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real magic.”
    “You read my journal?”
    “Just the spell practice journal. Not your personal one.”
    “How do you know I have a personal one?”
    “Do you? Hey, you know what happened at school today? Mr. Ellis told me he’s sending two of my paintings to get framed. They’re going to hang them at graduation next week.”
    Savannah headed for the kitchen, still talking. Should I pursue the journal comment? I considered, then rejected it. Instead I hefted my knapsack and headed to my room to return the bag to its hiding spot.
    If Savannah did read my personal journal, at least it meant she was taking an interest in me. Which was good. Unless she was snooping in hopes of finding something she could use to blackmail me into buying her a cell phone. Which wouldn’t be so good. What exactly did I have in my journal, anyway …?
    While I was locking away my bag, the doorbell rang. Savannah shouted “Got it” and thundered into the hallway, making enough noise for someone three times her size. When I walked into the living room a few minutes later, she was standing in the hall doorway, lifting a letter to the light and squinting at it.
    “Testing your psychic abilities?” I said. “A letter opener works much faster.”
    She jumped and jerked the letter down, hesitated, then held it out.
    “Ah, for me. In that case, I’d advise steaming it open.” I took the letter. “Registered mail? That bumps it up from simple mail fraud to mail fraud plus forgery. I hope you’re not using that skill to sign my name to any notes at school.”
    “As if,” she said, heading back toward the kitchen. “What would be the good of skipping school in this town? No mall, no Starbucks, not even a Mickey D’s.”
    “You could hang around outside the hardware store with the rest of the kids.”
    She snorted and disappeared into the kitchen.
    The envelope was standard letter-sized, no unusual markings, just my name and address handwritten in clean, exact strokes and a return address preprinted in the upper left corner. The sender? A California law firm.
    I tore it open. My eyes went straight to the first line, which requested—no, demanded—my presence at a meeting tomorrow morning. The first thing I thought was: “Oh, shit.” I suppose that’s the normal reaction for anyone receiving an unexpected legal summons.
    I assumed it had something to do with my business. I created and managed company websites for women tired of male web designers who thought they’d want nothing more technically challenging than floral wallpaper. When it comes to the Internet, the issue of copyright is as murkyand convoluted as a celebrity prenup so, seeing a letter filled with legal jargon, I assumed I’d done something like design a Flash sequence that inadvertently bore some passing similarity to one on a website in Zaire.
    Then I read the next line.
    “The purpose of this meeting is to discuss our client’s petition for custody of the juvenile, Savannah Levine …”
    I closed my eyes and inhaled. Okay, I’d known this could happen. Savannah’s only living relative was one of the Coven Elders, but I always assumed Savannah’s mother might have had friends who would be wondering what became of Eve and her young daughter. When they discovered that a great-aunt had taken custody of Savannah and handed her over to me, they’d want answers. And they might want Savannah.
    Naturally, I’d fight. The problem was that Savannah’s aunt Margaret was the weakest of the three Elders, and if Victoria insisted Margaret relinquish custody, she would. The Elders hated trouble; they broke into collective hives at the mere prospect of drawing attention to the Coven. To secure their support, I’d need to persuade them that they’d face graver personal danger by giving up Savannah than by keeping her. With the Elders, it always came down to that: what was best for
them
, safest for
them
.
    I scanned the rest of the letter, sifting through the legal jargon to