I jammed my hands into the soft pockets of my flannel robe. “Look, Mary K., I don’t know what you heard—”
“I want you to leave the coven.” The words hung there, ugly and irrefutable, as Mary K. folded her arms across her chest.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Morgan, don’t you get it?” Mary K. interrupted. “This isn’t just about you. What about Mom and Dad? They don’t have any idea what’s really going on! How do you think they’ll feel if anything happens to you?” Her voice wavered, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you think I’ll feel if something happens. . and I never even warned them?”
I stood there wordlessly for a long time. I understood what she was saying. . but what could I do about it? I couldn’t leave the coven now. I had chosen Wicca, and it had chosen me. And even though I wanted to comfort Mary K., I knew I couldn’t lie to her. In the end, I just said, “I’m sorry.”
Mary K. was still standing in the kitchen when I went up to my room. I lay in my bed, listening for her footsteps, on the stairs for a long, long time. She still hadn’t come upstairs by the time I finally fell asleep.
7. Danger
Today was Andrew Lewis’s funeral. Mother and Father didn’t want us to go, but Sam insisted and in the end our parents had to give in. I don’t often have a chance to go to a Catholic church for any reason, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the service. Sunlight streamed in the stained-glass windows, and the whole ceremony seemed very ancient and peaceful, even though it was a bit too solemn. I couldn’t help comparing it with the circle we’d held the night before at Patience Stamp’s house. She’s a potter, and her house is very simple but filled with beautiful handmade things. We’d held hands and had felt the magick flow between us, easing the pain we felt at losing our friends to the sea. I felt the same kind of magick in the church-a healing magick that exists between people. In the middle of the service I noticed that tears were streaming down Sam’s cheeks, and I handed him a tissue. But later I discovered he was feeling more than simple sorrow.
After the service Sam walked into my room and sat at the edge of the bed. When I saw that he was holding the Book-the Harris Stonghton book-I was afraid.
Then Sam told me that he’d tried a small spell-a weather spell-because it hadn’t rained for so long. He’d just wanted to see if he could call up a little rain, so about ten days ago, when the moon was waxing, he’d tried it. He hadn’t known what would happen, he said, so it couldn’t really be his fault, could it?
It took about half a minute for this to sink in. When I realized what he was telling me, I could hardly breathe. How could he? How? The storm that killed the crew of the Lady Marie was his fault. I grabbed him by the collar and started to shake him. “What have you done?” I was almost screaming, and Sam started bawling. The Book fell from is lap, and I dove for it. It felt warm in my hand, like something alive, and I wanted to throw it down, but I didn’t dare.
I must burn the vile thing before it destroys us all.
— Sarah Curtis
“Morgan!” I knew the voice was Bree’s, but I couldn’t reply or even turn my head because I was gripping a paper cup of tea in my teeth as my cold fingers fumbled to lock the door of my car. Plumes of steam rose from the hot liquid and combined with my breath, dissipating quickly.
“Here,” Bree said as she reached for the paper cup.
I released it gratefully. “Thanks.”
“Got a minute?” Bree asked.
“Sure,” I said, taking the tea back from her. “What’s up?”
“Robbie and I broke up.”
I choked on the sip of tea I’d just taken. “What?” I looked at Bree more closely. Her face was ashen, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She wasn’t kidding.
Bree glanced at my car. “Can we—?”
“Of course.” I put my tea on the roof of the car and unlocked the door. A quick glance at my watch told me that we had ten minutes until the first bell. “What do you mean, you broke up? What happened?” I asked when we were seated inside the car.
“Just what I said. Robbie and I talked last night.” Bree gave a small half shrug, lifting only one shoulder. “He said he needed space.”
I waited a moment. “And—?” I prompted.
“That’s it.” Bree gazed straight ahead. The parking lot was filling up as teachers and students hurried to class.
“Bree,” I said, “that doesn’t necessarily mean that Robbie wants to break up.” I didn’t think it did, anyway. If it did, I was going to have to have a long talk with Robbie.
Bree flashed me an oh-grow-up glance. “Spare me. I know what it means.” Raking her fingers through her hair, she added, “Not that it really matters, anyway. I mean, the relationship was getting a little old. I’ve been thinking about dating other people.”
“Bree,” I said gently, “it’s me. Don’t.”
She turned toward me, and her facade broke. Her eyes welled up, tears ran down her cheeks, and she looked like the same Bree whose heart was broken by Todd Hall in the seventh grade. “I know. I just—I just needed to say something bitchy.”
I opened my mouth. But just then the first-period bell sounded, far away, and Bree opened the car door and stepped out.
“Bree,” I called after her, “talk to Robbie!” But she’d already slammed the door and was striding toward the school. I didn’t know whether she’d heard me, and I wasn’t even sure that it mattered.
“I should be home by six,” I said into a pay phone in the lobby of the public library later that day.
“Great,” my mom said at the other end of the line. “I was thinking for family night we could play some board games and make hot fudge sundaes.”
Even the faint crackle of static on the line couldn’t disguise my mom’s excitement. I got the feeling that she was trying to make peace after our argument the night before. “Sounds great, Mom,” I said, suddenly struck with a pang of guilt. I’d told my mom that I was at the library to study history and science—but I hadn’t mentioned it was witch history and magickal botany with Erin. And here she was, planning fun activities for the whole family. I was a terrible daughter. “See you at six.”
I hung up, feeling lousy.
“Everything all right?” Erin asked as I plopped down across from her.
I laced my fingers together and rested my chin on them. “Just parental stuff.”
Erin peered at me. As usual with her, I felt like I needed to explain myself. “It’s just—they’re Catholics. They don’t approve of witchcraft. And they’re threatening to send me to Catholic school.”
Erin nodded gravely. “I wonder what your mother would think of all this.”
For a moment I was confused—hadn’t we just been talking about my mother? Then I realized that Erin was talking about Maeve, my birth mother. My heart suddenly skipped a beat.
I had never known my birth mother. She was from Ireland and had come to America with her lover, Angus, only after their entire coven was decimated by the dark wave. Coming to America hadn’t saved her, though. Ciaran—her other, secret lover—caught up with her and killed her while I was still a baby.
“Did you know her?” I asked Erin. My throat was suddenly dry.
“I met her once, briefly, when she was about fifteen and I was twenty-one,” Erin said. “My dearest friend, Mary, married a Belwicket man.” Her eyes clouded.
Belwicket was the name of Maeve’s coven. “Your friend— did she—”