"Don't give him milk," I called after her. "It'll upset his tummy…."

I leaned back against my pillow, happy. Dagda was an official member of our family.

It was the second-to-last Sunday before Thanksgiving, so our church was decorated with dried leaves, pyracantha branches with bright red berries, pinecones, and rust-colored mums in pots. The atmosphere was beautiful, warm, and inviting. I decided it would be nice to find natural decorations like that for our own house at Thanksgiving.

In some way, I guess because I still wasn't sure about how coming to church fit in with Wicca, I felt strangely detached from everything going on around me. I stood when I was supposed to and knelt at the right time; I even followed along in the prayers and sang the hymns. But I did it without being a part of the congregation. My thoughts roamed freely, without restraint.

A thin, wintry sunlight had broken through the clouds. Yesterday's snow had mostly melted, and the church's stained-glass windows glowed with fiery reds, deep blues, pure greens, and crystalline yellows. There was a faint aroma of incense, and as I sank deeper within myself, I felt the weight of the people all around me. Their thoughts began to intrude, their hearts beating incessantly. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes, closing myself off to them.

Only when I had walled them out of my senses did I open my eyes again. I felt peaceful and full of gladness. The music was lovely, the ecclesiastical words moving. It all seemed timeless and traditional. It wasn't the bark and earth and salt of Wicca, nor was it the grounding of energy and the working of spells. But it was beautiful, in its own way.

I rose automatically when it was time to take communion. I followed my parents and sister up to the railing in front of the altar. The tall altar candles burned brightly, reflecting off the brass fixtures and dark polished wood. I knelt on the flat needlework pillow that had been embroidered by the women's guild. My mom had made one of these pillows a couple of years ago.

My hands clasped, I waited as Father Hotchkiss said the wine blessing for every person in the row. I felt at peace. Already I was looking forward to going home to see Dagda, read Maeve's Book of Shadows, and do some more rune research. Last night when Cal had drawn runes in the air around our circle, it seemed to focus our energy in a whole new way. I liked runes and wanted to find out more about them.

Next to me Mary K. took a sip of wine. I caught a whiff of the fruity scent. A moment later it was my turn. Father Hotchkiss stood in front of me, wiping the large silver chalice with a linen cloth.

"This is the blood of Christ our Lord," he murmured. "Drink this in his name, that you may be saved." I tilted my head forward to sip.

With an unexpected stumble Father Hotchkiss lurched toward me. The chalice slipped from his hands. It dropped to the white marble floor with a metallic clang, and Father Hotchkiss gripped the wooden rail that separated us.

I put my hand on his, searching his face. "Are you okay, Father?" I asked.

He nodded. "I'm sorry, my dear. I slipped. Did I splash you?"

"No, no." I looked down, and sure enough, my dress was wine free. Deacon Carlson was hurrying to get another blessed chalice, and Father Hotchkiss stepped away to help him.

Mary K. was waiting for me, looking uncertain. I stayed kneeling, watching the dark red wine flow across the white marble floor. The contrast of color was mesmerizing.

"What happened?" Mary K. whispered. "Are you okay?"

That was when the thought came to me: What if I was the one who had made Father Hotchkiss stumble? I almost gasped, with my hand over my mouth. What if, in the middle of all my Wicca thoughts, a force had decreed that my taking communion was not a good idea? Quickly I stood, my eyes large. Mary K. headed back to our pew and our parents, and I followed her.

No, I thought. It was just a coincidence. It didn't mean anything.

But inside me a witchy voice said sweetly: There are no coincidences. And everything means something.

So what did it mean, exactly? That I should stop taking communion? That I should stop coming to church altogether? I glanced at my mother, who smiled at me with no awareness of the confusion that was raging inside me. I was thankful for that.

I couldn't imagine cutting church out of my life completely. Catholicism was part of the glue that held our family together; it was a part of me. But maybe I should hold off on taking communion for a while, at least until I figured out what it all meant. I could still come to church. I could still participate. Couldn't I?

I sighed as I sat back down beside Mary K. She looked at me but didn't say anything.

With every door that Wicca opened, I thought, another door seemed to shut. Somehow I had to find balance.

After lunch at the Widow's Diner we stopped at the grocery store. I bought a litter box and a scoop, a box of cat litter, and a bag of kitten food. Mom and Dad pitched in for a couple of cat toys, and Mary K. bought some kitty treats.

I was really touched, and I hugged them all, right in the pet aisle.

Of course, when we got home, we found that Dagda had peed on my down comforter. He had also eaten part of Mom's maidenhair fern and barfed it up on the carpet. Then he had apparently worked himself into a frenzy sharpening his tiny but amazingly effective claws on the armrest of my dad's favorite chair.

Now he was asleep on a pillow, curled up like a fuzzy little snail.

"God, he's so cute," I said, shaking my head.

CHAPTER 7

Symbols

I had to draw a spell of protection tonight. I invoked the Goddess and drew the runes at the four points of the compass; Ur, Sigel, Eolh, and Tyr. I took iron nails and buried them at the four corners, wearing a gold ring. And from now on, I will carry a piece of malachite for protection.

A seeker is here.

But I am not afraid. The first blow has already been struck, and the Seeker is weakened by it. And as the Seeker weakens, my love grows stronger and stronger.

— Sgath

On Monday, Mary K. and I were late for school. I had stayed up late reading Maeve's BOS, and Mary K. had stayed up late having a heartfelt, tortured talk with Bakker—and so we both overslept. We signed ourselves in at the office and got our tardy slips: the New York Public School System's version of the Scarlet Letter.

The halls were empty as we split up for our lockers and headed toward our respective homerooms. My mind swam with what I had been reading. Maeve had loved the herbal side of Wicca. Her BOS was filled with several long passages about magickal uses for plants—and how they're affected by time of year, amount of recent rainfall, position of stars, and phases of the moon. I wondered if I was a descendant of the Brightendale clan, the clan that farmed the earth for healing powers.

In homeroom I slithered into my desk chair. Out of habit I glanced at Bree, but she ignored me, and I felt irritated that it still caused me grief. Forget her, I thought. I'd once read somewhere that it takes about half as long to recover from a deep relationship as the relationship lasted. So in Bree's case, I would still be upset about her a good six years from now. Great.

I thought about Dagda and how Bree would adore him: she'd loved her cat Smokey and had been devastated when he died, two days after her fourteenth birthday. I'd helped her bury him in her backyard.

"Hey. Slept late?" my friend Tamara Pritchett called softly from the next desk. It seemed as if I barely saw her anymore, now that Wicca was taking up so much of my time.