Now, though, as I watch my father’s coffin being lowered into its grave, no amount of admiration for its workmanship can distract me from the loneliness I feel. My father was not an openly affectionate man—most thought him rather cold and aloof—but he loved me, and now he is gone. At twenty-one I should be excited about the future. Instead I feel only the sadness of loss, and the weight of duty upon my shoulders. My brother will inherit the role of duke and all that goes with it, but I am heir to my father’s other title. A position that bestowed upon him both immense power and fearsome responsibility. And now it is my turn. I am to become the new Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven.

As I stand at the graveside I let my gaze sweep over the gathered mourners. Hundreds have turned out to pay their last respects to the late duke, but only a handful among us know that the coffin which is the current focus of attention, and which is now being lowered into the damp, dark earth, is, in point of fact, empty. The August sunshine has warmed the soil so that its musky scent drifts up from the open grave. To me the aroma is familiar and stirring. It smells of long ago, of ages past, of loved ones moved from this world to the next, of death and rebirth, of rot and regeneration. As the smell fills my nostrils I identify the presence of cleansing worms and busy beetles, and under it all, from nearby newly filled graves, the subtle beginnings of sweet decay. I am not the only one to detect the presence of disintegration. From the branches of a majestic cedar comes the agitated cawing of sharp-beaked rooks.

The heat of the summer afternoon is starting to tell on many of the mourners. The pool of black the gathered company presents seems to ripple as women sway unsteadily in their heavy gowns, their restricting corsets robbing them of much of what little air there is. Here and there fans are worked listlessly. The men fare no better beneath their top hats, and some pluck at their starched collars. The relentlessly high temperatures of this summer of 1913 are not conducive to comfort for anyone dressed for a society funeral. Even the gleaming black carriage horses, despite standing in the shade of an ancient yew tree, fidget, causing the blackened ostrich plumes on their bridles to shudder and flutter in the inappropriately cheerful sunshine.

I feel my mother’s grip on my arm tighten. Her gloved fingers dig into the night-black crape of my sleeve. She looks worryingly frail.

“Mama?” I whisper as close to her ear as her elaborately veiled hat will allow. “Mama, are you quite well?”

“Oh, Lilith, my dear. I do feel a little faint.”

The dowager duchess teeters alarmingly.