"Mary Grace," my dad soothed, taking the books from her. He read their titles silently.

My younger sister, Mary K., padded into the room, still in her plaid patchwork pajamas. "What's going on?" she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. No one answered.

I tried to think fast. "Those books aren't dangerous or illegal. And I wanted to read them. I'm not a child—I'm sixteen. Anyway, I was respecting your wishes not to have them in the house."

"Morgan," my dad said, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's not just having the books In the house, and you know it. We explained that as Catholics, we feel that witchcraft is wrong. It may not be illegal, but it's blasphemous."

"You are sixteen," Mom put in. "Not eighteen. That means you are still a child." Her face was flushed, her hair unbrushed. I could see silver strands among the red. It hit me that in four years she would be fifty. That suddenly seemed old.

"You live under our roof," Mom continued tightly. "We support you. When you're eighteen and you move out and get a job, you can have whatever books you want, read whatever you want. But while you're in this house, what we say goes."

I started to get angry. Why were they acting this way?

But before I said anything, a verse came into my head. Leash my anger, calm my words. Speak in love and do no hurt.

Where did that come from? I wondered vaguely. But whatever its origin, it felt right. I said it to myself three times and felt my emotions ratchet down.

"I understand," I said. Suddenly I felt powerful and confident. I looked at my parents and my sister. "But Mom, It isn't that easy," I explained gently. "And you know why, I know you do. I'm a witch. I was born a witch. And if I was, then you were, too."