“You are all most welcome,” I say. “Please, join me.”

Before the doors can be closed Iago scampers through them and comes to wind himself around my ankles. His purr reverberates about the chamber.

“Ahh, how perfectly charming!” cries Victoria Faircroft. “It is so rare to see a witch with her familiar these days, and I do so enjoy the quainter traditions being kept alive.”

Druscilla gives a snort. “Really, Victoria, you ought not to go bandying about words like ‘familiar.’ That sort of talk used to get people hanged, you know,” she says, sitting lightly if somewhat stiffly on the front bench. She holds her slight frame erect and contained as ever, and is dressed neatly in black.

Victoria is a blur of floating layers and pastel shades. She wears a gown that looks as if it might have come from a dressing-up box, and has added to it some sort of woolen sleeveless tunic and a trailing scarf. She wears no hat, and her hair is secured not by pins or combs but plaited and twisted upon her head and tied there with strips of silk. She favors long strings of beads, and leans her ample figure on a silver-topped cane as she embraces me with her free arm. The years have not been as kind to her as they have to Druscilla, and arthritis bends and swells her joints painfully. We exchange affectionate pecks, and I am all but overwhelmed by her perfume. At present she is awash with the scent of rose petals, but it is her habit to change flowers every twenty minutes or so.

She ignores Druscilla’s remark and stoops to make a fuss of Iago. “Such a dear little thing,” she coos. “I myself kept a snow leopard for many years. Excellent company, highly intelligent, you know.” She winces as she attempts to straighten up once more.

Lord Grimes steps forward and offers her his arm, helping her to her seat.

The earl of Winchester does not concern himself with anyone but me. He takes my hand and raises it to his lips.

“Morningstar,” he says, “you are as beautiful as ever. I trust you are entirely recovered from the … difficult events at the inauguration?”

“Entirely,” I tell him. “It was good of you to come. Good of all of you.”

Druscilla states plainly, “You are our Head Witch now, my dear. You will not be refused by any of us. Ever.”

Victoria puffs slightly as she struggles to make herself comfortable on the bench. I wonder that over the years no one has seen fit to provide chairs with arms and backs for the older coven members. “It is rather nice to be thought of as some use,” she says. “Heaven knows, at our age we are considered something of an embarrassment in the Outerworld. Like guests who simply refuse to leave the party and go home.”

“Speak for yourself,” Druscilla tells her.