before, her entries had been numerous and lengthy-a combination of daily diary, larger, philosophical thoughts, the directions her studies were taking her, spells she had tried and their results, spells she had created, different tinctures and essences she had used and their outcomes, her plans for next year's garden, and so on. But these entries were sparse, bare.