I won’t let another person die because of the Curtis witchcraft.

— Sarah Curtis

I woke up feeling fully rested. My body no longer felt achy or tired—I hadn’t felt so alive in what seemed like weeks. I glanced at the clock, expecting it to read somewhere close to noon.

Seven-thirty A.M.

Just then I heard the gentle hiss of the shower, and I knew my sister was stepping into it. It was early Sunday morning. The pale light was just beginning to peek through my curtains. I could sleep as long as I wanted. Sighing happily, I lay back against my pillows and closed my eyes.

Then I opened them again. I was wide awake.

I thought about the night before—the beautiful, magickal way I’d been able to experience being with Hunter. It had felt so wonderful to have him with me that I would have thought the whole experience had been a dream, if it hadn’t seemed so real. Beyond real—almost more than real, if such a thing was possible.

Mary K.’s shower ended. I waited a few minutes, but she didn’t come into my room to wake me up for church. I thought of the smile she’d given me the night before.

I heard the familiar sound of my father’s slippers as he padded down the stairs into the kitchen. There, then, was another thing I had missed—my family.

I threw off my covers and walked over to my closet. I pulled out a gray flannel skirt and a red sweater. Quickly I pulled on my clothes and brushed my hair.

I was going to church.

“Hi,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

My mother looked up from the paper she was reading. “Morgan,” she said, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. She took in my outfit from head to toe, then smiled. “You look very nice,” she said.

I grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. “I thought I’d come with you to church this morning.”

My dad stared at me from where he was standing by the sink, his coffee cup lifted halfway to his mouth. He set it down on the counter. “Well, well.” A pleased grin spread across his face. Looking down at his bathrobe, he said, “I guess I’m lagging behind.”

Dad took his coffee and headed upstairs just as Mary K. came down. “What are you wearing?” she asked, staring at me.

“Morgan is coming to church with us this morning,” Mom said, as if it was the most obvious and normal thing in the world.

“Oh,” Mary K. said. Apparently this possibility hadn’t occurred to her. “Great!” She grinned at me and went to the refrigerator. “You want toast?” she asked.

The normalcy of the question seemed like something from another time. “Sounds good,” I said, sitting down at the table. In fact, it sounded better than good. It sounded like the best thing in the whole world.

Stepping into the church was like visiting an old friend, welcoming and familiar. There was the spicy smell of the incense our church uses and the odor of faded roses as I passed by Mrs. Beacon’s pew. The strains of organ music drifted over the congregation. Mom’s friend, Mrs. Lu, turned and gave me a big smile as we slipped into the pew behind hers. I smiled back and waved to her three-year-old daughter, Nellie, who giggled.

When it came time to take communion, I leaned over to my mom and said, “I think I’m going to skip this.” I just didn’t feel right about it—somehow taking communion seemed like a definite commitment to Catholicism. Even though I appreciated the beauty of the service, I wasn’t about to stop practicing Wicca. I was glad that my family loved coming here, and I loved it, too—but Wicca had chosen me as much as I had chosen it, and I wanted to find a way to keep both of my religions in my life.

I half expected my mom to frown or look disapproving, but she just squeezed my knee and followed my sister and father to the front of the church. A short while later the service was over.

A new level of calm swept over me as my family and I stepped outside. The sky was a clear blue, and a few small clouds tumbled across it. I was glad I had come.

“Mom, Dad,” Mary K. said as we walked to the car. “Would it be okay if Morgan took me to the hospital to see Alisa later?”

My mom looked sideways at my dad, who nodded. Parental telepathy. “I guess it’s all right,” my mom said.

I smiled at my mom, and she smiled back. Of course, she would never refuse to allow Mary K. to see a friend in the hospital, but she could have insisted on taking Mary K. there herself. I felt like she was finally beginning to see how hard I’d been trying.

“Thanks,” Mary K. said. But she wasn’t looking at my parents. She was looking at me.

My boots clattered as we walked down the long corridor in the hospital toward Alisa’s room. The hospital was quiet, and I found it kind of unnerving. Mary K. had seemed really eager to leave right away once we got home, so I didn’t bother changing, and now I felt overdressed and awkward. Every step I took made me sound like a lumbering elephant.

Mary K. looked down at the small red-and-white teddy bear she was clutching against her chest. She had insisted that we stop at the drugstore before we came so that she could pick up a card for Alisa, and the teddy bears had been on sale. Bringing the bear was the kind of thing Mary K. was really good at—the kind of thing I never would have thought to do. “It’s so weird,” Mary K. said as she checked the door numbers. The nurse had told us that we’d find Alisa in room 341. "We’ve been in two hospitals this week.”

Personally, I thought that the animal hospital was more comfortable and homey than this sterile, silent place, but I didn’t say so.

“I’m glad Dagda’s okay,” Mary K. went on. “I hope Alisa will be, too.”

“She will,” I said. My voice conveyed much more certainty than I felt.

Mary K. gave me a sideways look but didn’t reply. I wondered what she was thinking. I had no idea whether she knew how close to death Dagda had been. Did she realize that Erin had healed him?

“Three forty-one,” Mary K. announced as we walked up to a door at the end of the hallway. It was half open. There was no noise coming from inside except for the steady beeps and whirring of machinery.

My sister looked at me uncertainly, and I realized that she was frightened. “It’s okay,” I told her, and rapped lightly on the door. There was no response, so I pushed it open a little farther. “Hello?” I called softly, but there was no reply. I was secretly relieved. The last thing I felt like doing was making polite conversation with Alisa’s family. I nodded at my sister and stepped inside. Mary K. followed me.

Alisa’s bed was at the far end of the dim room, near windows that were shrouded in curtains. She was either asleep or unconscious, and Mary K. sucked in her breath when she saw the machines clustered around her. Alisa’s hair was limp on the pillow, and below her closed eyelashes were dark circles. Her cheeks were sunken and pale, her lips chapped and peeling.

How could someone get so sick so quickly?

Mary K. hesitated, then placed the teddy bear on the small table next to Alisa’s bed, propping the card up against it. “So that she’ll see it when she wakes up,” she whispered to me.

“Do you want to wait awhile?” I asked.

Mary K. nodded. “If you don’t mind,” she said.

“Sure,” I said, looking back at Alisa. I could only glance at her for a few seconds before I had to turn away. She looked horrible.

There was a yellow chair next to the side table, which I lowered myself into. In spite of its hideous color, it was big and comfortable. I patted the empty space next to me— there was more than enough room for Mary K. to fit. “Do you want to sit?”

“Yeah. .” Mary K. was staring at Alisa, not moving. She seemed to be in her own world, pondering something. Suddenly she turned to me. “I’m going to get a Coke,” she said. “I saw a machine in the front hall. Do you want anything? A Diet Coke?”