"Amy, darling. Amy, it's Mum. I'm right here, love, and so is Da. We're right here, lass."

Morgan sipped her tea. There was nothing more she could do. Amy had to choose to come back.

In the hospital bed the pale, still figure seemed small and fragile. She was breathing more regularly now, with only the occasional cough. Suddenly her eyelids fluttered open for a moment, revealing a pair of green eyes just like her mum's. Her parents gasped and leaned closer.

"Amy!" Irene cried as a doctor strode quickly toward them. "Amy! Love!"

Amy licked her lips slightly, and her eyes fluttered again. Her mouth seemed to form the word Mum, and her pinkie finger on her left hand raised slightly.

"Good Lord," the doctor breathed.

Irene was crying now, kissing Amy's hand, and Andrew was sniffing, his worn face crinkled into a leathery smile. Morgan finished her tea and got to her feet. Very quietly she picked up her canvas bag. It seemed to weigh three times as much as it had that morning. And she still had an hour's drive to Wicklow. She was suffused with the happiness that always came from healing, an intense feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. But the happiness was tinged bittersweet, as it had been every time she'd healed someone since Colm's death-because when her husband had needed her most, she hadn't been there to heal him.

She was almost out the door when Irene noticed she was leaving. "Wait!" she cried, and hurried over to Morgan. Her face was wet with tears, her smile seeming like a rainbow. "I don't know what you did," she said in barely more than a whisper. "I told the nurses you were praying for her. But it's a miracle you've done here, and as long as I live, I'll never be able to thank you enough."

Morgan gave her a brief hug. "Amy getting better is all the thanks I need." * * *

"You're working too hard, lass," Katrina Byrne said as Morgan came up the front walk.

Morgan shifted her heavy tote to her other shoulder. It was almost five o'clock. Luckily she'd had the foresight to ask her mother-in-law to be here this afternoon in case she didn't get back before dinner.

"Hi. What are you doing? Pulling up the carrots? Is Moira home?"

"No, she's not back yet," said Katrina, sitting back stiffly on her little stool. "I would have expected her by now. How was your day?"

"Hard. But in the end, good. The girl opened her eyes, and she recognized her mum."

"Good." Katrina's brown eyes looked her up and down. The older woman was heavyset, more so now than when Morgan had met her, so long ago. Katrina and her husband, Pawel, and her sister, Susan Best, had been among the handful of survivors of the original Belwicket, on the western coast of Ireland. Morgan had known her first as the temporary leader of Belwicket, then as her mother-in-law, and the two women had an understated closeness-especially now that they were both widows.

"You're all in, Morgan," Katrina said.

"I'm beat," Morgan agreed. "I need a hot bath and a sit-down."

"Sit down for just a moment here." Katrina pointed with her dirt-crusted trowel at the low stone wall that bordered Morgan's front yard. Morgan lowered her bag to the damp grass and rested on the cool stones. The afternoon light was rapidly fading, but the last pale rays of sunlight shone on Katrina's gray hair, twisted up into a bun in back. She wore brown cords and a brown sweater she'd knit herself, before her arthritis had gotten too bad.

"Where's Moira, then?" Morgan asked, looking up the narrow country road as if she expected to see her daughter running down it.

"Don't know," Katrina said, picking up a three-pronged hand rake and scraping it among the carrots. "With her gang."

Morgan smiled to herself: Moira's «gang» consisted of her friends Tess and Vita. She let out a deep breath, hoping she would have the energy to get back up when she needed to. Lately it seemed she'd been working harder than ever. She was often gone, leaving Katrina to come look after Moira, though Moira had started protesting that she could stay by herself. Last week Katrina had accused her of running away from grief, and Morgan hadn't denied it. It was just too painful to be here sometimes-to see the woodwork that Colm had painted, the garden he'd helped her create. She felt his loss a thousand times a day here. In a hotel in some unknown city, with work to distract her, it was easier to bear. Now she waited for her outspoken mother-in-law- her friend-to get something off her chest.

"When were you thinking of accepting the role of high priestess?" Katrina asked bluntly. Her trowel moved slowly through the rich black soil. She looked focused on her gardening, but Morgan knew better.

She let out a deep breath. "I was thinking maybe next spring. Imbolc. Moira's to be initiated on Beltane, and it would be lovely for me to lead it."

"Aye," agreed Katrina. "So maybe you need to cut back on your traveling and start preparing more to be high priestess." She looked up at Morgan shrewdly. "Meaning you'll have to be home more."

Morgan pressed her lips together. It was pointless to pretend not to know what Katrina was talking about. She scraped the toe of her shoe against a clump of grass. "It's hard being here."

"Hard things have to be faced, Morgan. You've a daughter here who needs you. You've missed two of the last five circles. And not least, your garden's going to hell." Katrina pulled up a group of late carrots, and Morgan was startled to see that below their lush green tops, their roots were gnarled, twisted, and half rotted away.

"What…?"

Katrina clawed her hand rake through the dirt: The whole row of carrots was rotten. Morgan and Katrina's eyes met.

"You did all the usual spells, of course," Katrina said.

"Of course. I've never had anything like this." Morgan knelt down and took the small rake from Katrina. She dug through the soil, pulling up the ruined carrots, then went deeper. In a minute she had found it: a small pouch of sodden, dirt-stained leather, tied at the top with string. Morgan scratched runes of protection quickly around her, then untied the string. A piece of slate fell out, covered with sigils-magickal symbols that worked spells. Some of them Morgan didn't know, but she recognized a few, for general destruction (plants), for the attraction of darkness (also for plants), and for the halting of growth (modified to pertain to plants).

"Oh my God," she breathed, sitting back on her heels. It had been so long since anyone had wished her harm-a lifetime ago. To find this in her own garden… it was unbelievable. "What are you thinking?" Katrina asked.

Morgan paused, considering. "I really can't imagine who would do this," she said. "No one in our coven works magick to harm…." She trailed off as something occurred to her. "Of course, there is another coven whose members don't share our respect for what's right."

"Ealltuinn," Katrina said.

Morgan nodded. "I never would have thought they'd do something like this," she murmured, almost to herself. It wasn't unusual for more than one coven to be in a certain area; sometimes they coexisted peacefully, sometimes less so. Belwicket had been in the town of Wicklow, right outside Cobh, for over twenty years now; they were a Woodbane coven who had renounced dark magick. Ealltuinn, a mixed coven, had started in Hewick, a small town slightly to the north, about eight years ago. There hadn't been any problems until about two years ago, when Lilith Delaney had become high priestess of Ealltuinn.

Morgan had never liked Lilith-she was one of those witches who always pushed things a little too far and didn't understand why it was a problem. But it was more that she'd work minor spells out of self-interest, nothing dangerous, so Morgan hadn't been too concerned. She'd spoken with Lilith several times, warned her that she didn't agree with the direction Lilith was taking her coven in, and Lilith hadn't been too pleased with that. But would she really have shown her anger like this? By ruining Morgan's garden? The spell was minor, petty, but it was working harm against someone-which was always wrong.