I turned on my side, trying to find a position that coordinated the old couch’s lumps with my rib cage. I heard Da sleeping restlessly in the other room, as if he didn’t even know how to do a soothing spell. Like yourself, idiot, said my critical inner voice. I rubbed the bridge of my nose with two fingers, trying to dispel a tension headache, then quickly sketched a few runes and sigils in the air, muttering words I’d know since childhood. Where I am is safe and calm, I am hidden from the storm, I can close my eyes and breathe, now my worries will all leave. What second-year student doesn’t know that? I said it, and instantly my eyes felt heavier, my breathing slowed, and I felt less stressed.

Just before I fell asleep, I remembered one last scene with my father. I had been seven and full of myself, leagues ahead of the other third-year students in our coven. To show off, I had crafted a spell to put on our cat, Mrs. Wilkie. It was to make her think a canary was dipping about her head so she would rear up on her hind paws and swat at it over and over again. Of course, nothing was there, and we kids were hysterical with laughter, watching her pointlessly swipe at the air.

Da hadn’t found it so funny. He came down on us like the wrath of heaven, and of course my companions instantly gave me up, their fingers pointing at me silently. He hauled me up by my collar, undid the spell on poor Mrs. Wilkie, and then marched me to the woodshed (a real woodshed) and tanned my bum. I ate standing up for three days. Americans seem to be much more skittish about spanking, but I know that after that, I never again put a spell on an animal for fun. His approval was like the sun, his disapproval like a storm. I got love and affection from Mum, but it was being in Da’s good stead that mattered.

Today his approval or disapproval would mean little to me. With that last sad thought, I fell asleep.

December 2001

Today I found a bit of rock that had a thread of gold running through it. I held it in my hand and closed my eyes and felt its ancient fire warming my hand. I came home, crunching through the snow, and set the rock on my kitchen table. I stoked the fire and made myself some mulled cider. Then we sat together, the rock and I, and it told me its secrets. I knew its true name, the name of the rock and the name of the gold within it. Using the form as described by Davina Heartson, I gently, slowly, patiently coaxed the gold out of the rock. It came to me, running like water on fire, and now it sits in a tiny lump in my hand, the rock being empty where it was. It was such a beautiful thing, such a pure power, such a perfect knowledge, that I sat there and wept with it.

This is the value of my research. This is why I've gone to such lengths to collect true names. Knowing true names elevates my magick into something different from what most withes haves. I was born strong-I'm a Courceau. But the collection of true names I have gives me almost unlimited power over the known ones. Think of what I could do with some particular names. Think of what power I would wield. I could be virtually unstoppable. Then I could avenge my family, all those who have had their forces stripped, who have been persecuted, misunderstood, judged by smell-minded bureaucrats. They didn't understand who they were dealing with. I will make it my life's work to teach them.

— J.C.

When I got up the next morning, Da was gone, just like he had been the day before. I wondered if the extra food he’d been getting had given him more energy, because he’d said he was going to “work.” Work? What work? I tried to engage him in a conversation about it but got nowhere. I could only assume that this had something to do with the notes thanking him for his skill as a sorcier; perhaps he was out on medicine-man business. I wished he would tell me more about it, because he scarcely seemed strong enough to go to the grocery store, never mind tending to the magickal needs of villagers. The previous afternoon when he had come home, his face had been the color of a cloudy sky. I wondered if his heart was okay. When was the last time he had seen a healer? I wished I could get him to one. As far as I knew, though, he was the only witch around.

But he was gone again, already gone when I woke up.

I meditated, fixed myself breakfast, then drove to town to call Morgan. Naturally, I discovered that if you phone your seventeen-year-old girlfriend at ten o’clock on a Tuesday, she’ll be in school. After that disappointing episode, I hung around the house. I was starting to feel like a professional maid. I scrubbed the lounge floor (it was wood—who’d’ve known?), whapped all the dust out of the furniture, and did a complete overhaul of the kitchen cabinets. I didn’t know how long I’d be there or what Da would do after I was gone, but I’d laid in a good store of supplies.

Back in New York, I had pictured quite a different family reunion. I’d pictured my parents—changed, to be sure, but still themselves—overjoyed to see me, my mum crying tears of joy, Da clapping me on the back (I’ve grown so tall!). I’d pictured us sitting round a table, the three of us, sharing good stories and bad, sharing meals, catching each other up on our lives of the last eleven years.

I hadn’t pictured a gray ghost of a father, my mother being dead, and me being Suzy Homekeeper while my da went off to his secretive work that the whole bloody village knew about but I didn’t. I’d wondered if my folks would be impressed or unhappy about my Seeker assignment from the council. I’d wondered if they’d test my magickal strength, if they would be happy with my progress, my power. I’d wanted to tell them about Morgan and even talk to them about what had happened with Linden, and with Selene and Cal. But Da had showed no interest in my life, asked no questions. Two of his four children were dead, and he hadn’t asked any more about it. He hadn’t asked about Beck or Shelagh or Sky or anyone else.

Goddess, why had I even come? And why was I staying? I sighed and looked around the cabin. It gave me a sad satisfaction: everything was tidy and scrubbed, clean and purified, the way a witch’s house should be. I had sprinkled salt, burned sage, and performed purifying rites. The cabin no longer jangled my nerves when I walked into it. I had dragged it into the light. It was too bad the ground outside was still frozen—I was itching to start digging up earth for a summer garden plot, every witch’s mainstay. Sky and I had planned ours back in January. I hoped she would come back soon to help me with it.

Then my senses picked up on someone approaching the cabin—Da returning? No. I turned off the gas burner on the stove and cast my senses more strongly.

When I answered the knock, I found a short First Nation woman standing on the porch. I didn’t think I’d seen her in town.

Her dark eyes squinted at me, and she didn’t smile. “Où est le sorcier?”

I still found it hard to believe that my father was identified as such so openly. In danger or not, it’s never considered a good thing to be so obvious, so well known. Witches had been persecuted for hundreds of years, and it always made sense to be prudent.

I searched my mind for the little French I’d learned to impress an ex-girlfriend. “Il n’est pas ici,” I said haltingly.

The woman looked at me, then reached out her hand and touched my arm. I felt her warmth through my sweater. She gave a brisk nod, as if a suspicion had been confirmed. “Vous être aussi un sorcier,” she said matter-of-factly. “Suivez-moi.”

My jaw dropped open. Where was I? What was this crazy place where witches lived openly and villagers could tell them from nonwitches?