I know I should refuse. I should stay in the safety of the noise and bustle of the party, where conversation is nigh on impossible. But I want to go with him. I want to. So I let him lead me through the throng, out of the drawing room, threading through the hectic people, across the hall, down the passageway to a door that opens onto the small walled garden at the back of the house. The night is still and the sky clear. The cool air is refreshing after the fug of the party, but cold. Bram takes off his jacket and, ignoring my protestations, slips it around my shoulders. I can feel the warmth of him held in its silk lining. We walk to a wrought-iron garden seat at the edge of the lawn. I find I cannot look at him now. I know what is coming. I should not be here, with him, waiting for questions I must not answer. What do I hope for? What is it that compels me to stay? I steal a glance at him. His expression now is one of thoughtfulness, as if he is struggling to frame the inquiry that I so dread. His dark eyes look almost sorrowful. His profile is exquisite; some might say too beautiful for a man. I am astonished to find that I want him to find a way to broach the matter of the falling vase. I want him to start the conversation that can only lead to one thing: my revealing my true identity to him. This realization fills me with panic. What am I thinking? All my years of being a Lazarus witch, of knowing how vital secrecy is to the protection of the coven—have they come to nothing? Here I am, ready to tell a man I scarcely know … tell him what? How, precisely, do I anticipate this dialogue proceeding? Am I to confess to using magic, and casually inform him that I am a witch who practices necromancy, and then we can return to the dancing? The champagne must be addling my mind!

“Lilith,” he says softly, and the sound of his voice uttering my name stirs something in me. “The other day, when I visited you at your home … as I watched you … I saw…” He looks at me, searching my face, no doubt trying to read my expression. “You did something … wonderful.”

I hold his gaze. I must know that he is being honest with me. “You weren’t … frightened?” I ask.

“I was astonished.”

I start to blush and look down at my feet. The grass is damp, and the light from the rear windows of the house catches the water droplets, making them shimmer in the darkness. How can I tell him? Where would I begin? It is too much. Too soon.

Would you trust this non-witch with all your deepest secrets, Daughter of the Night?