CLAUDIA GRAY

Part One

VACATION CHECKLIST

sundress

sandals

black bikini in case I am feeling brave

purple one-piece in case I am being chicken

stovetop autoclave

sunglasses

crushed clamshell

snake venom

moth wings

iPod

SELF-IMPROVEMENT GOALS

This year at the Outer Banks I will:

be nicer to Theo, who Mom swears looks up to me even if he shows it by putting dead starfish in my shoes

review stuff with Mom alone after coven meetings so I don’t forget it all before we get home

ignore Kathleen Pruitt’s bitchery because I am too good to stoop to her level

“I know you’re methodical, but this is ridiculous.”

Cecily Harper looked up from her notepad to see her father standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and a smile on his face. She underlined her last words with a theatrical flourish. “You know, making lists is one of the seven habits of highly effective people.”

“Honey, I’m used to your lists,” her father said. “You started making them as soon as you could spell. But your suitcase—you packed all your clothes by color.”

She looked at her open suitcase on the bed. The whites were nestled at one end, the blacks at the other, with the brighter shades in between. Shrugging, Cecily said, “Well, how do you do it?”

Affectionately he tousled her hair. This was slightly annoying, because she’d just fixed her ponytail, but Cecily didn’t worry about it for very long. She was much more worried about the fact that her father had caught sight of something unusual in her suitcase.

He picked up the vial of moth wings and frowned. “What is this?”

“Uh.” Cecily tried to think of a lie, but she couldn’t. “Um…”

His expression shifted from curiosity to disgust. “Cecily, are these—bug wings?”

Tell him the truth.

“Yes.” Flushed with daring, Cecily added, “They’re moth wings for magic spells.”

Dad stared at her. “What?”

“Cecily, don’t tease your father.” Her mother stepped into Cecily’s bedroom and briskly took the jar. “Simon, these are soap flakes. Bubble bath. They make them look like moth wings and eye of newt and all that sort of magical stuff now. I think it’s some Harry Potter thing.”

“Harry Potter.” Dad chuckled. “Those merchandising guys don’t miss a trick, do they?”

Mom tucked the jar back into the suitcase and shot her daughter a warning look. But her voice was cheery as she said, “Let’s hurry up, guys. We should leave for the airport in about fifteen minutes. Sweetheart, would you check on Theo? The last time I saw him, he was trying to sneak Pudge into his carry-on.”

“For Christ’s sake.” Dad started down the hall. “All we need is for the Department of Homeland Security to detain us because of the hamster.”

As soon as her father was out of earshot, her mother muttered, “Do we have to have this talk again?”

“I’m really sorry I endangered all our lives.” Cecily tossed her hair melodramatically, clutching her hands in front of her chest like a silent-movie heroine. “What if Dad tries to have us burned at the stake? Whatever shall we do?”

“Load your bag in the car, all right? And don’t even think about pulling a stunt like that once we get to North Carolina. The others aren’t going to cut you as much slack as I do.”

Her mother hurried off, unbothered by the latest in their many tiffs on this subject. But Cecily felt angry with herself for making a joke of it instead of trying to talk this through.

Usually she tried hard to respect the rules of the Craft, rules Cecily had memorized before she’d turned eight years old. Most of the rules were sensible—the necessary reins on the incredible powers that they worked with. The fact that she knew those rules backward and forward was one reason that she was already a fine witch.

In Cecily’s opinion there was another reason. She didn’t only memorize the rules; she pushed herself to understand the reasons behind them. For instance, it was one thing to know that the Craft forbade witches to use their powers to undermine the wills of others; it was another to understand why that was wrong and how misusing the powers that way would corrode both your ability and your soul.

Yet there was one rule Cecily could never understand, the oldest of them all: No man may know the truth behind the Craft.

Dad—who knew nothing about the single most important thing in the lives of his wife and his daughter—called, “We’ve got to drop Pudge off at the O’Farrells and get to the airport within one hour. Unless nobody wants to go to the beach house this year!”