I had been a witch since I was fifteen. My mother and grandparents were Christmas and Easter Christians, if that. Reading fantasy novels led me to the folklore shelves in the library, and right on the other side of those shelves were the books on religion. The Spiral Dance had a red cover and was like a forbidden fruit in a garden of dry and bitter things. I stood reading it until my hands started to tingle. I took the book to a quiet room and sat in a cubicle, reading, reading, until a librarian tapped on the glass door. The library was closing. It was almost five on Saturday afternoon. I took the book home and copied much of it by hand into a notebook. I still had the notebook.