"You're looking for a town called Meshomah Falls. It should be north, right up the Hudson," I told him, turning onto the road that would lead to the highway. "About two, two and a half hours away."

"Oh, okay," he said, tracing his finger over the map. "I see it. Yeah, take Route 9 north until we get to Hookbridge Falls."

After a quick stop for gas and a supply of junk food, we were on our way. Bree and I used to go on road trips all the time: just day trips to malls or cool places to hike or little artists' colonies. We had felt so free, so unstoppable. But I tried not to dredge up those memories. Now they just filled me with pain.

"Want a chip?" Robbie offered, and I dug a hand into the bag.

"Have you talked to Bree yet?" I asked, unable to tear my mind from her. "About how you feel?"

He shook his head. "I've sort of tried, but it hasn't actually come up. I guess I'm a coward."

"No, you're not," I said. "But she can be hard to approach."

He shrugged. "You know, Bree asks about you, too," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you always ask about her. Well, she asks about you, too. I mean, she never says anything nice about you, you both say mean things about the other one, but even a total idiot could tell that you two miss each other."

My face felt stiff as I stared out the window.

"Just thought you should know," he added.

We didn't say another word for the next sixty miles— not until we saw a sign for the Hookbridge Falls exit. By then the sky had cleared, and it was open and blue in a way it hadn't been for what seemed like weeks. The sun's warmth on my face lifted my spirits. I felt like we were on a real adventure.

Robbie consulted the map. "We get off here and head east on Pedersen, which leads right into Meshomah Falls," he said.

"Okay."

A few minutes after we'd turned off the highway, I saw the sign announcing Meshomah Falls, New York.

A shiver ran down my spine. This was where I had been born.

I drove down Main Street slowly, staring at the buildings. Meshomah Falls was a lot like Widow's Vale, except not quite as old and not quite as Victorian. It was a cute town, though, and I could see why Maeve and Angus had decided to settle here. I picked a side street at random and turned onto it, slowing even more as I looked carefully at each house. Next to me, Robbie chewed gum and drummed his fingers along to the radio.

"So, when are you going to tell me why we're here?" he joked.

"Uh…" I didn't know what to say. I guess I had been planning to pass this off as a simple joyride, just a chance to get out and do something. But Robbie knew me too well. "I'll tell you later," I whispered, feeling unsure and vulnerable. To tell him one part of the story would mean telling him everything—and I had yet to come fully to terms with that

"Have you ever been here before?" Robbie asked.

I shook my head. Most of the houses were pretty modest, but none was immediately recognizable as the house I'd seen in my vision. And they were fewer and farther between now; we were heading into the country again. I started to wonder what the hell I was doing. Why on earth did I think I'd be able to recognize Maeve's house? And if by some miracle I found it, what would I do then? This whole idea was stupid—

There it was.

I slammed on the brakes. Das Boot squealed to an abrupt halt. Robbie glared at me. But I hardly noticed. The house from my vision, my birth mother's house, stood right before my eyes.

CHAPTER 16

Hidden

January 12, 1999

I've been ill, apparently.

Aunt Shelagh says I have been out for six days. Raving, she told me, with a high fever. I feel like death itself. I don't even remember what happened to me. And no one will say a word. I don't understand any of it.

Where is Linden? I want to see my brother. When I awoke this morning, eight witches from Vinneag were around my bed, working healing rites. I heard Athar and Alwyn in the hall, sobbing. But when I asked if they could come in to see me, the Vinneag witches just gave each other grave glances, then shook their heads. Why? Am I that ill? Or is it something else? What is happening? I must know, but no one will tell me a thing, and I am as weak as a hollow bone.

— Giomanach

The house was on the right side of the road, and as I glanced through Robbie's window, it was as if a cool breeze suddenly washed across my face. I pulled up alongside it.

The walls were no longer white but painted a pale coffee color with dark red accents. The neat garden in front was gone, as was the large herb and vegetable patch to one side. Instead some clumpy rhododendrons hid the front windows on the first floor.

I sat there in silence, drinking in the sight of the place. This was it. This was Maeve's house, and my home for the first seven months of my life. Robbie watched me, not saying anything. There were no cars in the driveway, no sign that anyone was home. I didn't know what to do. But after several minutes I turned to Robbie and took a deep breath.

"I have something to tell you," I began.

He nodded, a somber expression on his face. "I'm a blood witch, like Cal said a couple of weeks ago. But my parents aren't. I was adopted."

Robbie's eyes widened, but he said nothing

"I was adopted when I was about eight months old. My birth mother was a blood witch from Ireland. Her name was Maeve Riordan, and she lived in that house." I gestured out the window. "Her coven was wiped out in Ireland, and she and my biological father escaped to America and settled here. When they did, they swore never to use magick again."

I took another deep, shaky breath. This whole story sounded like a movie of the week, A bad one. But Robbie nodded encouragingly.

"Anyway," I went on, "they had me, and then something happened—I don't know what—and my mother gave me up for adoption. Right after that, she and my father were locked in a barn and burned to death."

Robbie blinked. His face turned slightly pale. "Jesus," he muttered, rubbing his chin. "And who was your dad?"

"His name was Angus Bramson. He was a witch, too, from the same coven in Ireland. I don't think they were married." I sighed. "So that's why I'm so strong in Wicca, why that spell I did for you worked, why I channel so much energy at circles. It's because I come from a line of witches that's hundreds or thousands of years old."

For what seemed like a long time Robbie just stared at me. "This is mind-blowing," he mumbled finally.

"Tell me about it."

He offered a sympathetic smile. "I'll bet things have been crazy at your house lately."

I laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. We were all freaked out about it. I mean, my parents never told me, not in sixteen years, that I was adopted. And all my relatives knew and all their friends. I was… really angry."

"I'll bet," Robbie murmured.

"And they knew how my birth parents died and that witchcraft was involved, so they're really upset that I'm doing Wicca because the whole thing scares them. They don't want anything to happen to me."

Robbie chewed his lip, looking concerned. "No one knows why your birth parents were killed? They were murdered, right? I mean, it wasn't suicide or some ritual gone wrong."

"No. Apparently the barn door was locked from the outside. But they must have been scared about something because they gave me up for adoption right before they died. I can't find out why it happened, though, or who could have done it. I have Maeve's Book of Shadows, and she says that after they came to America, they didn't practice magick at all—"

"How did you get your birth mother's Book of Shadows?" he interrupted.