Iago and I arrived early for the gathering. This is a rare time when I am not expected to wear my Robe of Office, or even my witch’s cloak, but may dress how I please. I have chosen one of my new black gowns, the dressiest of those bought at Mrs. Morell’s shop. It is made of the softest velvet, cut to fall in gathered sweeps to my ankles, and to move sinuously against my body as I walk. The darkness and heaviness of the fabric are relieved by sections of lace capping the short sleeves at my shoulders, with more lace from the low-cut bustline up to a high collar. It is the most glamorous garment I have worn in months, and I admit to feeling special in it. I felt such sadness at not having Violet with me as I dressed for the evening. She always enjoyed Yulemass, and we shared so many of them together. I have tried to call her, to summon her spirit, but without success. Druscilla attempted to help me, but we can detect no trace of her. She is hidden from us, I know it, deliberately kept from us. And there is nothing I can do. I tried to think what she would have liked me to wear, and chose a long, slender twist of gold. It is a necklace my father gave me, a piece of witch’s jewelry, quite outlandish and heavy, and really unsuitable for wearing anywhere other than at a coven meeting. The sleek golden rope loops three times around my neck, falling in long loose loops past my waist, with its intricate links causing it to both shimmer and shift as I move. I selected black lace gloves which stop just above the elbow, so that the only flesh visible—aside from that glimpsed through the pattern of the lace—is a short stretch of my upper arms. I had Alice do my hair for me. I had given her to believe that I was going out to a small private party. The lie served while she worked, but I cast a gentle spell of forgetting as she left my bedroom. She is a pleasant enough girl, and an able maid, but I cannot trust her not to talk below stairs, and my dressing in such a way while in mourning would make tongues wag. She piled my hair high upon my head, sleek and sophisticated, securing it with a gold dragonfly tiara. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror I felt, for the first time, that I truly am the Head Witch of this coven.

“Morningstar, my dear.” The slightly wheezing voice of Lord Grimes, Master of the Chalice and most loyal of Father’s friends, makes me turn. We embrace warmly. I am aware my position would be far more tenuous had I not the unquestioning support of such witches.

“Master of the Chalice, welcome. It is good to see you.”