Someone opened the front door to get the paper. Today was Sunday, which meant church, followed by brunch at the Widow's Diner. Seeing Cal later? Would I talk to him? Were we going out now, a couple? He had kissed me in front of everyone—what had it meant? Was Cal Blaire, beautiful Cal Blaire, really attracted to me, Morgan Rowlands? Me, with my flat chest and my assertive nose? Me, who guys never looked at twice?

I stared up at my ceiling as if the answers were written on the cracked plaster. When the door to my room burst open, I jumped.

"Can you explain this?" my mom asked. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth tight, with deeply carved lines around it. She held up a small stack of books, tied with string. They were the books I had left at Bree's house because I knew my parents didn't want me to have them, my books on Wicca, the Seven Great Clans, the history of witchcraft. A note attached to the books said in big letters: Morgan—You left these at my house. Thought you might need them. Sitting up, I realized this was Bree's revenge.

"I thought we had an understanding," Mom said, her voice rising. She leaned out my bedroom door and yelled, "Sean!"

I swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and I pushed my feet into my slippers.

"Well?" Mom's voice was a decibel louder, and my dad came into my room, looking alarmed.

"Mary Grace?" he said. "What's going on?"

Mom held up the books as if they were a dead rat. "These were on the front porch!" she said. "Look at the note!"

She turned back to me. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I said I didn't want these books in my house, that didn't mean I wanted you reading them in someone else's house! You knew what I meant, Morgan!"

"Mary Grace," my dad soothed, taking the books from her. He read their titles silently.

My younger sister, Mary K., padded into the room, still in her plaid patchwork pajamas. "What's going on?" she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. No one answered.

I tried to think fast. "Those books aren't dangerous or illegal. And I wanted to read them. I'm not a child—I'm sixteen. Anyway, I was respecting your wishes not to have them in the house."

"Morgan," my dad said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's not just having the books In the house, and you know it. We explained that as Catholics, we feel that witchcraft is wrong. It may not be illegal, but it's blasphemous."

"You are sixteen," Mom put in. "Not eighteen. That means you are still a child." Her face was flushed, her hair unbrushed. I could see silver strands among the red. It hit me that in four years she would be fifty. That suddenly seemed old.

"You live under our roof," Mom continued tightly. "We support you. When you're eighteen and you move out and get a job, you can have whatever books you want, read whatever you want. But while you're in this house, what we say goes."

I started to get angry. Why were they acting this way?

But before I said anything, a verse came into my head. Leash my anger, calm my words. Speak in love and do no hurt.

Where did that come from? I wondered vaguely. But whatever its origin, it felt right. I said it to myself three times and felt my emotions ratchet down.

"I understand," I said. Suddenly I felt powerful and confident. I looked at my parents and my sister. "But Mom, It isn't that easy," I explained gently. "And you know why, I know you do. I'm a witch. I was born a witch. And if I was, then you were, too."

December 14, 1976

Circle last night at the currachdag on the west cliffs. Fifteen of us in all, including me, Angus, Mannannan, the rest of Belwicket, and two students, Tara and Cliff. It was cold, and a fine rain fell. Standing around the great heap of pat, we did some healing for old Mrs. Paxham, down to the village, who's been ailing. I felt the cumhachd, the power, in my fingers, in my arms, and I was happy and danced for hours.

— Bradhadair

My mother looked like she was about to have a stroke. Dad's mouth dropped open. Mary K. stared at me, her brown eyes wide.

Mom's mouth worked as if she was trying to speak but couldn't form the words. Her face was pale, and I wanted to tell her to sit down, to take it easy. But I kept silent. I knew this was a turning point for us, and I couldn't back down.

"What did you say?" Her voice was a raw whisper.

"I said I'm a witch," I repeated calmly, though inside, my nerves were stretched and taut. "I'm a blood witch, a genetic witch. And if I am, you two must be also."

"What are you talking about?" Mary K. said. "There's no such thing as a genetic witch! God, next you'll be telling us there are vampires and werewolves." She looked at me in disbelief, her plaid pajamas seeming young and innocent. Suddenly I felt guilty, as if I had brought evil into the house. But that wasn't true, was it? All I had brought into the house was me, a part of me.

I raised my hand, then let it fall, not knowing what to say.

"I can't believe you," Mary K. said. "What are you trying to do?" She gestured toward our parents.

Ignoring her, Mom said faintly, "You're not a witch."

I almost snorted. "Mom, please. That's like saying I'm not a girl or I'm not human. Of course I'm a witch, and you know it. You've always known it"

"Morgan, just stop it!" Mary K. pleaded. "You're freaking me out. You want to read witch books? Fine. Read witch books, light candles, whatever. But quit saying you're really a witch. That's bullshit!"

Mom snapped her gaze to Mary K., startled. "Scuse me," Mary K. muttered.

"I'm sorry, Mary K.," I said. "It's not something I wanted to happen. But it's true." A thought occurred to me. "You must be one, too," I said, finding that idea fascinating. I looked up at her, excited. "Mary K., you must be a witch, too!"

"She is not a witch!" my mom shrieked, and I stopped, frozen by the sound of her voice. She looked enraged, the veins in her neck standing out, her face flushed. "You leave her out of it!"

"But—," I began.

"Mary K. is not a witch, Morgan," my dad said harshly.

I shook my head. "But she has to be," I said. "I mean, it's genetic. And if I am, and you are, then…"

"Nobody is a witch," my mom said shortly, not meeting my eyes. "Certainly not Mary Kathleen."

They were in denial. But why?

"Mom, it's okay. Really. More than okay. Being a witch is a wonderful thing," I said, thinking back to the feelings I'd hid last night. "It's like being—"

"Will you stop?" Mom burst out. "Why are you doing this? Why can't you just listen to us?" She sounded on the verge of tears, and I was getting angry again.

"I can't listen to you because you're wrong!" I said loudly. "Why are you denying all of this?"

"We're not witches!" my mom screeched, practically rattling my windows.

She glared at me. My dad's mouth was open, and Mary K. looked miserable. I felt the first hint of fear.

"Oh," I snapped. "I guess I'm a witch, but you're not, right?" I snorted, furious at their stubbornness, their lies. "Then what?" I crossed my arms and looked at them. "Was I adopted?"

Silence. Long moments of the clock ticking, the thin, scratchy sound of elm twigs brushing my windowpanes. My heartbeat seemed to go into slow motion. Mom groped for my desk chair, then sank into it heavily. My dad shifted from foot to foot, looking over my left shoulder at nothing. Mary K. stared at all of us.

"What?" I tried to smile. "What? What are you saying? I'm adopted?"

"Of course you're not adopted!" said Mary K., looking at Mom and Dad for their agreement. Silence.

Inside me, a wall came crashing down, and I saw what lay behind it: a whole world I had never dreamed of, a world in which I was adopted, not biologically related to my family. My throat closed and my stomach clenched, and I was afraid I was going to throw up. But I had to know.