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"You're nervous," Ciaran said softly. "Tell me why."

It was dark now, and somehow there in the car I felt safe.

"I'm incredibly drawn to that picture of Woodbanes," I told him honestly. "But I hated Selene Belltower and everything she stood for. She tried to kill me, and I know she had murdered others. I don't want to be like that."

He waved his hand in dismissal. "Selene was an overambitious, overconfident climber—in no way did she represent what my coven is about."

"What is your coven about?" I asked clearly. "I saw what you were doing in New York. What was that? Is there some larger plan?"

Ciaran sat back against the passenger door. His eyes on me were bright in the darkness, his powerful hands still on the wool of his coat. Slowly, slowly, his lips parted in a smile, and I saw his white teeth and his eyes crinkling.

"You are very interesting, Morgan," he said quietly. "You are a wild, untamed thing with the power of a river about to overflow its banks. Are you afraid of me?"

I looked at him, this man who had helped create me, and answered truthfully, "Yes and no."

"Yes and no," he repeated, watching me. "I think more no than yes. Yet you have every reason to be terribly afraid of me. I almost took your life."

"You almost took my magick—my soul—which is much worse than taking my life," I retorted. "But you didn't because you are my father."

"Morgan, Morgan," he said. "I find you very—gratifying. My other children are afraid of me. They don't ask me hard questions, they don't stand up to me. But you…are something different. It's the difference between a child born of Grania and a child born of Maeve."

Frankly, I was feeling kind of sorry for all of us, his children.

"You alone I see as being able to appreciate my coven," he went on. "You alone I feel would understand. There is something being planned—"

I caught my breath silently, willing him to continue. He stopped and looked out then window, as if he hadn't intended to say so much. "I really should be getting back," he said absently.

I squelched my disappointment and frustration. It would be too east for him to pick up on them. Without a word I started my car and backed out of the parking space. We drove back through the night, toward town. I tried not to even think about what he'd almost said, what we'd talked about. There would be enough time for that later.

I drove Ciaran back to where he said Killian was staying. The house was nowhere near the deserted road where Killian had had me drop him off. He must have been out—the house was dark.

"Good-bye for now," he said. "But not for long, I hope. Please call me soon."

I nodded and leaned closer. In a low voice I said, "Father, I want to do what you do. I want to work how you work. I want you to show me."

He shut the door, his face flushed with emotion at the word father. I drove off without looking back and cried the whole way home. I had called him father. I hated myself.

Brother Colin, by now you will have heard of my latest travail. Why God has chosen this fate for me, I do not know. All I can do is His will.

I arrived in Barra Head ten days ago. Father Benedict had changed hardly at all and welcomed me most lovingly, which brought tears to my eyes. The Abbey had changed for the better, with glass windowpanes, a pigsty, and two milk cows. The brothers (there are now eight) were planning the solemn celebration of Easter, our Lord's rising, with the handful of villagers who shared their worship.

Between matins and land, I left my cell and headed for the village in the darkness. I do not know what my thoughts were on that sole, dark walk, but with no warning I was knocked to the ground and a sleek black wolf was ripping at my cowl, tearing at my shoulder. With God's grace I held off its attack for a moment, and what I saw in these few moments before I fainted can only be part of my insanity, I fear. When the moon struck this creature's eyes, I saw Nuala, looking out at me. Poor Brother Colin, how you must pity me in my madness!

Now I am in hospital. I envy you, my brother, for having been spared this hellish existence. As soon as I am able to travel, I am being sent to the hospice in Baden.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, March 1771.

"So this was a good day," Bree said. She propped one booted foot up on the stone bench next to me. "It's not snowing, it's almost forty degrees, and I missed both trig and chemistry because of that fake fire alarm. Not bad for a Wednesday."

"Do we know who did the fire alarm?" I asked.

"I heard it was Chris Holly," Robbie said, coming up behind us. Chris was en ex-boyfriend of Bree's and a typical Bree castoff: good-looking in a jock kind of way, with the IQ of your basic garden toad.

"Oh, jeez," Bree groaned.

Robbie grinned. "Word is that he didn't study for his English and panicked. Unfortunately, he was observed pulling the handle."

I shook my head. "What a loser."

A muffled ringing sound overlaced their laughter.

"Your purse is ringing," Robbie told Bree, who was already taking out her phone. She said hello, hang on a minute, then handed the phone to me, mouthing, "Killian."

"Little sister!" came his cheerful voice. "I haven't seen you in days! How are you?"

"I'm fine," I said, smiling at the sound of his voice. "What have you been doing?"

"This and that," he said lightly, and I mentally groaned, wondering what mischief he'd been causing. "Want to get together tonight? Maybe all the gang?"