Crikey. I’d never heard Da talk like this. It made him seem so much more human somehow.

“Well, anyway. Old days,” he said blithely, seeming embarrassed to reveal so much. Yet it was just this that allowed me to get past my new vision of him—the disappointing father—and see him as the man I remembered. A good man, who had loved, made mistakes, had regrets. It was a side of him I liked.

“I’m knackered,” he said, sounding shaky. He stood up and walked past me with hesitant steps. I followed him to his bedroom, where he lay down on clean sheets. I guessed that the pull of the bith dearc was still working on him.

“Da, let me help,” I said, coming to stand by the side of the bed. He looked up at me with uncomprehending weariness, and gently I laid my fingers on his temple, the way I had with the First Nation girl. I sent waves of soothing calmness, feelings of safety, of relaxation. In moments his eyes had fluttered closed, and his breathing changed to that of a man asleep. I stayed for a moment, making another spell of deep rest. If I could just keep him away from the bith dearc, if he would rest, I knew that I could help him get stronger. And perhaps then. . when he was back to his old self. . perhaps then I could get him away from this place, back home with me in Widow’s Vale.

He would be out for hours, I figured, watching his sunken chest rise and fall. I went into the lounge, got my coat, and headed to town.

In town I was startled by how normal things seemed. I checked my watch—it was after three. Please be there, I thought, punching in my phone card number, then Morgan’s number. Mary K.’s bright voice answered the phone.

“Hunter!” she said happily. “Where are you? Morgan’s been so awful lately because she hasn’t talked to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mobile can’t get a signal here, my father doesn’t have a phone, and it’s hard for me to get to town sometimes. Is she there? Can I speak to her?”

“No, she hasn’t gotten home yet. Jaycee’s mom gave me a ride from school. I don’t know if Morgan’s with Bree or what. You want Bree’s cell phone number?”

“Yes, thanks. It’s been too long since I talked to her.”

“I know she thinks so,” said Mary K. primly, and I smiled to myself, wondering how grumpy Morgan had been all week.

Mary K. gave me Bree’s number, and I called it as soon as we hung up. But a recorded voice told me that the mobile customer I was calling was not available. I wanted to smash the phone receiver against the booth wall. Dammit. I needed to talk to Morgan, needed to hear her voice, her comforting, encouraging reactions to my horrible situation. I called Bree’s cell phone again and left a message, asking her to tell Morgan that I had tried to call her and really missed her and hoped we could talk soon.

Next I tried calling Sky. I didn’t even bother to calculate what time it would be in France—I needed to hear a semi-friendly voice. No one was home. I was starting to feel desperate. Talking to my father was full of emotional highs and lows. I needed some medium.

In the end I talked to Kennet. Kennet had been my mentor, had taught me much about being a Seeker. But I didn’t mention any of my fears about Da, didn’t talk about the bith dearc or Da’s transgressions. Kennet, however, had news for me.

“It’s convenient you’re up there, actually,” he said.

I leaned into the phone booth, watching my breath come out in little puffs. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“The council has a job for you to do,” he said.

“All right,” I said with unusual eagerness. Anything to take my mind off the situation with my father. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“About three hours west from where you are, a Rowanwand witch named Justine Courceau is collecting the true names of things.”

“Yes?” I said, meaning, so what? Most witches make a point of learning as many true names of things as they can.

“Not just things. Living creatures. People. She’s writing them down,” said Kennet.

I frowned. “Writing them down? You have knowledge of this?” The idea of a witch compiling a list of the true names of living creatures, especially people, was almost unthinkable. Knowing something’s true name gives one ultimate power over it. In some cases this is useful, even necessary— for example, in healing. But it is all too easy to misuse someone’s true name, to use it for power’s sake. Writing this information down would give that power to anyone who read the list. And knowing the true name of a human or witch would give someone ultimate power over them. It was very, very difficult to come by someone’s true name. How had she been gathering them?

“Yes, she doesn’t deny it,” Kennet said. “We’ve sent her a letter, demanding she stop, going over some of the basic protocols of craft knowledge, but she hasn’t responded. We’d like you to go see her, investigate the matter, and determine a course of action.”

“No problem,” I said, thinking about how relieved I would be to get away from here, if only for a short while.

“If it’s true that she’s keeping a list, then she must be stopped and the list destroyed,” Kennet went on. “For such a list to fall into the wrong hands would be disastrous, and this Justine Courceau must be made to realize that.”

“I understand. Can you tell me where she lives?”

Kennet gave me directions, and I fetched the map from the car and traced the route, making sure I understood. She lived in Ontario Province, near a town called Foxton. It appeared to be about three hours’ drive from Saint Jérôme du Lac.

When I rang off with Kennet, it was almost dark. I stopped in at the grocer’s to get more milk and more apples, feeling the irony of wanting to feed Da and yet resenting the fact that it gave him the strength he needed to get to the bith dearc. But I felt we had made real progress today. He had stayed away from the bith dearc. We had talked, really talked, for the first time. I hoped it was just the first step.

However, when I got back, the cabin was empty, the fire burning unbanked in the fireplace. I knew immediately where he had gone. As fast as that, my anger erupted afresh, and in the next second I had thrown the groceries across the kitchen, seeing the container of milk burst against the wall, the white milk running down in streams. This wasn’t me—I had always been self-control personified. What was happening to me in this place?

This time it took only twenty-five minutes to get to the hut, despite the fact that the path was still spelled and it was dark outside. My anger propelled me forward, my long legs striding through the woods as if it were daylight. The closer I got to the hut, the more I was assaulted by waves of panic and nausea. When I could hardly bear the feelings of dread, I knew I was close. And then I was in the clearing, the moonlight shining down on me, witnessing my shame, my anger.

Without hesitation I stormed into the hut, ducking through the low doorway, to find Daniel crouched over the eerily black bith dearc. He looked up when I came in, but this time his face was excited, glad. He flung out his hand to me.

“Hunter!” he said, and it struck me that this was perhaps the first time he had used my given name. “Hunter, I’m close, so close! This time I’ll get through, I know it.”

“Leave off this!” I cried. “You know this is wrong; you know this is sapping your strength. It’s not good, it’s not right; you know Mum would have hated this!”

“No, no, son,” Da said eagerly. “No, your mum loved me; she wants to speak to me; she pines for me as I pine for her. Hunter, I’m close, so close this time, but I’m weak. With your help I know I could get through, speak to your mother. Please, son, just this once. Lend me your strength.”

I stared at him, appalled. So this was what the bith dearc had really been about. Not helping others—that was incidental. His true goal had always been to contact Mum. But what he was suggesting was unthinkable, going not only against the written and unwritten laws of the craft, but also against my vows to the council as a Seeker.