"And there was a different name."

"Yeah, Maeve Riordan."

Cal sat up straighten alert. "Really?"

I stared at him. "What? Do you recognize that name?"

"It sounds familiar." He looked out the window, thinking frowning, then shook his head. "No, maybe not. I can't place it."

"Oh." I swallowed my disappointment.

"What are you going to do now? Do you want to come to my house?" He smiled. "We could go swimming."

"No, thank you," I said, remembering when the circle had all gone skinny dipping in his pool. I was the only one who had kept her clothes on.

Cal laughed. "I was disappointed that night, you know," he said, looking at me.

"No, you weren't," I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. He chuckled softly.

"Seriously, do you want to come over? Or do you want me to come to your house, help you talk to your parents?"

"Thanks," I said, touched by his offer. "But I think I should just go home by myself. With any luck, they all went to church, anyway. It's All Saints' Day."

"What's that?" Cal asked.

I remembered he wasn't Catholic—wasn't even Christian. "All Saints' Day," I said. "It's the day after Halloween. It's a special day of observance for Catholics. That's when we go tend our family graves in cemeteries. Trim the grass, put out fresh flowers."

"Cool," said Cal. "That's a nice tradition. It's funny that it's the day after Samhain. But then, it seems like a lot of Christian holidays came out of Wiccan ones, way back when."

I nodded. "I know. But do me a favor and don't mention that to my parents," I said. "Anyway, I'd better get home."

"Okay. Can I call you later?"

"Yes," I said. I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

"I think I'll use the telephone," he said, grinning.

I thought of how he had come when I had said my rhyme. I was still amazed that it had worked.

He let himself out of Das Boot into the chilly, crisp November air. He walked to his car and took off as I waved.

My world was flooded with sunlight. Cal loved me.

February 7, 1978

Two nights ago someone sprayed "Bloody Witch" on the side of Morag Sheehan's shop. We've moved our circle to meeting out by the cliffs, down the coast a ways.

Last night, late, Mathair and I went out to Morag's. Lucky it was a new moon—no light and a good time for spells.

Rite of Healing, Protection from Evil, Cleansing

1. Cast a circle completely around what you want to protect. (I had to include old Burdock's sweetshop since the two buildings are joined.)

2. Purify the circle with salt. We used no lights or incense but salt, water, and earth.

3. Call on the Goddess. I wore my copper bracelets and held a chunk of sulfur, a chunk of marble from the garden, a chunk of petrified wood, and a bit of shell.

Then Ma and I said (quietly): "Goddess, hear us where we stand, with your protection bless this land, Morag is a servant true, protect her from those who mischief do." Then we invoked the Goddess and the God and walked around the shop three times.

No one saw us, that I could tell. Ma and I went home, felling strong. That should help protect Morag.

— Bradhadair

I drove slowly up my street, looking ahead anxiously as if my parents might still be standing on the front lawn of our house. When I was close enough, I saw that Dad's car was gone. I figured that they must have gone to church.

Inside, the house was quiet and still, though I felt the shocked vibrations of this morning's events lingering In the air like a scent.

"Mom? Dad? Mary K.?"I called. No answer. I wandered slowly through the house, seeing breakfast untouched on the kitchen table. I turned off the coffeemaker. The newspaper was folded neatly, obviously unread. Not at all a normal Sunday morning.

Realizing this was my chance, I hurried to the office. But the torn birth certificate was gone, and my dad's files were locked for the first time that I could remember.

Moving quickly, listening for sounds of their return, I searched the rest of the office. I found nothing and sat back on my heels for a moment, thinking.

My parents' room. I ran upstairs to their cluttered room. Feeling like a thief, I opened the top drawer of their dresser. Jewelry, cuff links, pens, bookmarks, old birthday cards—nothing incriminating, nothing that told me anything I needed to know.

Tapping my lip with my finger, I looked around, framed baby pictures of me and Mary K. stood on top of their dresser, and I examined them. In one, my parents held me proudly, fat, nine-month-old Morgan, while I smiled and clapped. In another, Mom, in a hospital bed, held newborn Mary K., who looked like a hairless monkey. It occurred to me that I had never seen a newborn picture of me. Not a single one in the hospital, or looking tiny, or learning to sit up. My pictures started when I was about, what, eight months old? Nine months? Was that how old I was when I had been adopted?

Adopted. It was still such a bizarre thought, yet I was already eerily used to it. It explained everything, in a way. But in another way, it didn't. It only raised more questions.

I looked through my baby book, compared it to Mary K.'s. Mine listed my birth weight correctly and my birth date. Under First Impressions, Mom had written: "She's so incredibly beautiful. Everything I ever hoped for and dreamed about for so long."

I closed the book. How could they have lied to me all this time? How could they have let me believe I was really their daughter? I felt unstable now, without a base. Everything I had believed now seemed like a lie. How could I ever forgive them?

They had to give me some answers. I had the right to know. I dropped my head into my hands, feeling tired, old, and emotionally empty.

It was noon. Would they all have lunch at the Widow's Diner after church? Would they go on to the cemetery afterward to put flowers around the Rowlandses' graves and the Donovans', my mom's family?

Maybe they would. They probably would. I heeded beck into the kitchen, thinking that I should have some lunch myself. I hadn't eaten anything. But I was too upset to face food yet. Instead I took a Diet Coke out of the fridge. Then I found myself wandering into the study, where the computer was.

I decided to run a search. I frowned at the screen. How had her name been spelled, exactly? Maive? Mave? Maeve? The last name was Riordan, I remembered that.

I typed in Maeve Riordan. Twenty-seven listings popped up. Sighing, I started to scroll through them. A horse farm in western Massachusetts. A doctor in Dublin, specializing in ear problems. One by one I flipped through them, reading a few lines and closing their windows. I didn't know when my family would be home or what I would face when they arrived. My emotions felt flayed and yet distant, as if this were ail happening to someone else.

Click. Maeve Riordan. Best-selling romance author present My Highland Love.

Click "Maeve Riordan" as part of an html. Frowning, I clicked on the link. This was a genealogy site, with links to other genealogy sites. Cool. It looked like the name Maeve Riordan appeared on three sites. I clicked on the first one. A scanty family tree popped up, and after a few minutes I found the name Maeve Riordan. Unfortunately, this Maeve Riordan had died in 1874.

I backtracked, and the next Maeve link took me to a site where there were no dates anywhere, as if they were still filling it in. I gritted my teeth in frustration.

Third time lucky, I thought, and clicked on the last site. The words Belwicket and Ballynigel appeared at the top of the screen in fancy Irish-style lettering. This was another family tree but with many separate branches, as if it was more of a family forest or the people hadn't found the common link between these families.