When he’d go off on “business” he had to attend to, he would leave us with Wildflower as the babysitter.

“If her mother finds out they’re left alone she won’t let them come anymore,” our father said. “So you stay with them.”

If Wildflower was away, he brought us with him wherever he went and if he felt it was too sexy or too hedonistic and might get back to my mother, he would send us off to play. “But stay within calling distance,” he said. “That’s the only thing I insist on, my only commandment.” And when Ocean and Wildflower were upstairs in the loft, with their drums and incense and beeswax candles, he’d send us outside to play. But he never bothered calling us to see if we had obeyed his one commandment.

At the outdoor bonfires we would sleep in the grass and he’d bring mats and blankets for us. Morgaine could fall asleep, but I’d lie there listening to them sing and chant. In the house, sometimes Morgaine would have bad dreams, and our father would appear wearing an old silk kimono as a bathrobe, smelling of salt and sandalwood, slick with sweat, Wildflower’s giggles trailing in behind him.

I remember finding it odd when Morgaine was no longer afraid of the crows and began to feed them. My father’s crow in particular seemed attached to her, so much so it unnerved even him. At that time I thought Ocean was afraid for her but later, when I’d think of his voice, how quickly he would tell her to leave the birds alone, I realized he was jealous. He was king of the birds. He was the one who could speak to them.

When she kept it up, he gave her a talking to. Did she want to stop coming on the weekends?

Morgaine had clasped her hands behind her back and put her head down, chastised. That was the last thing she wanted. The bird still would perch near her but she would not acknowledge it, not when our father was around. When it was just the two of us, Morgaine would wave her arms at the bird in greeting. The crow would dip its beak and caw until she croaked back at it.

At our new home in town I played with other children and spent time in my room with my drawing and paint sets, making imaginary maps for make-believe kingdoms. The four years between us seemed an abyss, with Morgaine standing on the other side. She would trail about behind me. Occasionally I would play with her and let her order me around. She liked to play “blindfold” with my mother’s abandoned scarves when we were at The Mists. She even brought one to our new house in town.

“Guess what flower this is?” she’d whisper, holding the petals to my nose.

I felt sorry for Morgaine when we were with our father, how there were no other young children her age at The Mists. There were only babies and pregnant women. We were the oldest. To make Morgaine happy when we were there, I played tag and hide-and-seek with her, and all the games with elaborate rules and rituals she had made up.