Today was it. It was very early in the morning, and Tara heard her father getting up and ready for work. She didn't get up to make breakfast, something that would either A) earn her a beating, or B) prove to him that she was sick. She sincerely hoped it would be B. She'd done an enchantment to temporarily raise her body temperature, and unfortunately, it really did make her feel as though she was ill. It would wear off within two hours, and it was worth the discomfort she'd go through if it would convince him that she was sick today. Just as she anticipated, Mr. Maclay appeared in her room, towering over her bed. "You getting up today or what, girl?" he demanded, shaking her by the shoulder. Tara groaned and opened her eyes partially, not having to feign nausea as she fully realized what he would do to her if he didn't buy the 'I'm sick' excuse. "I said, what's your problem, girl? I want you out of bed and in that kitchen," he repeated.

She cleared her throat and looked up at her father. "Dad, I d-don't feel good," she said groggily.

He heaved a sigh and put a hand to her forehead. The warmth he felt brought another frown to his face as he realized she was probably telling the truth. "Just get up and make me some eggs, then you can go back to bed. And stay there all day, you hear me? I don't want to have to take you to the doctor's office. I'll bring you in a pitcher of water and a glass before I leave."

Tara nodded and sat up slowly, sliding her feet into her slippers as she eased out of bed. She made her way into the kitchen, feeling terrible and showing it, and prepared a lighter than usual breakfast for her father. It was definitely not on par with what she could fix when she tried, and cooking was something she actually enjoyed doing, normally. And after today she would never have to do this again. The young witch delivered the plate of eggs and nearly burnt toast to the table, and Mr. Maclay nodded, dismissing her to bed.

Returning to her room, Tara smiled a little. Good, he bought it. Too bad I had to make it almost real to be completely believable, she thought, collapsing back into her bad in relief. I wonder how normal kids get away with faking sick! She thought about staying up and waiting until Mr. Maclay and Donnie were both gone, but decided against it. She actually felt pretty miserable with the self-made fever and that nauseating fear of getting caught when she was so close to getting away from this place. And after all, how many times did she get the chance to sleep in? She pulled her blankets over her, nestling down into the warmth with a sigh, and soon fell back to sleep.

When she awoke the second time, the fever enchantment had thankfully worn off. It was about 8:30 in the morning, and there was a pitcher of ice water covered with condensation and a full glass on her nightstand. Wow, Tara thought, I can't believe he actually did that! There was also a short note next to the pitcher. "Tara, rest up and keep hydrated. I'll give you a call this afternoon to check on you. Feel better, Dad." And more with the surprises, the young witch pondered. He's either worried that I'm really sick … or knows that something's up. Her mind flashed back to the night Donnie had burst in and seen her looking through the atlas. Perhaps he'd told Mr. Maclay, and her father had put two and two together. After all, it was no secret that Tara hated how things were, that she'd do just about anything to leave, but a rebellious runaway could always be found and sent back to her loving home, to be gently disciplined by a caring father. Or, in reality, hauled back off to her prison, where she'd be bruised and broken for thinking she could actually get away with it.

Tara shuddered, then wrapped her favorite knitted blanket around her shoulders and walked through the house, checking to make sure that she was the only one there. She had this creepy feeling that one of them had stayed to make sure she didn't try anything. After a full tour, peeking behind doors and around corners, much to her relief, she found the house completely empty. She folded the blanket and returned to her room, grabbing a bran muffin to eat while she started packing.

She stayed in her pajamas and began packing the things that wouldn't be noticed this evening when he got home. This included pretty much everything in her closet and most of her dresser, all of which got folded, rolled, and tucked into her mother's old sewing bag. She'd once used it to hold fabrics and spools of thread, but now it held probably 90 percent of Tara's wardrobe, including skirts, sweaters, a few pairs of patchwork jeans, t-shirts, socks, and underclothes. She'd wear her weathered jacket when she left, and any other clothes that weren't considered essential would remain behind. After a moment's consideration, she stuffed a pair of sandals and a pair of sneakers into the bag, closed it, and tucked it back into her closet.

Now, for her books. The ones she kept hidden, anyway. Tara took a flattened bit of cardboard out from between her mattresses, and popped it open into a corrugated box. She taped the box's bottom securely back together with duct tape, then removed all the magic books from underneath the built-in window seat. She lovingly packed them into the box, taking great care with each one. This done, she duct taped the lid shut and neatly labeled the box "BOOKS" with a permanent marker. She pulled the box over and packed it into the closet next to the old sewing bag. Satisfied with that, the fair-haired girl plopped onto her bed for a break, finishing off the muffin and having a glass of water.

Now getting all this to the bus station could be tough, since she still had a bag and another box left to pack. Tara had already considered this, though, and had a great idea for how to get around it. In the back of the garage was a dusty old two-wheeled hand-truck that no one ever used. All she'd have to do was WD-40 the axle of the truck, and she'd be able to get it through the house silently at midnight, with both boxes and her makeshift suitcase bungee-corded securely to the cart.

The young Wiccan went out into the garage through the kitchen door, located the hand-truck, and cleaned it up. She carefully greased the wheels until she was positive the thing wouldn't make so much as the tiniest of squeaks tonight, then took care to make sure the wheels especially were completely clean. She couldn't have cart tracks running through the house – it would be a sure tip-off. Finally positive it wouldn't track, Tara wheeled the cart into her room, grabbing a few spare bungee cords to secure the boxes and bag. She put this in her closet as well, placing first the box of books onto the rack, then the sewing bag/suitcase on top. She bungeed the box to the truck, but not the bag, since it would be on top of another box filled with books, a few photos, and some trinkets.

So far, everything was going well. One would almost say perfect.