“We were very old enemies.”

“So Laksha lied to me about the water magic?”

“No. The witch thought she spoke truth. And against a lesser spirit she would have been correct; the knife would have worked.”

The words are no comfort to me. “Is she dead too?”

The slightest twich of one of the devi’s hands indicates the necklace in my pocket. “She dwells in the rubies. Weakened but alive.”

I cannot hold back my question any longer, impertinent though it might be. “Why did you let it go on for so long? All those people who died in Thanjavur …”

“Yes. Refusing to kill one innocent man—your father—meant the death of many others. Innocents would have died regardless of my action or inaction. Do you wish to judge me?”

I look down at her feet. “No.”

“There were other paths by which this could have been avoided. I hoped we would walk along one of those. But it was not to be.”

“What other paths?”

“Do not torture yourself with what might have been. You may have occasion to wonder at the weapons I brought with me today and the shape of the asuras, but the choices of the past cannot be changed. Know this: Your father is free of the raksoyuj. And all the answers he sought in his life, he has them now. One day, so shall you.”

“He knows why?”

“Yes, he knows that too. Go now, Druid. I must cleanse this place.”

Unsure of what to do but feeling that some gesture of respect is needed, I clasp my hands together and bow.

“I wish you peace, Durga.” It feels inadequate, but she accepts it.

“You have my blessing,” she replies, and these are not empty words, for I take a breath and the roiling inside me calms down somewhat.

Come on, Orlaith.

"Okay. Go where it smells good?"

Yes, let’s do that.

With my mouth pressed tightly together and with tears leaking out of my eyes, I run with Orlaith to the road first and then head north toward the tethered banana grove. As soon as we turn, a great thump in the air heralds the ignition of the battlefield, a cleansing fire erasing all evidence of what occurred. I do not stay to observe, but I imagine that anything that didn’t burn got swept up into the sky, like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The privilege of Druids, I suppose, is that we get to witness the works of deities on earth without our faces melting afterward. Our bond to the earth sets us apart from the rest of humanity.

Yet I am humbled by the limits of power. We all seek it, and there is no denying I have found a goodly measure. But no gift of Gaia could have saved my father, and in the end, no weapon crafted by the Tuatha Dé Danann or the yeti could set him free. And, yes, I will write it down, for it should be written: Never in my life did I possess the power to make him love me more than he loved his work.

Perhaps that was the power I sought all along. I suspect that many of us, if given the chance to make one person in our lives love us more, would have no trouble in choosing where to point a finger. We are all needy, all vulnerable, all terrified that perhaps that person has an excellent reason to withhold affection. We shape our purposes to make ourselves worthy and often do not see until much later how it was love—or perhaps the lack of it—that both picked us up and dropped us off at crossroads.

I can see what happened to me now. Before I knew what Atticus was, I could have become a witch like Laksha. She would have taught me. She had offered without me ever asking. But I asked her what other sorts of magic existed and learned of Druids. And when Laksha spoke of earth magic, I knew that was what I wanted. The mysteries of the earth—that stuff my father was always digging up—I would master it. Master it and say, “See, Dad? I’m worth your notice after all.” Always was, really.

But that was a fantasy. He would have noticed me, all right, but only as he would have noticed a fabulous new excavation tool. Love can and does push the levers of power, yet there is no power that can force one to love another. It is a thing freely given and just as freely accepted or rejected. It is by degrees of love that we wither or blossom—and I suspect that this holds true in both the giving and receiving.

I run faster, hoping the exertion will purge the poison building anew in my mind. I know about the stages of grief and that the second one, anger, is trying to assert itself—it’s difficult to linger in denial when I saw my father die and had its reality confirmed by a goddess. I fear what anger might make me do—what I’ve already thought of doing—especially with the power at my command. Yes, it is by our loves and hatreds that we are shaped and manipulated.

Gasping for breath—I draw no power from the earth, craving the exhaustion—I remind myself that, though my father is gone, I cannot wither now. I am loved by Atticus and Orlaith and by Gaia herself, and with such nourishment as that, I cannot choose but blossom.

And how can I bear to see another wither if it is in my power to help her be whole again? Yes, there is someone I can help—that is a power I do have. My mother has thought me dead for twelve years. But the very good reasons we had for faking my death are moot now, and I can’t stand the thought of her enduring the pain of that deception for another second. I will go to her and say, “Mother, I am home, and I love you. Please forgive me and hold me and make me hot chocolate like you used to. With extra marshmallows.” So many f**king marshmallows—like, a tide of them that completely hides the cup underneath a tiny mountain of puffy white lumps of sugar.

It is the middle of the night in India, so it would be sometime in the middle of the day back in Kansas. Orlaith and I shift to Tír na nÓg, and then I have to spend some time figuring out how to shift home. Wellington is fairly flat and devoid of proper forests, and there aren’t many tethers in the area. I settle for something down near the border with Oklahoma, the northern range of the Osage Hills, about forty miles away from Wellington. I could do with more running. This time I would let the earth help me, though, and Orlaith too.

Much of the run is spent trying to remember events from my youth to prove to my mother that I am who I say I am, because I suspect she won’t believe me at first. The police never found my body, of course, but she had to believe I was truly dead after such a long time with no contact.

I had checked up on her periodically through intermediaries, and once, about halfway through my training, Atticus and I visited in person, only to find she was out of the country at the time.

As for my stepfather, I intended to say very little to him. I still despised him and wished to take apart his oil business, as I’d always planned, but that could wait until I’d seen Mom and let her know about Dad. And me.

It’s midafternoon when Wellington appears on the horizon. I slow down to a normal jog once I’m in sight of windows, and, after some thought, I decide to cloak my passage through the city. Though some of my old acquaintances might not recognize me right away, people would surely remember the tattooed redhead with a giant hound running alongside and a strange staff in her hand and would ask around until they discovered who I was. Returning to my mother was one thing, but returning to the rest of the world was quite another in legal terms. I would have a lot of official questions to answer and perhaps a bit of trouble if I tried to resurrect Granuaile MacTiernan. Better that the world thought of me as Nessa Thornton.

Mom lives on a gigantic estate, thanks to my stepdad. I lived there for a year myself before I left for college. It’s walled and gated and tricked out with a passive security system and a real live dude manning the gate; a golf cart waits next to his booth so he can drive to the house and back if he needs to do so.

I decide to play it straight and see if I can talk my way in, and if that fails, I’ll go ninja. Dropping my invisibility and Orlaith’s camouflage but adding camouflage to the whirling blade, I approach the booth and steel myself for the confrontation.

The security guard is older and carrying the weight of too many beers and wings on game days. That doesn’t stop him from looking me over as if I’d be lucky to have him. He ignores Orlaith and thereby confirms that he’s an idiot.

“Can I help you?” he drawls, voice syrupy with condescension. I can almost hear him tack on little missy to the end of his sentence.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Thatcher.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just sucks his teeth with a wet squidgy sound, letting me know what he thinks about someone like me visiting someone like Mrs. Thatcher. “Do you have an appointment?”

I don’t know why, but that question stops me. Of course I don’t have an appointment. I haven’t made an appointment of any kind since I began my training. Appointments are something from another time—another life. Now that I’m here, confronted by the prospect of explaining everything to her, I can’t see how it ends well. People who live in a world with appointments aren’t prepared to acknowledge that the world is sentient, that magic is real, or that they have created gods by the power of their faith. The world slid into the paradigm of science and skepticism centuries ago, and shaking my mother loose from that would frighten her more than anything. Even if she accepted that I was Granuaile—an uncertain outcome—she’d think me insane when I told her I was a Druid.

And then what would I do to prove it? Shape-shift in front of her? Ask the elemental to grow a rosebush in her backyard inside a minute? She would think it all a hoax or a dream before she would accept the truth of my binding to the earth. The conflict would cast a pall over my homecoming and choke off any chance of me saying what needed to be said and her hearing it.

The impulse, the raw need to see her, is still pure, though, and will bring me a small sense of harmony, but it should not go beyond that. Seeing her, and being seen in turn, is the thing itself. I must accept that a storybook homecoming is impossible. So I do not need to deal with this round man and his teeth-sucking. There is a better, simpler solution. Imperfect, and not what I truly want, but better than risking the dangers of the truth.

I turn and jog back into town without answering the guard, leaving him to his condescension and casual misogyny.

In one of those soulless big box stores, I find a black jacket and gloves to cover up my tattoos and pick up a flower arrangement in a white vase, oranges and yellows and dark-green leaves with tiny white blossoms like snowflakes sprinkled on top of it. The walk back to the estate is slower, because it’s difficult to jog with a flower arrangement, but once I reach the wall, I make sure I’m unobserved and cast camouflage on my hound and myself. Then I unbind a portion of the cement block, which allows us to slip through.

The land of the Thatcher estate is expansive, with gentle sloping flats of tall grass punctuated by stands of timber planted purposefully long ago. In the distance, the white house rests on the light-brown plain like a dollop of cream on caramel. Orlaith and I might trip some motion detectors on the way to the house, but cameras won’t pick us up until I drop the camouflage, and the guard won’t alert the house until he sees something. My mother won’t think anything of me suddenly arriving at the door—deliveries were always waved through without comment by the guard.

I ask Orlaith to wait for me at the edge of a small copse perhaps a hundred yards from the house. I leave my weapons with her and promise to return soon. As the sun hovers low over the horizon, I dispel camouflage, stride up to the house, and ring the bell.

My mother opens the door, and I cannot help but catch my breath when I see her hair, dyed red now, presumably because she’d gone to gray recently. She’s smaller than me, kind of petite; I got my height from Dad. She wears jeans and a salmon tank top with a white button-up shirt hanging open on top of it, and her eyes—green like mine—do a quick scan before locking on my face. Then she gasps as her jaw drops. She still has her freckles, and when I see them, the tears start to well in my eyes. I think hers are filling, too, and a stillness stretches as we absorb the shock of seeing each other—until I remember that I’m not supposed to be her daughter and I’m missing my cue.

“Delivery for you, Mrs. Thatcher,” I say, and thrust the flowers toward her.

“Oh. Thank you,” she replies, and wipes at her cheek before reaching out to take the vase. Her fingers lightly brush against my gloves, and now I wish I hadn’t worn them; I would have cherished the contact forever. She cradles the vase in her hands and gives a tiny embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry to seem so surprised,” she says, “and I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s just that you look like the spitting image of my daughter.”

“Yeah? That’s a funny coincidence,” I say, sniffling and sweeping a hand across my eyes to clear them of tears. It’s only a temporary fix, I’m sure, but I try to hold myself together. “You remind me so very much of my mom. Probably because of this red-hair thing we have going.” I wag a finger between us, pointing at our heads. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry to hear that. And I know how you must feel. It’s the same for my daughter and me.” She takes a deep breath and tilts her head to one side, studying me, her bottom lip quivering a bit before she speaks again. “You know, she’d be in her thirties now, but I swear you look just the way she did the last time I saw her.”

My throat tightens, and I struggle to get the words out before I lose all remaining vestiges of self-control. “Would you mind—I mean, I haven’t spoken to her in forever, it seems like, and I’m never going to get to now, but there’s something I’ve always wanted to say to her. Would you let me say it to you instead? As a favor? Would you mind?”

“No, honey, of course, you go right ahead.” And she stands there, waiting, holding the flowers but unconscious of them.