I can’t believe Hunter is leaving tomorrow. I feel a sense of dread when I think about his being gone. I tried to scry last night but really didn’t pick up anything except images of woods. Frustrating.

Now, on the main thing. I’ve read in Maeve’s Book of Shadows that blood witches can do spells to either get pregnant or not get pregnant. I went yesterday to Practical Magick and tried to find a spell, but I couldn’t and was too embarrassed to ask Alyce. So this afternoon after school, I drove over to Norton, to the Planned Parenthood office there, and got a three-month supply of the Pill and a prescription to fill if I need to.

I parked down the street (so original) and crept up the block to the building, which of course had humongous letters on the side screaming Planned Parenthood! Catholic teenagers having premarital sex against their parents’ wishes, step right up! Goddess, by the time I got inside the building, I was shaking with mortification. If only I were Bree! Bree has her own gynecologist and suavely went on the Pill when she was fifteen. The whole thing only underlines how immature I am. Yet I do absolutely feel ready to go to bed with Hunter. I’ mean, I’m dying to. I’ve been wanting to, but things just haven’t worked out. But tonight is going to be the night—I feel it. I came hoe and took the first pill as instructed. We’ll need to use a condom, too, because the Pill doesn’t kick in for a month and even though I trust Hunter, I’d rather be safe that sorry.

I can’t believe I thought about doing it with Cal. I still feel incredibly sad when I think about him—sad that he’s dead, that Selene destroyed his life, that I had anything to do with it. What I feel for Hunter is so different than what I felt for Cal. I love Hunter truly and deeply, I trust ad admire and respect him. I feel sure that he loves me, that he will take care of me and doesn’t just want to remake me into what he thinks would be a perfect girlfriend. I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe. I trust him.

And physically, oh, Goddess, he makes me crazy. So tonight’s the night. Tonight I’m going to quit being a kid, a little girl. By tomorrow morning, I’ll be a woman.

— Morgan

By Friday evening I was tightly wound. Everything was weighing on my mind: Should I stop the mail or ask a neighbor to gather it? Would my car make it to Canada? Did I have enough money? Thoughts consumed me as I surveyed the table I had set. I looked at it suspiciously, certain I’d forgotten something. Something for the trip, something for dinner? I couldn’t think. Shaking my head, I tugged at the tablecloth and leaned over to light the candles. Dinner was basically done and waiting in the kitchen. I like to cook. I frowned: had I ever seen Morgan be picky about food? I couldn’t remember—my brain was fried. In general, she has an appalling diet. For example, she considers Diet Coke to be an appropriate breakfast food. And she eats these thin, horrible pastries with a teaspoon of jam in the middle and frosting on top. Pop-Tarts. Goddess, it makes me ill just to think about it.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped about a foot in the air— I hadn’t felt her coming up the walk. Automatically I pushed my hand through my hair, then remembered too late that always makes it stand up in a stupid way. Goddess, help me.

I opened the door, my heart already thudding. It was dark out, of course, and Morgan stood framed in our weak porch light, her brown eyes huge.

“Hi,” I said, feeling awash in love for her. “Come on in.”

She came in wordlessly and took off her coat. Hmmm— she was wearing some long skirtlike thing that swept the top of her clogs. Usually she wears jeans, so she had made a special effort for tonight, and I felt oddly pleased in an old-fashioned, male-chauvinist-pig kind of way. Her clingy brown sweater showed off her broad shoulders and her arms, which I knew were strong and toned. Once again the knowledge that she never wears a bra popped into my fevered brain, and I felt my knees start to go wonky. Her skin, and the curve of her waist, and the way she responded when I—“Hunter?” she said, watching my face.

“Ah, yes,” I said, snapping my mind out of the gutter. “Right. Hi, love.” I put my hand on her back and leaned down to kiss her. She kissed me back, her lips gentle on mine, and I was struck by how alive she felt, how vibrant.

“Are you hungry?” I asked when we pulled apart.

She smiled, her eyes lighting up, and I laughed. “What am I saying? You’re always hungry.”

Half an hour later I was pleased by the fact that Morgan wasn’t picky about food. While I wasn’t sure if she knew the difference between bad food (instant tarts and diet soda) and good food (the linguine I had made for dinner), still, the fact that she ate everything and seemed to enjoy it was heartening.

“How did you learn to cook?” she asked, taking another thin slice of bruschetta.

“Self-defense. My aunt Shelagh was pretty uninspired. I couldn’t blame her—she had years of cooking for twelve people at every meal before she caught on and started making the oldest kids help out.”

Morgan laughed, and I felt the same kind of inner glow that came over me when I had worked a particularly nice bit of magick. I loved her. I didn’t want to leave her. I wanted her to be packed, to be ready to get in my car tomorrow morning and drive off with me. Like her, I was frustrated by the fact that she was only seventeen.

“I brought dessert,” she said, going into the parlor. She returned with a white pastry box and opened it at the table.

“Voilà. Two éclairs.”

“Brilliant,” I said, reaching for one. Witches and sweets seem to go together. I know that after spell-working, I tend to fall upon whatever sweet carbohydrate there is. Even Aunt Shelagh, during her macrobiotic period, had been observed wolfing down a brownie after a Lammastide rite.

As I fixed a pot of tea, I began to realize that Morgan was coiled almost as tightly as I was. I knew she was upset about my leaving tomorrow. I was both upset and incredibly excited. Part of me was aching to go jump in the car right now and set off, every minute bringing me closer to my long-lost parents. I tried as unobtrusively as possible to feel her aura. Regular people can’t feel someone do this; even a lot of witches would be pretty unaware of it. I’d had a lot of training in feeling auras as a Seeker. It was literally my job to know people, to be able to detect nuances about their behavior, their energy.

“What are you doing?” Morgan asked.

I sighed. Served me right for trying to scan someone as strong as she was.

“Feeling your aura,” I said, turning on the hot water in the sink. “You seem kind of. . tense. Are you okay?”

She nodded, not looking at me, and drank the last of her tea. “Um, could you leave that till later?” she asked, gesturing toward the kitchen mess. “I just—want to be with you now. It’s our last night, and I want us to spend time together, just us.”

“Sure, of course,” I said, turning off the water. I put my arm around her shoulders and led her from the kitchen.

She leaned against me. “Let’s go up to your room.”

All my senses jumped to full alert. “All right,” I said, feeling my throat contract. Our chances to be alone and physical were few and far between, and I had been hoping we could take advantage of the opportunity tonight.

We walked upstairs, where Sky had one bedroom and I have the other. As we walked in, I could see all at once how impersonal the room seemed. Even after being in Widow’s Vale for months, I hadn’t spent much time settling in. The room contained my bed, my almost bare desk, and three boxes of books, which remained unpacked. There were no curtains, no rugs, no photographs or knickknacks. It was almost like walking into an abandoned dormitory. I felt a sudden embarrassment at the complete lack of mood.