The venue for the ball is the Anstruthers’ fine, redbrick house on the edge of Hampstead Heath. By the time the Mangan entourage arrives there is already a queue of carriages and motorcars depositing guests on the broad gravel sweep that leads to the grand but understated double front doors. Smartly liveried footmen, drivers, and maids scamper to and fro, offering a hand to assist ladies from their conveyances, taking proffered hats and canes as the gentlemen enter the hallway, and whisking away empty vehicles. Sumptuously dressed women of all ages slip fur stoles gracefully from their backs to expose pale, chilly shoulders, an impressive selection of jewels, and a no-less-amazing variety of necklines. Bram is immediately conscious of the ramshackle nature of the group of which he is a part. Gudrun looks ravishing in an unconventional sort of way, which would suit the occasion and her status as Mangan’s mistress and muse perfectly well, but her hair is still wet and she is never without a cheroot in her hand, so that the effect is somewhat spoiled, and she looks to him even a little mad. Mangan gives the accurate impression that he cares nothing for clothes, and has been forced into some semblance of evening attire on the insistence of his wife. If he had come wearing a fez and a paisley silk smoking jacket he would have presented himself as most think of him—an eccentric artist. Had he found a well-fitting and elegantly cut set of tails and trousers he would have appeared successful and debonair. As it is, he sports an ancient jacket that looks what it is: a relic from the past. His shirt collar still lacks the requisite number of studs to keep it in place, so that it is already riding up at the back and sliding around at the front. His trousers are the ones he was, only yesterday, wearing to dress a piece of Portland stone, and his left shoe has a flapping sole. Bram decides he looks as if he gave up dressing halfway through and just came as he was. Which is probably almost exactly what happened. With his wild, bushy hair and abundant beard he looks not so much the artistic genius as the local lunatic. His cause is not helped by Perry, who walks beside him immaculately and expensively turned out. Bram himself was fortunate to fit into his housemate’s jacket and trousers well enough at least not to draw attention to himself.

But perhaps there are dozens of people here who know of Mangan’s other identity, and will overlook all his peculiarities because they think of him only as a witch. How many? I wonder. How many attending this elegant ball tonight are themselves witches?