"I'm sorry that I keep staring," he finally said, whisking together the eggs. "It's just that you look so much like your mom."

This stopped me cold.

"I do?" I asked.

"It's kind of amazing," he said.

I had a few photos of my mom, and while I'd seen a little resemblance, I didn't think I really looked a lot like her. My father's family is from Buenos Aires, so I'm half Latina. Half witch, half Latina… half everything. My eyes are brown, and my hair is dark but streaked with a honey color. My skin has a warm olive tone—not at all like the alabaster face that I saw in the pictures.

"Mom was very blond, right?" I said. "Kind of pale?"

"That's true," Sam admitted. "The Curtises come from England, and we all tend to be fair. Your coloring is darker, but there's so much of your mother in you. It's in your expression. Your face. Your height, the way you stand. Even your voice. You could be her twin."

"I'd like to know more about her," I said. "That's why I'm here."

He nodded, as if I'd just said something he'd expected to hear. Then he turned to the stove and poured the egg mixture into the pan where the bacon was cooking.

"I'm glad," he said. "I've wondered what your life must be like. I assume you weren't raised practicing Wicca?"

"No," I said, grabbing another strawberry. "I didn't know about any of this until a few months ago. I kind of stumbled into a coven at school. I saw people do things that I'd never known were possible. I've seen a lot, actually. Not all good."

He turned in surprise, then had to go back and do a little fancy pan-shaking. A minute later he presented me with the largest omelette ever made.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" I asked as he sat down.

"I will." He smiled. "Later. I'd rather talk now. You eat up."

I didn't need to be told twice. Between mouthfuls, I told Sam a little about Widow's Vale Kithic, my dad and Hilary. This left the door open for him to start talking.

"About your mom," he said. "There's a lot to tell."

"I know part of the story," I said, accepting more coffee. "I have her Book of Shadows."

"How did you get that?" he asked, shocked.

"Through a friend, actually," I shrugged. "It just kind of turned up at her house. It seemed to have a pull on me. I actually stole it from her. She didn't mind after I told her why."

"It just turned up at your friend's house?" I nodded. Sam looked at me for a second, then laughed and shook his head. "Well, the Goddess certainly does work in mysterious ways. So you must know your mother stripped herself of her powers. Do you know why?"

"I know about the storm," I said, feeling that was what he was getting at.

When he was young, Sam had used a book of dark magick to try bring a little much-needed rain to the town. Instead he accidentally produced a storm that raged out of control and killed several sailors. This was one of the events that had caused my mother to give up her magick, but not the only one. She had been pushed to the brink by her own telekinesis, which had frightened her as much as mine frightened me. The final thing that caused her to strip herself was a telekinetic incident after she argued with Sam. A table lurched away from the wall and pushed him down the stairs, nearly killing him. Sam didn't know anything about my mom's telekinesis. I could see he thought she'd left because of his actions, and it was clear that the guilt never left him.

"I was a really stupid kid," he said. "Beyond stupid. I had good intentions, but I produced really bad results. Horrific results."

"It wasn't just that," I said, trying to make him feel better. "She was afraid in general. She thought that her own powers were dangerous. She—"

I cut myself off. Did I want to get into the whole story of her telekinesis and mine? I would eventually, but maybe not this very moment.

"It was a lot of things," I said. "She wrote about it. It wasn't just the storm, honestly."

He looked up, and his eyes had a glint of hope in them. He'd obviously been carrying a very heavy weight around with him for years. I felt for him.

"You know," he said, nervously shifting his coffee cup, "we know Sarah—your mom—is gone. We could sense that much—but we really don't know…"

"She died in 1991," I explained, "right before I turned four. She had breast cancer."

"Breast cancer," he repeated, taking it in. Maybe to witches that seems really mundane. For all I know, we can cure that with magick. That thought made me a bit sick to my stomach—maybe my mother could have lived.

But I was jumping to conclusions.

"Was she ill for very long?" he asked quietly.

"No," I said. "My dad told me that by the time they found it, it was too late. She only lived for about another two months."

Sam looked stunned, shaky. For me this was old news—horrible, but something I had long accepted. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his brow.

"I'm so sorry, Alisa," he said. "I didn't know. If I had, I would have come there. I promise you."

"You didn't know," I said. "It's not your fault."

"I kept in touch with Sarah for the first few years," he explained. "But I had mixed feelings. I didn't understand why she had done the things she did. And then I went to college, got my first boyfriend—I got caught up in my life and my own dramas with our parents. I let things slide, and years went by. Pretty soon I didn't have her address, and she didn't have mine."

He saw my coffee cup was empty, and he jumped up to the stove for the pot, as if keeping me well fed and full of java helped ease his guilt.

"So, how many people are in the family?" I asked, changing the subject. "I mean, who lives here, in Gloucester?"

"Let's see," said Sam. "There's my mother, your grandmother. Her name is Evelyn. My father died a number of years ago, as did my mother's sister. But there's Ruth, her daughter. And Ruth has a daughter your age, named Brigid. Plus there's the coven—Ròiseal. We're all family, even though we are not related. There are eight of us in all. My mother is the leader."

"Can I meet her—I mean, my grandmother?" I said eagerly. My mother's mother. I could barely imagine it.

Sam seemed to pull back a little, though he continued to smile. "Of course," he said, "I can take you over there as soon as you're done eating."

I shoveled in my breakfast, wanting to finish it as quickly as possible. Sam looked genuinely pleased at how much I enjoyed his cooking.

"I'll get the dishes," he said. "If you want to freshen up, there's a bathroom right by the stairs."

"That would be good," I said, wondering what I must look like after the crying jags of last night and all the lost sleep. Surprisingly, the damage wasn't too bad. I brushed my teeth and fixed my hair, pulling a thick strand away from my face and off to the side, securing it with a clip I found in the pocket of my bag. Ten minutes later we were in Sam's ancient Dodge, driving up the avenue that ran along the water. We veered off, up a slight incline, into and area of dense trees. Then the trees thinned out, and I could see that we were on a high road above a rocky beach.

"This is it," Sam said, pulling over.

The house was large and imposing. It faced the water and was painted a soft gray with black shutters. I saw the widow's walk my mother had written about so many times and the front porch with at least half a dozen stone steps leading up to it. There was the porch swing that she used to sit in and look out over the water. A row of thick trees and bushes dotted the property, and other tall trees dotted the front yard and lined the walk, making a shady grove.

Two cars were already parked in the driveway, so we had to park on the street. Sam unclicked his seat belt but waited a moment before getting out of the car.

"Listen," he said, "my mother is a little touchy about the subject of Sarah. She didn't take the whole thing well. She hasn't really talked about Sarah since she left. Mother had also been under a lot of stress recently. We've got a lot going on here. So she might need a minute to get over the shock."