I first saw Maeve Riordan yesterday. She was not among those who welcomed our boat. She was off gathering moss for a poultice and didn’t come back into the village until we were in a meeting with Belwicket’s elders. We were in the house of Mackenna, their high priestess, beginning to ask those questions whose answers would determine Belwicket’s fate, though they didn’t realize it, poor sods. And in walks Mackenna’s daughter, a girl of nineteen with a mud-streaked skirt and a basket overflowing with drippy moss.
I had the strangest sensation that I’d waited twenty-two years to see her. It was as though my life were slightly unreal until that moment. She seemed fey—a luminous creature—and at the same time utterly familiar, as if I’d known and loved her my whole life.
Everything about Maeve enchants me. The light that dances in her eyes, the rhythm of her speech, the sound of her laughter, the grace of her hands, and, of course, the magick that sparkles around her. She has a great deal of raw power—as much as Selene, I think. Selene was a different package, though. She’d been honing her magick for years, had studied, sacrificed, undergone a Great Trial, even. In Maeve it’s simply a matter of her birthright. She takes it for granted, doesn’t yet realize how much power courses through her.
Of course, there is the matter of Belwicket having forsworn the old Woodbane ways. Still, I’m certain we’ll get past that. She feels the same way about me that I do about her—I can see it in her eyes. I will show Maeve how to realize her true power. I’ll convince her that my way is the right one.
So this is what love feels like, the love that lasts for all time. When it happens, there are no questions, no doubts. I know that now. And I know the dress on the line…it can only have been hers.
— Neimhidh
Friday morning, I woke to unfamiliar sounds filtering through the guest room door—Mr. Warren making coffee while having a heated phone conversation about depositions.
On the mattress next to me Bree stretched and opened her eyes. “Sleep well?” she asked with a drowsy smile.
I blushed. “Yeah. How about you?”
She shrugged. “Fine,” she said in a neutral voice.
Raven’s eyes shot open, ringed with black eye makeup she hadn’t washed off. “What time is it?” she demanded.
“Just after nine-thirty,” Bree answered. “We should get moving. I want to go to Diva’s this morning. It’s in SoHo. You guys should come, too—they’ve got great clothes, and they’re really cheap.”
I could feel that Hunter and Sky weren’t in the apartment; they must have already left for their meeting with the mysterious contact Hunter had met last night. “Uh—okay,” I agreed. Maybe I could find an outfit that was slightly more appropriate for the city.
Raven shook her head. “I’ll pass. Not my kind of place,” she said.
“Okay.” Bree got up, took her robe from its hook, and went out into the kitchen.
Raven rubbed her temples. “I feel like hell. I need a shower,” she said, and padded off to the bathroom.
I got dressed, my thoughts on Hunter and how good it had felt to be with him last night, how I wished it could have lasted longer.
I quickly plaited my hair into a braid and glanced in the mirror on the closet door. In a black turtleneck and jeans, I was presentable. I went out into the living room, where I found Robbie folding up the sofa bed. He was dressed in jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt, and his hair was still mussed from sleep.
“Morning,” Robbie said. “Hunter left a note for you.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
Morgan—
I’ll meet you back at the apartment by 10:30.
— Hunter
Of course, the thing that I noticed was that he’d signed it Hunter. Not: Love, Hunter or even Yours, Hunter. Just plain Hunter. Very romantic.
Mr. Warren rushed out of the apartment, briefcase in hand, and Bree came into the living room. “What’s up?”
I showed her Hunter’s note. Bree made a face. “I wanted to go the coffee shop downstairs and get some breakfast. But I guess we’ll wait.”
So we waited. Raven emerged from the guest room in yet another skintight black outfit. She seemed a little annoyed that Sky was still out. Bree and Robbie weren’t talking, I noticed, and Robbie was doing his best to pretend he was okay about it. He headed out, saying a little too casually that he wanted to do some exploring on his own. First, though, we agreed that we’d all meet up for lunch at a deli on the Upper West Side at two that afternoon.
Ten-thirty came and went. By eleven Hunter and Sky still hadn’t come back, and Bree and I were dying to get out, get food, do something besides sit around the apartment. And I was getting worried.
Finally I sent Hunter a witch message. But after ten minutes he hadn’t responded. My pulse rate picked up a little. Was he okay?
“Well?” Raven asked.
“Nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice calmer than I felt.
“That boy has really got to join the twenty-first century and get a cell phone,” Bree said.
I sent another, more emphatic witch message to Hunter, trying to determine if he was okay.
After a moment I got a response from Sky: We’re fine. That was it. Hunter didn’t bother to reply at all. Again I couldn’t help a surge of irritation. Maybe I wasn’t being rational about this, but it sure felt like I was being shut out.
“I just heard from Sky,” I told the others. “They’re okay. But I don’t think they’re going to be back for a while.”
“Then let’s shop,” Bree said.
Raven yawned. “I’m going back to bed,” she announced. “I am not a morning person.”
Half an hour and two pastries later, Bree and I stood on the cast-iron steps of Diva’s on West Broadway. I’d been there once before, but even if you lived in Widow’s Vale and had never been to the city, you knew about Diva’s. It was a mecca for the young and broke.
Bree led the way inside the huge warehouse of a store. Rap blared from the speakers. There were stacks of T-shirts in every color of the rainbow; pants in reds and blues and petal pinks; sweatshirts in olive green, neon yellow, and baby blue.
Bree started poking through the vintage racks and found a man’s long-sleeved black shirt with gray pearl buttons. “Maybe I should buy this for Robbie,” she mused. Unlike the rest of us, Bree had a generous allowance.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Bree, do you or do you not like that boy?”
She looked at me, startled. “I told you. I’m completely crazy about him.”
“Well, then please stop treating him like crap!” I said. “It’s painful to watch.”
Bree put the shirt back and calmly moved on to a rack of trendier clothing. “If you want to know the truth,” she said, “it’s Robbie who should be treating me better.”
“What?” I stared at her.
“At the club last night,” she said. “He danced and flirted with all those women.”
“Three, and they all came on to him,” I argued.
“Don’t blame them. It’s Robbie’s responsibility to say no,” said Bree. “If he really wants to be with me, why did he encourage them?”
“Maybe because he wasn’t getting any encouragement from you?” I suggested. “Come on, Bree. You had your own little entourage over by the café. What kind of message did that send? Besides, you know none of those women mattered. Robbie doesn’t care about anyone except you. Can’t you see that?”
Bree held up a slinky black cocktail dress. “I know Robbie’s trying,” she acknowledged. “But so am I.” She frowned, put the dress back, and moved on to a rack of pants. “This is just the way relationships go.”