The farther off the main road I got, the less prosperous the land felt. I went through several tiny, poor-looking towns, each with a petrol station that might or might not function. I also saw a lot of Canadian Indians, who called themselves First Nations people, and signs for First Nations crafts and displays.

I had no idea how far down this road I was supposed to go; after that first sign, I hadn’t seen any more indications that I was heading in the right direction. Finally, when it seemed that I had gone impossibly far, I gave up and pulled over to get petrol. After I had filled the tank, I went into the small store attached to the station to pay. The storekeeper had his back to me; he was on a small wooden ladder, stocking packages of sandpaper. I hoped he spoke English.

“Excuse me,” I said, and, when he turned around, I saw that he must be part Indian.

“Yes?”

“I put in ten dollars of regular petrol,” I said, laying the Canadian money on the counter.

“Okay.” The cash register was beautiful: an old, manually operated one.

A sudden thought struck me, and in desperation I said, “Do you by any chance know of any English or Irish people who live around here?”

He thought for a moment. “You mean the witch?” he said, and I gaped at him.

"Uh. .”

“The only English I know around here is the witch,” he said helpfully. “He moved here two, three months ago.”

“Um, all right.” My mind was spinning. It was unheard of to be known so casually in a community. Even witches who weren’t hiding from Amyranth were always very circumspect, very private. We never would have identified ourselves as witches to anyone. Why did this man know? What did that mean? And why did he only mention a “he”?

“Could you tell me where they live?” I asked, with a sense of dread. Surely if this man knew about them, knew where they lived, then Amyranth did, too. What would I find when I got there?

“Sure. Let me draw you a map.”

I watched in a daze as the man quickly sketched a rough map. I thanked him and headed back to my car. I didn’t know what to think, so I started the engine and set off. The crude but accurate map led me down back roads that were even more bumpy and ill kept than the access road had been. I wished I had rented an SUV and hated the thought of what my car’s undercarriage must look like.

I was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. I began to wonder if this whole trip had been an unworkable spell. Then I came upon a little wooden shack, the first building I’d seen in ten minutes, set back from the road. A battered Ford Escort minus its wheels stood on cinder blocks in the yard. Dead ivy vines clung to it. The yard was a wintry mess—untidy, overgrown, littered with trash. It didn’t look like anyone lived here. Obviously this wasn’t my parents’ house, though it seemed to be in the correct place on the map. I must have gotten it wrong. No witch would live in a house in this condition, with this kind of general air of neglect and poverty. A glance around the back confirmed my suspicions: Even in Canada, in winter, I should have been able to detect a cleared plot for an herb garden. But there was nothing, no sign of one. I sighed and rubbed my cold hands together.

Finally I decided to at least knock and try to get directions. I climbed up onto the porch, pulling my coat around me. This close, I felt I could detect the presence of a person, though it wasn’t strong or clear, which was unusual. I knocked on the rough, unpainted door, wincing as my cold bare knuckles rasped the wood.

Inside, there was a slight shuffling, then silence, and I knocked again. Come on, I thought. I just want directions. With no warning I felt something touch my presence, as if someone had cast their senses to identify me. My eyes widened in surprise, and then the door slowly creaked open, admitting dim light into the dark interior. My eyes instantly adjusted, and I saw that I was standing before Daniel Niall, my father, for the first time in eleven years.

This morning I woke up, and yes, Hunter was still gone. My heart went thunk, and I thought of the days stretching before me without him, no Hunter to talk to or to see or hold. Gadga and I were pondering this bleak reality when Mom tapped on my door and asked if I was going to church with them. Spontaneously I said yes, knowing that services would take up two hours of Hunterless time and maybe distract me for a while. So I showered and dressed and went downstairs and got sent back upstairs by the parents because I looked like a schlub. I borrowed a dress from Mary K. that fortunately is too long for her.

It started when we stepped outside. At first I thought I was imagining things—it didn’t make sense. But then I thought, Oh, Goddess, and realized that Hunter must have crafted a spell before he left town yesterday.

It was beautiful magick. I had no idea how he had done it, but I knew that he had, and I almost started crying. It was almost everywhere I looked, all morning, in the shapes of the branches, in the plume of smoke from Dad’s car’s exhaust, in the curve of Mom’s scarf as it lay over her shoulder. Somehow Hunter had woven letters and symbols and runes into almost everything I saw: crossed branches made an H, for Hunter. A crooked line of leaves in the street made an M, for Morgan. I was the rune Kor, for fire and passion, and blushed, remembering Friday night. My heart lightened when I saw Geofw. One of its uses is for strengthening relationships. And in the line of pale gray clouds floating about us I saw Peorth: hidden thing revealed and also female sexuality. Oh, Goddess, I love him so much.

— Morgan

I’ve read books where people are “struck speechless,” and to me it always sounded like they just couldn’t think on their feet. The ability to think on my feet has always been one of my strengths, but it deserted me now as I gazed at the man before me.

I knew what my father looked like: Though I had brought no photographs with me to America, I had my memories, and they had always seemed accurate and consistent and full. But they didn’t match this person in the doorway. This couldn’t be Da. It was an incredibly bad Da imitation, a hollowed-out husk of what once had been my father. My gaze darted restlessly over him, taking in the sparse gray hair, the hollow cheeks with their deep lines, the thin, almost emaciated body. His clothes were shabby, his face unshaven, and there was a dank smell of stale air emanating from the dark house. My father is only forty-six. This person looked about sixty.

He frowned at me consideringly but without wonder: He didn’t recognize me. I had a sudden, irrational urge to turn and run—something in me didn’t want to know how he had come to be in this state. I was afraid. Then, slowly, as I stood there, a dim light entered his eyes; he looked at me more closely; he measured me up and down, trying to calculate how much his son would have grown in eleven years.

A vague disbelief replaced the suspicion in his eyes, and then we were hugging wordlessly, enfolded in each other’s lanky arms like tall spiders. In my memories, my father was tall, huge. In real life I had an inch or two on him and outweighed him by maybe two stone. And I’m not hefty.

My father pulled back and held me at arm’s length, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes seemed to memorize me, to memorize my pattern, my imprint. Then he said, “Oh, Gìomanach. My son.” His voice sounded like a thin, sharp piece of slate.

“Yes,” I said, looking behind him for Mum. Goddess, if Da looked like this, what would she look like? Again I was afraid. In all my thoughts and wishes and dreams and hopes and expectations about this meeting, it had never occurred to me that I would be hurt emotionally. Physically, yes, depending on what happened with Amyranth. But not emotionally. Not feeling pain because of who my parents had become.