Brother Colin, I have doubts that I have not been able to confess to good Father Benedict. MY brother, I fear I am possessed by an evil spirit. Since the night of Brother Thomas's healing, Nuala Riordan has haunted my waking moments and my dreams. Only during prayer does she not intrude upon my mind. I have mortified my flesh, I have prostrated myself before God. I have spent days and nights in prayer until I am half feverish.

My brother, if you have any hope for my immortal soul, please remember me in your prayers.

—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, July 1768.

My alarm went off at six-thirty on Thursday morning, I felt like I was trapped in an unending nightmare.

I pawed at the clock until the hideous noise stopped. Almost forty minutes later I woke again, wondering if it was time to get up for school. Then I salt bolt upright. Eoife!

I threw some food at Dagda, scrambles into jeans and a sweatshirt, quickly braided my hair, and was out of the house in less than twenty minutes. I was already late. My heart was pounding as I drove to Hunter's house, and not even the pinkish morning light soothed me. My life was out of control. Last night I'd gotten home after eleven. I had taken out my textbooks, then stared at them uncomprehendingly as me bed beckoned. Five minutes later I was asleep, with Dagda kneading the comforter next to me.

So for the last four days I hadn't done any homework, hadn't gotten enough sleep, hadn't gotten Ciaran to Widow's Vale. I was late for a meeting with Eoife, I wasn't checking in with her often enough, I'd made illegal magick… What the hell was I doing?

I pulled up fast in front of the somewhat shabby little house that Hunter and Sky shared. The back deck that Cal had sabotaged had been rebuilt. There was an ugly ligustrum hedge in front that had been ignored for many years that it was just a gnarled collection of half-leaved branched. My breath was coming in little puffs of smoke, I trotted up the walkway and rang their doorbell.

As I did, it occurred to me that I was at my ex-boyfriends house at seven-thirty in the morning, looking like total hell. True, I had broken up with him, and for very good reasons, but that didn't mean I had to make him glad about it when he saw me by looking like a wreck.

Eoife opened the door, her small face looking solemn as she looked at me, and I wondered if Sky had mentioned the sparks-and-flowers incident of the night before.

"Sorry, I'm late," I said. Without thinking I cast my senses through the house and discovered that Sky was asleep upstairs but Hunter wasn't in the house. Good. A reprieve.

"Do you always do that?" Eoife said as I followed her into the kitchen in back.

"Do what?" I took off my coat as Eoife poured boiling water into a waiting teapot.

"Cast your senses." She brought the teapot to the table, and smoky plumes of fragrance swirled above us. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent.

"Um…" I tried to think. "Yes, I guess so. I don't really think about it. But if I feel like I need to know what's going on, who's around, that kind of thing, then yeah, I guess I usually cast my senses."

She poured the tea into two delicate cups with saucers. "Who taught you how to do that?"

"No one, it just came to me." I circled my left hand over my tea, widdershins, and thought, Cool the fire. Now the tea was the perfect temperature, and I took a long sip. Aaahh.

Frowning, not angrily but as if perplexed, Eoife looked at me from across the table. "You cooled your tea."

"Uh-huh. It's great. Thanks for making it," Another big swallow, hoping this tea had caffeine in it. I couldn't tell.

"Morgan—" Eoife began, but then she shook her head. "Never mind."

I took a packet of Pop-Tarts out of my backpack and opened it. They're better toasted but perfectly edible cold if necessary. I offered one to Eoife and thought I detected a faint shudder as she refused.

Holding her teacup with both hands, Eoife said, "I'm sorry to tell you, Morgan, that Suzanna Mearis is still in a coma."

I looked at Eoife, and sudden guilt crashed down on me. The truth was, I had barely though of Suzanna in the last couple of days. I had been there to see her fall, I had witnessed the taibhs, I knew that her coven was destined for destruction, yet I had spent the last two days partying and abusing my power. What kind of witch was I? "Has anything else happened?"

"Not as of this morning, thank the Goddess." She put down her cup and gazed at me. "Has Killian spoken to Ciaran?"

"Not yet," I admitted. "He said I'm more eager to see him Ciaran than he is. I guess Ciaran is angry at him, and Killian wants to delay having to deal with it." I looked up at Eoife's chestnut-colored eyes, remembering again Suzanna's warm house and serene expression. "I feel like I should press harder," I admitted. "I know that you said not to make Killian suspicious, but Imbolic is getting closer and closer. Maybe if I told Killian I was desperate to meet my father again…"

I felt tension tightening Eoife's slight body. "No, Morgan," she said, leaning over the table. Her eyes burned in her porcelain face. "We have to tread cautiously. I know that this is difficult, but we mustn't destroy the mission by acting in haste."

I nodded slowly and looked deep into my teacup. "Okay," I murmured. "I'll keep working. Ciaran will come here, and I'll get information out of him."

Eoife sat back in her chair, her eyes still on me. "I'm sorry," she said again. "You make it easy to forget that you're young and uninitiated."

"I can do this," I said firmly, pushing aside my tea. Looking vaguely sympathetic, Eoife nodded back at me, and I picked up my coat and left.

School seemed more surreal then usual that morning since I had just come from a meeting with Eoife. I felt schizophrenic: high school student by day, undercover ICOW agent by night. In my first period I had barely sat down when my American history teacher, Mr. Powell, pulled out an ominous sheaf of papers. "As I mentioned last Friday," he said, starting to hand them out, "this is a test on what we've learned since the winter holiday's."

I stared at him in horror, then mentally said every bad word I could think of. Tara Williams handed the pile of papers back to me, and I took one and passed the rest to Jeff Goldstein. Just this morning I had worried about my life being out of control. Here was my proof. My grades had been slipping, and in three months I had gone from a straight-A student to straight-B student with maybe a couple if Cs, which my parents were going to freak about. Now I was about to get a big fat F on this test.

Unless…

Unless. I thought about Killian, about his charm, his skill, the easy comfort with which he did things. Life had not come pleasantly for my half brother, but he'd gone a long way to making it easier and more fun. What would he do in this situation?

I looked up at Mr. Powell. All it would take was a simple spell that would make Mr. Powell forget he'd intended to give us this test. Or to think this one was the wrong test, and he'd bring another one tomorrow. Or to think we were supposed to have the test next week.

I bit my lip. What was I thinking? This was exactly what Hunter always talked about: making the wrong decision, making the decision that benefits only yourself, making the decision that doesn't take other people into account. He always said that was why the council had introduced regulations and guidelines back in the early 1800s. Because it's so easy to make the wrong small decision. And once you do, it's even easier to make the wrong big decision. And then, boom. You're part of the darkness.

I made choices every day, all day long. I needed to be more aware of all of them, needed to consciously try to make the right decision, a decision for good. I resigned myself to the fact that the only thing I would get right on this test was my own name.