A small woman wearing an inexpensive calico dress nodded nervously. Her large green eyes were etched with sadness, the lines around her mouth deep and tight. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, practical for a farmer's wife.

"Hello, Irene," Morgan said. She reached out and took one of Irene's hands, sending her a quick bit of strength and peace. Irene gave her a questioning glance, then shot an anxious look at her husband. "Irene, you seem unsure." Morgan's voice was gentle and compassionate.

Irene's eyes darted around the room, pausing to linger on the pale, thin girl lying in the hospital bed. The hushed whoosh, whoosh of machines filled the small room, with a steady beeping of the heart monitor keeping time.

"I don't hold with this," Irene said in a low voice. "We're Catholics, we are. I don't want to lose my Amy, but maybe it's the Lord's will." Her face crumpled slightly.

Morgan put down her large canvas carryall and deliberately sent out more general calming waves. "I understand," she said. "As much as you desperately love your daughter and pray for-her recovery, you might not want it if it means endangering her soul. Or yours."

"Yes," Irene said, sounding relieved and surprised that Morgan understood. Of course Irene couldn't know that Morgan had been raised by devout Catholics, Sean and Mary Grace Rowlands, and knew better than many the fears Catholics had about witchcraft. "Yes, that's it exactly. I mean, she's my baby, but…" Again, withheld sobs choked her. "It's just-Eileen Crannach, from church-she told us what you'd done for her nephew, Davy. Said it was a miracle, it was. And we're so desperate-the doctors can't do much for her."

"I understand," Morgan said again.