Since Sky’s been gone, I’m amazed by what her presence meant in this house.There’s less laundry.There’s more food, but of a less interesting kind.The post is piling up—why does she get so many bloody catalogs? I always get the good parking spot right in front of the walkway. And the house is quiet: there are no vibrations that tell me I’m not alone, that my cousin is with me.

Now I’m here, and there’s no getting around it—male laundry is boring. I wear jeans and shirts and socks and underwear.Those four things, day and night, summer and winter. Sky’s clothes are so much more complicated—all sorts of weird girl-type articles of clothing, things I couldn’t even name. Morgan doesn’t seem to have as many varieties of clothes as Sky. She mostly wears corduroys or jeans, shirts or sweatshirts. Plain underwear, no bra, ever. (Excellent.) It’s funny—she doesn’t ever deliberately try to be sexy. She doesn’t have to. Just looking at her, in her regular clothes, and knowing what she feels like wrapped around me, pressed hard against me, knowing what her skin feels like, knowing the scent of her, the vibration of her, her aura . . . my brain cells start fusing, and I cease being able to form coherent sentences. Like right now.

I still can’t get over Sky finding a lead on my parents. Seeing them again is something I’ve dreamed of for more than half my life. And now that my employer, the International Council of Witches, has given me permission and helped narrow down their whereabouts, I’m ready to go. I just need to make plans.

Alwyn, who was only four when they left, can barely remember them. Linden died trying to see them again. He failed. In some ways, it seems too huge. In the years they’ve been gone, my parents have taken on almost mythical proportions—witches say their names with reverence or curiosity or even disdain; they look at me as though their legacy was stamped on my forehead.

This is simultaneously the most exciting and most terrifying thing that has ever happened to me. More, even, than our run-in with Ciaran in New York. Or when Morgan shape-shifted into a wolf, tracked me, and almost ripped me apart. Goddess, what we’ve been through together . . . I just wish Morgan could go with me now.

If Sky were here, she would offer to go. I wouldn’t let her, though. She is still fairly battered emotionally from her breakup with Raven. Spending time in France will be good for her.

But to have Morgan by my side as I see my parents for the first time in over a decade would make this so much easier. She is practical, power ful, able to face almost anything. I need her so much.

Morgan met me at Practical Magick, one of the area’s only occult bookstores. It was a popular Wiccan hangout, and I was good friends with the owner, Alyce Fernbrake. The bells over the door jangled, and I looked up to see Morgan coming toward me, a little smile on her face.

I’m over six feet, so I’m used to looking down at people, but Morgan always seems to be eye to eye with me. Objectively speaking, though, she’s about seven inches shorter than me, which still makes her taller than a lot of women. At seventeen, Morgan’s face shows no lines of age or wisdom, pain or laughter. Only striking bones, features that seem strong and womanly and intensely attractive. Her eyes are almost frighteningly knowledgeable, her expression solemn, her mouth generous yet not prone to vacuous smiles or asinine giggles. She is one of the most stubborn, strong-willed, prickly, reserved, and irritating people I have ever met. I love her so much, my knees buckle every time she’s near.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Let’s go in the back.”

Morgan and I passed through the tattered orange curtain that separates the back room from the rest of the shop. It fell closed behind us, and then we were standing, looking at each other in the poorly lit room.

Her hair was loose and needed brushing. It fell in unsmooth waves past her elbows, almost to her waist. Her black peacoat was unbuttoned; her jeans flared slightly, with thready bottoms, to the tops of her scuffed leather clogs. Her large, brownish-green eyes watched me, and her strong, classic nose was faintly pink from cold. This was Morgan Rowlands. The daughter of Maeve Riordan, the last, powerful witch of Belwicket, and of Ciaran MacEwan, who was one of the darkest Woodbanes that Wicca had ever known. Adopted daughter of Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands. My love.

My desire for her came with no warning, like a snake striking, and suddenly I pulled her to me by her jacket, pushing my hands beneath the heavy coat and around her back, feeling the sweater she wore. I had a brief glimpse of her startled, uptilted eyes before I closed my own and slanted my mouth across hers, kissing her with an urgency that both scared and embarrassed me.

But Morgan met fire with fire; she has never backed down from anything in the months I have known her, and she didn’t push me away with false modesty now. Instead, she clung to me, her arms moving around my waist, and kissed me back, hard, stepping closer to me and putting her feet between mine.

Finally, who knew how long later, we eased apart. I was breathing hard, every muscle in my body tense and wired and urging me forward. Morgan’s lips were red and soft; her eyes were searching mine.

“I missed you,” I said, surprised to hear my voice sounding hoarse and breathless. She nodded, her own breath coming quick and shallow. “Come on, sit.” I led her toward the battered wooden table, and we both sank onto chairs as if we had just finished a marathon. Every bit of idle chitchat I could have summoned fled my brain, and, instead, I just held her hand tightly and blurted out my news.

“I’m leaving Saturday for Canada, to see my parents.”

Morgan’s dark brown eyes widened, and for a moment she looked afraid. But that impression faded instantly, and I wasn’t sure if I had really seen it.

She nodded. “I’ve been expecting this.”

I gave a short laugh. “Yeah. The council contacted me again this morning. They actually gave me directions to my parents’ house. Can you believe that? They think Mum and Da moved about three months ago.”

She nodded thoughtfully, not meeting my eyes.

“I’m driving,” I told her. “I think it’ll take about eleven hours. They live in a little town north of Quebec City. Morgan—will you go with me?”

Surprise lit her eyes, almost immediately replaced by clear longing.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” I said quickly. “But if you need to get back before I do, I can put you on a plane or train or rent you a car.”

As we held hands across the little table, we both pictured what it would mean. Long, intimate conversations in the car. Hours and hours of time alone together. Being together day and night. Meeting my parents, her being with me during this incredibly meaningful experience. It would take our relationship to a whole new level. I wanted her to say yes so badly.

“I want to go,” she said slowly. “I really want to go.” She fell silent again. In her mind, she was probably having an imaginary conversation with her parents. I groaned to myself. What had I been thinking? Her parents don’t even allow boys in the house. There was no way they’d let their daughter take off to Canada without at least one chaperone, like we’d had in New York. And this would be a much bigger trip.

Her face fell, and I could feel her disappointment because it was mirrored by mine.

“I can’t,” she said. “Why am I even thinking about it? I’m still trying to get my grades out of the toilet, my parents are still twitchy around the edges, there’s no school vacation anytime soon—it’s impossible.” Her voice held frustration and impatience.

“It’s all right,” I said, covering her hand with both of mine. “It’s all right. I just thought I’d throw the idea out there. Don’t worry about it. There will be plenty of time for us to take trips in the future.”

She nodded, unconvinced, and I felt sorry for bringing the subject up, sorry for making her feel guilty that she couldn’t accompany me on this important journey. Looking into her face, I brought her palm to my mouth and kissed it. She sighed, and I watched the heat flare in her eyes.