Curiosity overcomes him. He sets his lamp down on the bottom stair and walks carefully along the hallway to the doorless gap that leads through to the studio. He does not enter, but waits in the dusty shadows, listening. Peering through the gloom he can make out two figures, both seated by a surprisingly lively fire in the hearth, which gives off the only illumination. In the dancing light Bram sees Mangan, a glass of brandy in his hand, nodding as his visitor speaks. This second figure is short and broad and has a voice with a smile in it.

“My dear Mangan,” he says, “I agree with you entirely upon this matter, but I am at a loss to know what else we can do.”

“She is a strong-headed girl,” Mangan points out. “She will not be easily restricted in her movements. Nor should she be. We must allow her to govern herself, surely.”

“Indeed, but, well, she is young. She may not wish to admit to herself how much danger she is in. Morningstar’s safety must be our main consideration.”

Morningstar? Lilith’s coven name! Why would this man know it? Why would he be discussing her position as Head Witch like this? Unless … unless he, too, is a witch!

Bram feels his blood pounding against his temples as realization dawns.

Unless both he and Mangan are witches!

The thought is so astonishing that he stumbles, barely managing to prevent himself from falling into the room. He flattens himself back against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. If the two men have heard anything they give no sign of having done so beyond a short pause in their conversation. Bram waits until they are settled to talking again, noting that they have moved away from the subject of Lilith, before tiptoeing back along the hallway, taking up his lamp, and hurrying as silently as he is able back up the staircase, his hands trembling as he grips the banister. Once back in his room he slumps into the armchair, his head in his hands, struggling to make sense of it all.

He acknowledges to himself now how flimsy was his grip on reason and good sense when Lilith confessed to being a witch. It was as if he could accept anything from her, anything about her, because of his love for her, because he knows he would do anything not to lose her love. And talk of Louis and the coven, well, it was just that, to him. Talk. Something strange and fantastic that happened elsewhere, to other people. But now, finding out that Mangan, too, was a part of her coven, the discovery seemed to break whatever hold he had on what is real and what is make-believe.