by Cate Tiernan
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.
Though Moira looked, she could find no mention of Gran helping Morgan, no mention of smoothing away her troubles. The entries that mentioned her only described her kindness and caring, her constancy, her support. Morgan didn't detail any healing rites, circles held for her benefit, nothing.
Moira flipped ahead, searching for a mention of magick. A week after her birth Morgan had put some protection spells and general good-wishes spells on her new baby.
Hmmm. Something was odd. Moira skipped back and forth, looking from Colm's book to Morgan's, at earlier entries and later ones. The dates in Morgan's were messed up for a while-she simply hadn't put dates in, and it was only by her telling of events, and comparing the entries to Colm's, that Moira was able to figure out when an entry had been made.
Colm had been much steadier-virtually every entry was dated. Moira continued to flip back and forth. Hunter died, Mum got ill, Mum and Dad got married a month later. One month. Pretty fast for someone who had been so in love,
for someone not marrying their soul mate. But considering how ill Mum had been, how devastated, maybe she had just really needed someone to take care of her. And from the entries it seemed she really had grown to love Colm.
Then Morgan was expecting a baby, and Moira was born ... in December, right before Yule. Hunter had died in March. Mum and Dad had gotten married in April. Moira had been born in December. Mum's Book of Shadows mentioned that she and Colm hadn't slept together before their marriage.
So Moira had been premature by one month. A nine- pound preemie. That didn't sound right. She couldn't have weighed nine pounds.
There were sounds from downstairs. Moira realized her mum was awake and getting breakfast, and now that she was paying attention, she realized there was someone else downstairs, too, a woman. Gran? Not Gran.
Quickly Moira threw on her hated school uniform, brushed her hair and her teeth, and headed downstairs, holding the two Books of Shadows.
She froze when she spotted the back of the strange woman's head-she had the same white-blond hair as the man in her dream. Then the woman turned around. "Good morning," she said evenly. "You must be Moira."
"Yes," Moira said. She clutched the books tightly in her hands, her heart pounding.
Morgan turned from the stove. "Morning, sweetie." She looked tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She gestured to the woman with a dishcloth. "Moira, this is Sky Eventide. We've been friends a long time. She was Hunter's cousin."
"You were Hunter's cousin?" Moira asked, a funny feeling in her stomach. The same hair as the man in her dream .. . "Yes," said Sky, her expression guarded. She was unusual, not like Mum's other friends. Not smiling and remarking on how tall she was and asking about school.
"Oh," Moira said inadequately. She sat down at the table and poured some cereal into a bowl, then some milk, but couldn't bring herself to start eating. Her mind was whirling. Finally, keeping her tone as calm as possible, she asked, "Mum, was I born premature?"
Morgan looked surprised. "No ... in fact, you were late. The midwife said that nature decrees that a woman will be pregnant for exactly as long as she can absolutely bear it. . . and then another two weeks." She rolled her eyes. "Let's just say I was anxious for you to get here."
"And how much did I weigh?" Moira pressed.
"Nine pounds."
Moira's pulse raced. No, no, it couldn't be.
"What's all this about, anyway?" Morgan asked, coming to the table. She moved the teapot closer to Sky, and Sky topped up her mug.
Moira pushed the two Books of Shadows toward her mother. "I was reading these this morning, and there's something-odd. It says that you and Dad got married in April, but I was born in December."
Morgan blinked. "No, that isn't right," she said slowly. She sat back and looked at the ceiling, thinking. "We were married in . . ."
"April," Moira supplied.
Frowning, Morgan nodded. "And you were born December 15."
"Right."
Her mum looked at her, then shook her head. "No, there has to be some mistake, something wrong with the entries. I know you weren't premature. Goddess, you were a whale." Moira just looked at her mother.
"Why were you up this morning so early, anyway?" Morgan asked.
"I had a strange dream," Moira said. "It woke me, and once I was up, I ... I wanted to read these."
"Studying for your initiation, are you?" asked Sky, and Moira nodded.
"What was your dream about?" Mum asked casually. Dreams were often discussed in Wiccan households, whether they were important, funny, meaningful, or frightening.
Don't let this dream mean anything, please, Moira pleaded inwardly.
"Me being born," Moira said carefully. "Peggoty MacAdams and June Hightown were there. And they said, doesn't the dad want to hold her?" She paused, giving her mother a hard look. "But the dad wasn't Dad. They handed me to someone else." She turned her gaze to Sky. "He . . . well, he looked . . . like you. His hair was very light, like yours."
Silence. Moira looked at her mom and felt her heart sink. Her mother was pale, stricken, her eyes large. Glancing over at Sky, she saw that the other woman also looked very solemn.
"So I was wondering," Moira went on. The words were so thick and her mouth so dry, it was a battle to speak. "When I was born and when you and Dad got married . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Whether I was premature," she finished softly.
Still no one said anything. Moira looked at her mother and saw that she and Sky were staring at each other as if the other one would have all the answers in the world. Morgan swallowed. "Moira, I know that you are Colm's daughter, Colm's and mine. There's never been the slightest doubt about that. There was never a question." Her mum sounded absolute.
"Must be the dates are off," Sky suggested quietly.
"Yes," Morgan said firmly, standing up. "This is one thing you don't have to worry about, Moira, I promise you. You're definitely Colm's daughter." Her mother kissed her and smiled into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I know you've had a lot of shocks lately. But believe me, you were Colm's daughter and mine, and you made our lives complete. Your dad loved you more than anything. Okay?"
Moira forced a nod, but she felt as if her internal organs were collapsing in on themselves, as if, in moments, she would be a puddle on the floor. Her mother sounded so sure, so confident-but Moira had a terrible, horrifying feeling that she was wrong.
12
Morgan
After Moira left, Morgan sat at the table, her tea getting cold. It was as if someone had taken her life, put it in a kaleidoscope, and given it a quick shake. Everything was skewed, changed, off. There were so many questions piling up inside her that soon enough they would start to spill out. Was Hunter really alive? Was he sending her messages from the dead or was someone else? Hunter would never, ever hurt her-that black smoke couldn't have been from him. But it had happened at the same time as all the other signs, so there had to be a connection, didn't there?
And then there was everything Moira had just said. Goddess, was there any possibility that Moira was Hunter's ...
No, she's Colm's daughter, Morgan told herself. Colm's and mine. Moira's dream ... it had to mean something else. It had to be connected to all these other strange visions and dreams.
"I know what you're thinking," Sky finally said, breaking the silence that hung between them. "But Morgan, we can't just sit and wait for answers. We have to act. And I think the first thing we need to do is clean up your house. Having all those sigils and hexes around here can't be helping any of us think clearly. They were probably spelled so that you-or members of your coven, specifically-couldn't find them, because when I looked, they were popping out at me without too much trouble."
"That would make sense," Morgan said. She shook her head. "It's what I would do."
"If you were the type of person who went around spelling people to break their necks," Sky agreed. "Let's sort it all out right now."
"Yes," said Morgan, trying to shake off the weighty gray- ness that made her shoulders and neck ache. She needed to think clearly. "That would be a start."
Morgan fetched the Riordan athame, the ancient knife carved with generations of her family's initials. When she became high priestess, her initials would be added. She and Sky went outside, and one by one Sky showed her the hexes, spells, and sigils that she'd found sprinkled liberally everywhere. Working with Sky, Morgan passed the athame over the sigils and saw the sigils glow faintly silver or red. It was off alone that she saw nothing, but as she and Sky worked, Morgan began to sense the spells more easily.
"This is unbelievable," Morgan breathed as their number grew. "I just went over the house. I can't believe this is happening." A wave of nausea overcame her, and she had to sit down. So many years she'd lived peacefully, without the thought of dark magick. And now it was surrounding her and Moira, with someone out there waiting to use it to strangle them both. "Like I said, they were spelled to keep you from finding them. Someone wishes you harm," Sky sa
id with characteristic understatement. She held up a small glass bottle full of nails, pins, needles, and vinegar. "How's your stomach been lately? Any ulcers?"
"No," Morgan said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Goddess. I'm just so grateful that Moira hasn't been hurt."
"These people must be just astounded every day," Sky said, "when they read the paper and don't find an article about how your roof caved in or your brakes gave out or you slipped on your walk and broke your hip. You're stronger than they think. Or else their magick is pathetic." She looked at the pouch with distaste, then added it to the small pile in the corner of the yard.
"Katrina and I have been doing a lot of protection spells," said Morgan. "This house itself is built on an ancient power ley, and we tap into that."
"Oh, yes, the legend about the local power ley. Didn't know anyone knew where it was. Good. That's the only explanation I have for the fact that you're still standing. That and you're Morgan of Belwicket," Sky said. "Some of this stuff has been nasty."
All of a sudden Morgan felt as if she couldn't bear it. She collapsed to the ground. "Sky," she began. "I thought I was done with all this."
"I know," Sky said. "And you should be. You've been through enough." Her black eyes became thoughtful. "But you're no ordinary witch. You're Morgan of Belwicket. Maeve's daughter. Ciaran's daughter. You are the sgiurs dan."
Morgan's eyes opened wider. The sgiurs dan-the Destroyer. Ciaran had told her that years ago, as part of his explanation for wanting her dead. Every several generations within the Woodbane clan a Destroyer was born. A witch who would change the course of Woodbane history. "But didn't I already change Woodbane history, by helping to destroy Amyranth? By removing Ciaran from power? And now by leading Belwicket in a new direction?"
"I certainly thought so," Sky said wryly. "But maybe the wheel has something more for you to do."
The wheel of life. Fate. Karma. Morgan felt oddly inadequate for what the wheel kept dishing out. "Sky ... I just don't know if I can fight anymore, not like I did back then."