I swept out a grandiose gesture. ‘By all means.’

‘Casting runes is effective for spells that need to be completed in a hurry. However, as I’m sure you know, First Level witches can only use basic runes to perform basic spells. Even Second and Third Level witches struggle to remember enough runes to act quickly and effectively under pressure.’

‘So you’re a herb lover, huh?’

‘I use both types of magic equally,’ he responded stiffly. ‘The point I was making, Ms Wilde, is that preparation is the key to magical success.’ He glanced at me. ‘How did you bespell speech upon your familiar?’

‘You do realise that sometimes you speak like a Victorian, right?’ Winter glared at me. I sighed and pushed back my damp hair. ‘Runes.’

‘So you did it when you were a Neophyte? You must have gained access to that knowledge through the library.’

‘No,’ I said distantly, focusing on a group of witches on the path ahead. ‘I did that when I was around fifteen or sixteen.’

Winter stopped. ‘You what?’

Too late, I realised what I’d said. ‘Er … familiars live longer than common house cats,’ I demurred, hoping to deflect his attention.

‘If you were talented enough to achieve that at sixteen, then why would you feel the need to cheat a few years later?’

I shrugged awkwardly. ‘Maybe I was too lazy to study.’

Winter’s eyes narrowed. ‘Indeed.’

I could tell him the truth; it was usually the easiest option and in any other circumstance that’s what I’d have done. But I’d been down this road many times before and I knew he’d never believe me. Tarquin was too slick: I’d given up trying to tell the truth about my supposed cheating years ago. I’d railed and shouted and pleaded; it hadn’t done me any good whatsoever and at some point I’d given up. It was too much effort to continually plead my innocence when the world thought otherwise. People believed what they wanted to. Whatever. It was their problem; not mine.

‘It wasn’t that big a deal,’ I said. ‘Really.’

‘I consider myself a talented witch, Ms Wilde, but I’m not sure I could manage such a feat even now.’

‘I got lucky,’ I mumbled.

‘There’s no such thing as luck.’

It was my turn to stare in astonishment. Every witch I’ve met is superstitious. Hell, even I’m superstitious. Of course I’m superstitious – it comes with the territory. The last thing I’d pegged Winter for was a fortune sceptic. ‘Four-leaf clovers?’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Pretty plants.’

‘Magpies?’

‘They’re just birds.’

‘Itchy left palm?’

‘Allergic reaction.’

I gaped. ‘Half of what the Order believes in is rooted in superstition.’

Winter looked at me. ‘So?’

‘I had you pegged as a full convert, worshipping at the knees of the Ipsissimus.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ he murmured, mockingly. ‘But I don’t blindly believe in nonsense.’

He could have fooled me. We started walking again. Winter was more of an enigma than I’d realised. We drew level with the group of witches, whose chatter immediately subsided in case I was in any doubt about what – or rather who – they were talking about. In their midst, Tarquin gazed at me and quirked an eyebrow. I blew him a kiss and kept on walking. As soon as we were past, the whispering started again.