“I wasn’t scared,” said Saffy, but actually, conflict with Roz—forthright, honest, unafraid to raise her voice, unafraid to point out Saffy’s shortcomings—had always been quite frightening. Saffy had been brought up politely passive-aggressive and never knew what to say to someone who actually talked about their feelings. Instead of getting into the weeds of that—ancient history, anyway—she said, “Tell me about Lucy! You must have been together for…”

“Seven years now,” said Roz, breaking into her most brilliant smile, showing off very even white teeth. “Where did I put my phone?”

Saffy admired Lucy—an Amazonian white woman with a magnificent bosom and a huge pile of blonde curls, pictured hiking, playing the cello, posing with Roz’s slightly nervous-looking parents, and cooking schnitzel in the airy kitchen of a beautiful century-old San Francisco rowhouse: a real antique by California standards, though transposed to Chetwood it would have been one of the newer buildings on site. They spent a while on the house. “It was a stretch,” Roz said, “and we could never afford anything like it now,” apparently under the impression that Saffy had kept track of the Bay Area real estate market in the decade-plus since she left. “But the dogs love it!”

The house pictures did inspire a fair amount of unworthy envy in Saffy’s heart. She’d made her choices, but it was hard not to reflect that she could have been the person with a fulfilling career in cutting-edge magical research, unlimited funding, plenty of lab time, access on request to that incredible mega-incursion in Arizona—and also a house on a hill with views across the bay, two charmingly ugly little dogs, a beautiful musician wife. “Call it the Dr Rosalind Chan grant for the arts,” Roz said, pausing on a photo of Lucy in a black evening gown under a spotlight, the beautiful warm wood of the antique cello glowing in her arms as she played.

“No regrets?”

“None,” said Roz. “You?”

Saffy inquired internally into the unworthy envy, found it basically shallow, and answered, “None. But—”

Roz said, “Are you asking me, how do I sleep at night?”

Saffy said nothing. She’d once felt absolutely sure that Roz was a better person than her—not a better magician, but more switched-on, more political, more passionate, more sincere. But the truth was that there were very few practical uses for summoning something as deadly and powerful as a higher demon, and only one that paid. No doubt the world needed military stuff. No doubt someone had to do it. But Saffy had looked at what all her magical knowledge and power were leading her towards, and walked away.