“Your father was a fine man. He will be greatly missed.” He pauses and moves a little closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of him. I am tall, but still he has to stoop a little to speak in my ear. “If there is any way I can be of help … anything … you have only to ask. Darling Lily, you know that, don’t you?” He reaches behind my ear. “Oh, how sweet,” he says, opening his cupped hand in front of me to reveal a large butterfly. “Must have mistaken you for a flower.”

“Louis, please, this is no time for party tricks.”

“I only wanted to see my girl smile,” he tells me.

I look at him levelly. If the thought flitted through my mind that I might mention to him the uncalled spirit I heard earlier, I quickly dismiss it. Would he even take such a thing seriously? His habit of using his magic at inappropriate moments is something I am accustomed to, as is the way he has of employing the sleight of hand of a music hall magician. I am aware, today, that there is more to it than a desire to amuse. He wishes to remind me that we share a special bond, because we are both born witches. As if I need reminding. It is one of the main reasons I have not resisted the match my parents always wanted for me. I think it comforted my father, in his last days, to know that I would marry into such a strong, wealthy, well-respected family. Louis and I grew up together. Our parents move in the same rarified social circle; his father and mine were, if not quite friends, then at least fellow Lazarus witches. The earl of Winchester always slightly resented my father’s superior position in the coven. It was as if having to settle for a lower ranking in the aristocracy, being only an earl rather than a duke, made it rankle more that he must also defer to Father when in his witch’s persona. My father did not count Louis’s father as a personal friend, but they shared a mutual respect, born of an understanding of how the world works for singular families such as ours.