A slight frown wrinkled the skin between her brows. “Quelquefois.” She hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. “Not so much maintenant. Not so much. Good people, only when so desperate. Like today.”

Every Seeker instinct in me came to life. “Good people?”

She looked away, then said in a voice I could barely hear over the engine, “People who don’t walk in the light—they go to le sorcier more often.”

Oh, Goddess, I muttered to myself. That didn’t sound good. We were both silent the rest of the ride. She pulled up in front of Da’s cabin but didn’t shut off the engine.

“Merci,” she said quietly, not smiling. “Elle est ma fille, vous aidez.”

“Soyez le bienvenue.” Then I got out of the truck, knowing that I would probably never see her, her daughter, or her new granddaughter again. Her tires spun on the snowy dirt behind me as I went up the steps to the porch. Inside, my father was there, in the kitchen, eating some meat I had browned hours ago. He looked up as if surprised to see me still around.

“We have to talk,” I said.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve come to fully appreciate the pristine and harsh beauty of winter. Five years ago it was spring that made me feel alive, the unstoppable power and bursting rawness of life renewed. Now that seems so naïve. For me, winter is the culmination of nature’s beauty, winter that shows the perfection, the bare bones of the world I live in.

Today I walked for miles, up to Drandfather’s Knee. The air was sharp and cold, like a knife, and by the time I reached the top, every breath seared my lungs. I felt alive, completely connected to everybody around me. The sound of ice cracking in the sun, the rare, startled flight of a bird, the occasional wet drop of snow from a tree limb—all these things filled me, awoke my senses, until I felt almost painfully joyful, painfully ecstatic. I fell to my knees in the sun-softened snow and blessed the Goddess and the God. My entire life felt like a song, a song that was reaching a crescendo, right then.

through the crust to forage. As I knelt there, I was startled by a flash of dusty white-a winter hare, zigzagging crazily across the meadow, running so incredibly fast that I could hardly follow it with my eyes. It was beautiful, a slightly darker white than the snow, designed to run, its feet sure and strong. A second later I saw the reason for its flight: a red-tailed hawk, its wingspan more than four feet, was wooping toward it. In the time it took me to blink, the hawk had swung its feet down and up and was already beating the air with its wings, heading skyward with its prey.

I didn't think. There was no time. Instinctively I traced the sigil and cried, "srathtac! Srathtac!"

As if shot, the hawk faltered in midair, one shoulder dipping, its wings beating arrythmically. I sent the message, "Drop it. Release." And in the next moment the hare was falling like a soft-bodied stone toward the earth. I was already on my feet and running.

The hare lay stunned, near death, its eyes wide and yet unseeing. Its dusky fur was streaked with blood from the hawk's talons; I felt its labored breathing, its pain, the panic that went beyond fear. It blinked once, twice, and then its life began to ease away. "Sassen," I murmured, not touching it. Its little sides had quit heaving for breath. "Sassen," I said softly, tracing several sigils in the air above it, calling it back. "Sassen." I sang it coaxingly, and then the hare blinked, its eyes taking on a new awareness. It breathed deep, its velvet nose twitching. I watched as it rolled to its feet in a smooth movement and bounded, off to the brush.

I know that some would say that what I did today was wrong, that it is interfering with nature's will, which should be held sacred. But I believe that as witches we should have the ability to use our own judgement. Nothing I have done today will throw off the balance of the universe. The hawk will catch more prey, the hare will die sooner or later. Both will go on with their lives, unaware of what I've done.

Animals are innocent. People never are.

— J.C.

I told Da about helping the First Nation girl give birth. He seemed interested, his eyes on me, as he finished eating. I gave him the tiny piece of bread I had left, and he ate that, too, though it seemed to take effort.

“It sounds like you handled it well, son,” he said in his odd, raspy voice. “Good for you.”

My heart flared, and I became humiliatingly aware that part of me still longed to impress him. Impress him, this pale imitation of my father.

“Da,” I began, leaning forward. “I need to talk to you about how you’ve been helping people around here. I’m a Seeker, and you must know that some of the things I’ve seen and heard concern me. I need to understand what you do, what role you play, how you’ve made it safe to be known openly as a witch.”

For a moment I thought he might actually try to answer, but then he raised one hand in a defeated gesture and let it fall again. He glanced at me, gave a faintly embarrassed half smile, then stood and headed to his room, just like that.

I sat back in my chair, unreasonably stunned—why had I expected anything different? Maybe because when I was a child, my da had never turned away from answering a question, no matter how hard, how painful. He had given it to me straight, whether I really wanted the answer or not. I had to let go of that da—he was gone forever. In his place was this new man. He was what I had to work with.

That night I lay on the lumpy couch, unable to sleep and unwilling to do a calming spell until I had thought things through. I was a Seeker. Every instinct I had was on alert. I needed to find out what my father was up to. I needed some answers. If Da couldn’t give them to me, I would find their answers myself. Then I would have a decision to make: whether to notify the International Council of Witches or not.

On Wednesday, I awoke early with renewed determination. I was going to follow Da today. All I had to do was wait for him to get up, then track him, something I was particularly good at.

Within moments of waking up, however, my senses told me the cabin was empty except for me. I frowned and swung my legs off the couch. A stronger scan revealed no other human around. How could that be? It would have been impossible for Da to wake and leave without my knowing. I was a light sleeper to begin with, and the couch of torture had only increased that. Then it occurred to me: it was impossible for Da to have left without my knowing. Which meant that my father had spelled me to keep me asleep. I sprang up, my hands clenching with anger. How dare he? He’d spelled me without my knowledge. There was no excuse for that, and it only emphasized how shady his business must be.

Swearing to myself, I shoved my feet into my boots and tied them with jerky movements. I pulled on the flannel shirt I’d earned, grabbed my coat, and stomped outside.

Outside, I saw that it was still early, and the air smelled like coming snow. The big pile of black garbage bags filled a corner of the front yard, and the thin, half-melted snow was tracked with my footprints. There were no tracks leading away from the house; none headed into the woods. Obviously Da had covered his trail.

I stomped a small circle into the snow and stepped into it. It took several minutes for me to release my anger, to summon patience, to center myself and open myself to the universe. At last I was in a decent state, and I began to craft revealing spells.

I had to say this for him, Da still knew his spells. His concealing spells were in several layers and included some variations that took work and thought on my part to break through. Either he was a naturally gifted and innovative spellcrafter, or he had considered me a real threat. Or both.