Lilith lets her arms fall by her sides and opens her eyes. She stands still as the stone angel beneath the cedar tree, the eerie half-light robbing her face of all color, save for the sharp green of her irises.

She looks more exquisite, more splendid, yet more fragile and ethereal, than I have ever seen her.

For a long moment nothing happens, and then, slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the fog begins to shift in unnatural patterns. As Bram watches, the misty air appears to pulsate, taking on this form and that shape, until at last a figure steps from it. A tall, lean man, with angular features, whose stern face is softened by the expression he wears as he greets his daughter.

“Lilith!” His voice is clear but breathy. He bows low, formally, adding, “Or rather, Morningstar.”

“Papa!” Lilith cannot hide her happiness at seeing him, though Bram can see she is doing her utmost to remain in control of her feelings. He knows little enough about what her coven requires of her or how such things work, but he knows her sufficiently well to feel her reticence, her hesitation. She gives him the feeling that she is doing something of which her father will not approve.

“Father, thank you for answering my call.”

“I would never refuse a Lazarus Head Witch. Nor would I refuse my daughter.”

“It is as your daughter that I come here today,” she says. And Bram sees in her expression the truth of this. It has clearly cost her to seek her father’s help. Knowing her as he now does, he can only imagine how hard it must be for her to admit she is in a situation she considers beyond her.

How dearly she must have wanted to prove herself. To him. To me? To herself, certainly.

“I have not come alone,” Lilith explains. She beckons to Bram and he steps forward.

Could a man ever have imagined such a strange introduction to the father of the woman he loves?

At once, the late duke’s demeanor alters dramatically.

“A non-witch! You have brought a non-witch to witness a calling? You clearly summoned me to reveal myself, knowing that I would be seen! What madness is this? To go against the coven creed…!”

“Forgive me, I know…”

“Then you also know you have broken your vows. Not only as a witch but as Head Witch! How can I have failed so completely in preparing you for your inheritance?”

“Father, this is Bram Cardale. He is the man I love.”

“Love!” The duke is so enraged his spirit grows and shifts, losing definition one moment, forming a darker figure the next, pacing this way and that in agitation. “I do not wish to hear of some girlish infatuation! How could you, daughter? How could you throw up all that I have taught you, all that you must know to be right, for some romantic nonsense…?”