What to write? The pressure inside me is building until my head pounds. Until recently I've always wanted to do what I needed to do. Now for the first time these two paths are diverging. She is blooming like an orchid: transforming from a plain plant into something crushingly beautiful, a blossom that cries out to be picked.

But now, somehow, the thought bothers me. I know it's right, it's necessary, it's expected. And I know I'll do it, but they keep hounding me. Nothing is turning out the way I had envisioned. I need more time to tie her to me, to join with her mentally, emotionally, so she'll see through my eyes. I even find myself liking the idea of joining with her. I'll bet the Goddess is laughing at me.

As to craft, I've found a variant reading of Hellorus that describes how sitting beneath an oak can bend the will of Eolh. I want to try it soon

— Sgath

Saturday morning I didn't exactly leap out of bed. I'd been up until the wee hours, reading Maeve's Book of Shadows. She'd started it when she was fourteen years old. So far, I couldn't figure out what Selene meant about finding out something upsetting. Aside from unpronounceable Gaelic words and lots of spells and recipes, I hadn't found anything really disturbing or strange. I knew that Maeve Riordan and Angus Bramson, my birth parents, were burned to death after they came to America. I just didn't know why. Maybe this book would explain it somehow. But I was reading slowly. I wanted to savor every word.

When I finally woke up and groped my way downstairs, my eyes were slits. I stumbled toward the refrigerator for a Diet Coke.

I was working on a couple of Pop-Tarts when Mom and Mary K. breezed in, having taken a brisk mother-daughter walk in the chill November air.