But I think she is wrong about my moment of transformation. By the time Bram held me to him and showed me what was in his heart, mine was already lost to him. Only I had not acknowledged the fact, even to myself. I had not dared do so.

And yet, above all this joy, the Dark Spirit is never far from my thoughts. As always, personal desires must defer to coven matters. Aside from the visitations, there is something else that twists my mind into knots of doubt and confusion. Who was it who challenged me at the inauguration? And why? I believe the two things must surely be connected. To have two threats against the coven at the same time cannot be coincidence. I had thought the challenge to be of lesser importance than perhaps it truly is. Taken with the actions of the Dark Spirit I have to look at it anew, have to question the motives behind it.

It is my search for answers to these questions that finds me heading for the shabby house in Bloomsbury while the rest of the world slumbers. I have slipped away alone, unseen. I need a confidante. Someone who might help me make sense of what has happened. Someone I trust utterly.

The carriage arrives at my destination. I alight onto the pavement and the driver, whose discretion is beyond question, flicks the reins quietly, moving away to wait in the shadows. It would not do for curious eyes, however unlikely, to notice the Montgomery carriage parked outside the house of a disreputable bohemian artist in the small hours of the night. I do not knock, but open the door which has been left unlocked so that I may make my entry as quickly and quietly as possible. I have visited the house on a number of occasions, always in darkness, and so have become adept at navigating the flotsam and jetsam of the hallway as we thread through the gloom to the studio at the rear of the building. Mangan is waiting for me.

“Ah!” He takes an unlit pipe from his mouth and holds out his hand in greeting. “The splendid, shining Morningstar. Welcome! Welcome.” He grasps my hand in his and does not so much shake as squeeze it warmly. During our meetings I feel I have come to know the outlandish sculptor quite well, and I am aware of how much he has to dampen his natural ebullience and indeed volume if he is not to wake the whole household. He bids me be seated, clearing a space on a dusty chaise. The only light in the room comes from two short candles, and the gray wash of the city night with its blurring streetlamps diffused through the glass roof and frontage. It is not so much illumination as a subtle lessening of the blackness.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I tell him, but he dismisses my gratitude with a wave of his pipe.