What have I done? I wondered.

I heard my parents downstairs in the kitchen, starting coffee, unloading the dishwasher. Flopping back down in bed, I listened to the familiar sounds: Not every single thing in my life had changed last night.

Someone opened the front door to get the paper. Today was Sunday, which meant church, followed by brunch at the Widow's Diner. Seeing Cal later? Would I talk to him? Were we going out now, a couple? He had kissed me in front of everyone—what had it meant? Was Cal Blaire, beautiful Cal Blaire, really attracted to me, Morgan Rowlands? Me, with my flat chest and my assertive nose? Me, who guys never looked at twice?

I stared up at my ceiling as if the answers were written on the cracked plaster. When the door to my room burst open, I jumped.

"Can you explain this?" my mom asked. Her brown eyes were wide, her mouth tight, with deeply carved lines around it. She held up a small stack of books, tied with string. They were the books I had left at Bree's house because I knew my parents didn't want me to have them, my books on Wicca, the Seven Great Clans, the history of witchcraft. A note attached to the books said in big letters: Morgan—You left these at my house. Thought you might need them. Sitting up, I realized this was Bree's revenge.

"I thought we had an understanding," Mom said, her voice rising. She leaned out my bedroom door and yelled, "Sean!"

I swung my legs out of bed. The floor was cold, and I pushed my feet into my slippers.

"Well?" Mom's voice was a decibel louder, and my dad came into my room, looking alarmed.

"Mary Grace?" he said. "What's going on?"

Mom held up the books as if they were a dead rat. "These were on the front porch!" she said. "Look at the note!"

She turned back to me. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, incredulous. "When I said I didn't want these books in my house, that didn't mean I wanted you reading them in someone else's house! You knew what I meant, Morgan!"