"Why?" Vita frowned. "Your mum won't slay me if I'm late."
Tess just stared at her, and then Vita got it.
"Right. I'm late, too." She stood up and pulled on her plaid trench coat. "Later on, Moira. Nice seeing you, Ian."
"You too," he said.
Then they were gone, and Moira and Ian were sharing a table alone for the first time. Moira felt all quivery inside, happy and anxious at once. Her latte was ice-cold, and she quickly circled her hand over it, deasil, and murmured, "Heat within." Ian sipped his mug of tea. Just as Moira was starting to feel alarmed by the lingering silence, Ian said, "I was looking at books downstairs." "Oh?" Yes, that was witty. You go, Moira. "I've always liked the illustrated books-the ones with old-fashioned pictures of witches. Or the really pretty flower ones." Do I really sound this stupid?
Ian didn't seem to think so. He only said, "Yeah. I love the plant ones. I'm still taking private herbology lessons."
"But you got initiated last year, right?"
"Yeah, they usually do it at fourteen in my coven," he replied. "You're not initiated yet?"
"No. I'm aiming for next Beltane. Me and Tess and Vita."
"Well, you've got some time, then."
Moira nodded. "We're all taking classes-spellcraft, herbology, astrology, animal work. The usuals."
"What's your favorite?"
He's interested in me! "I like spellcraft." She couldn't help smiling, remembering her ladybug triumph. "Last weekend I wrote a new spell by myself. I spelled ladybugs to form my initials on my garden wall."
Ian laughed. "Did it work? Or did you just get a bunch of confused, ready-to-hibernate ladybugs? Or maybe bees?"
Grinning, Moira knocked her side against him, then was thrilled at the warm contact. "Yes, it worked." The truth was, she'd been pretty amazed herself-but she didn't want Ian to know that.
"Yeah? Ladybugs spelled out your initials? That's very cool," said Ian, looking impressed. "And you're not even initiated yet. But I guess you've got your mother's power, then."
Self-consciously Moira shrugged, although by now she was used to having a mother who was famous in Wiccan circles. All of Moira's life, she'd heard people speaking respectfully about Morgan Byrne of Belwicket-her powers, her incredibly strong healing gifts, the promise of her craft. Moira was proud of her mum, but at the same time it was hard, always wondering if she would ever measure up.
"With your powers, why weren't you initiated earlier?" Ian asked. "It seems like you would be amazing by now."
"You don't think I'm amazing?" Moira said teasingly, feeling incredibly daring. She had a moment of anxiety when Ian quit smiling and just looked at her thoughtfully. I went too far, I went too far-
"No," he said quietly. "I do think you're amazing."
Her face lit up, and she forgot to be cool. "I think you're amazing, too."
"Oh, yes, me," Ian said. "I can move forks. Look."
As Moira watched, Tess's leftover fork slid slowly toward her, about an inch. Moira grinned and raised her eyebrows at him, and he looked pleased.
"Pretty good," she said, an idea popping into her mind. Hopefully she could pull it off. "Watch this," she said boldly. "Look at everyone in the room who's reading"-which was three-quarters of the people there. Most tables seemed to have an open book or magazine or paper on them. Moira closed her eyes and pictured what she wanted to do, tamping down the mote of conscience that wairned her it was probably not a good idea. Right, then, I hope this works.
All the pages move as one, as if the story's just begun. I flip the pages lightly so, and my will tells them where to go.
Then, seeing it in her mind, Moira turned one page in each paper, book, or magazine throughout the cafe at Margath's Faire. In perfect unison, every piece of reading material in the room had one page turned. Most people noticed, and the witches in the room instantly looked up to see who had done it. Hearing that it had worked, Moira opened her eyes and carefully looked at no one besides Ian. She finished the last bit of her latte and gave Ian a private smile, thrilled that she'd really done it.
"That was bloody beautiful," Ian breathed, looking at her in a way that made her feel shivery. "So delicate and simple, yet so awesome." He took her hand, and Moira loved the feel of his warmth, their fingers intertwining. His hand was larger than hers, which made her feel better, because in fact Ian was only the same height she was.
I'm holding hands with Ian Delaney, Moira thought, letting happiness wash over her.
"I'm impressed, Moira of Belwicket," he said quietly, looking at her. "You are your mother's daughter."
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."