Since he was no longer worried about being chewed up by her guard dog, who was now strolling contentedly beside them, Nash took time to admire her house. He already knew that many of the homes along the Monterey Peninsula were extraordinary and unique. He'd bought one himself. Morgana's had the added allure of age and grace.

It was three stories of stone, turreted and towered—to suit a witch, he supposed. But it was neither Gothic nor grim. Tall, graceful windows flashed in the sunlight, and climbing flowers crept up the walls to twine and tangle in lacy ironwork. Carved into the stone were winged fairies and mermaids, adding charm. Lovely robed figures served as rainspouts.

Interior scene, night, he mused. Inside the topmost tower of the old stone house by the sea, the beautiful young witch sits in a ring of candles. The room is shadowy, with the light fluttering over the faces of statues, the stems of silver goblets, a clear orb of crystal. She wears a sheer white robe open to the waist. A heavy carved amulet hangs between the swell of her br**sts. A deep hum seems to come from the stones themselves as she lifts two photographs high in the air.

The candles flicker. A wind rises within the closed room to lift her hair and ripple the robe. She chants. Ancient words, in a low, smoldering voice. She touches the photos to the candle flame… No, scratch that. She… yeah, she sprinkles the photos with the glowing liquid from a cracked blue bowl. A hiss of steam. The humming takes on a slow, sinuous beat. Her body sways with it as she places the photos face-to-face, laying them on a silver tray. A secret smile crosses her face as the photos fuse together.

Fade out.

He liked it, though he figured she could add a bit more color to the casting of a love spell.

Content with his silence, Morgana took him around the side of the house, where the sound of water on rock rumbled and the cypress grove, trees bent and gnarled by time and wind, stood watch. They crossed a stone patio shaped like a pentagram, at whose top point stood a brass statue of a woman. Water gurgled in a tiny pool at her feet.

"Who's she?" Nash asked.

"She has many names." Moving to the statue, Morgana took up a small ladle, dipped it in the clear pool. She sipped, then poured the rest onto the ground for the goddess. Without a word, she crossed the patio again and entered a sunny, spotless kitchen. "Do you believe in a creator?"

The question surprised him. "Yeah, sure. I suppose." He shifted uncomfortably while she walked across a white tiled floor to the sink to rinse her hands. "This—your witchcraft—it's a religious thing?"

She smiled as she took out a pitcher of lemonade. "Life's a religious thing. But don't worry, Nash—I won't try to convert you." She filled two glasses with ice. "It shouldn't make you uncomfortable. Your stories are invariably about good and evil. People are always making choices, whether to be one or the other."

"What about you?"

She offered him his glass, then turned to walk through an archway and out of the kitchen. "You could say I'm always trying to check my less attractive impulses." She shot him a look. "It doesn't always work."

As she spoke, she led him down a wide hallway. The walls were decorated with faded tapestries depicting scenes from folklore and mythology, ornate sconces and etched plates of silver and copper.

She opted for what her grandmother had always called the drawing room. Its walls were painted a warm rose, and the tone was picked up in the pattern of the Bokhara rug tossed over the wide-planked chestnut floor. A lovely Adam mantel draped over the fireplace, which was stacked with wood ready to be put to flame should the night turn cool or should Morgana wish it.

But for now a light breeze played through the open windows, billowing the sheer curtains and bringing with it the scents of her gardens.

As in her shop, there were crystals, clusters and wands scattered around the room, along with a partial collection of her sculpture. Pewter wizards, bronze fairies, porcelain dragons.

"Great stuff." He ran his hand over the strings of a gold lap harp. The sound it made was soft and sweet. "Do you play?"

"When I'm in the mood." It amused her to watch him move around the room, toying with this, examining that. She appreciated honest curiosity. He picked up a scribed silver goblet and sniffed. "Smells like…"

"Hellfire?" she suggested. He set it down again, preferring a slender amethyst wand crusted with stones and twined with silver threads. "Magic wand?"

"Naturally. Be careful what you wish for," she told him, taking it delicately from his hand.

He shrugged and turned away, missing the way the wand glowed before Morgana put it aside. "I've collected a lot of this kind of thing myself. You might like to see." He bent over a clear glass ball and saw his own reflection. "I picked up a shaman's mask at an auction last month, and a—what do you call it?—a scrying mirror. Looks like we have something in common."

"A taste in art." She sat on the arm of the couch.

"And literature." He was poking through a bookshelf. "Lovecraft, Bradbury. I've got this edition of The Golden Dawn . Stephen King, Hunter Brown, McCaffrey. Hey, is this—?" He pulled out the volume and opened it reverently. "It's a first edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula" He looked over at her. "Will you take my right arm for it?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

"I always hoped he'd have approved of Midnight Blood ." As he slipped the book back into place, another caught his eyes. "Four Golden Balls. The Faerie King." He skimmed a finger over the slim volumes. "Whistle Up the Wind. You've got her entire collection." Envy stirred in his blood. "And in first editions."

"You read Bryna?"

"Are you kidding?" It was too much like meeting an old friend. He had to touch, to look, even to sniff. "I've read everything she's written a dozen times. Anyone who thinks they're just for kids is nuts. It's like poetry and magic and morality all rolled into one. And, of course, the illustrations are fabulous. I'd kill for a piece of the original artwork, but she just won't sell."

Interested, Morgana tilted her head. "Have you asked?"

"I've filtered some pitiful pleas through her agent. No dice. She lives in some castle in Ireland, and probably papers the walls with her sketches. I wish…" He turned at Morgana's quiet laugh.