“Light!” My voice echoes off the cold walls. “Light now!”

A short whooshing sound accompanies the flames which spring to life ahead of us. Heavy iron sconces hold thick torches at regular intervals along our route, all now burning brightly, flickering in the eddying air of the underground passage, casting dancing shadows all around. We move forward and downward, one hand holding up our hems, the other sliding lightly down the wall. There is no rail or rope to hold onto, but the damp stones beneath our fingers add at least the illusion of support during our steep descent. The staircase doubles back beneath the garden until we come to a long, low-ceilinged room which is directly under the house. Here the grimness of the stairwell is replaced by a certain amount of comfort. Thick rugs cover the floor, and maps and paintings relieve the dull gray of the stone walls. Around the room are low wooden benches with padded seats, as if in a somewhat expensively decorated waiting room, for indeed that is the function of the space. This antechamber is a place for gathering, for assembling, for collecting, before being admitted farther into the coven’s sacred place of worship. There are several doors in each wall. Some, as in the case of the one I have just closed behind me, conceal staircases. One other—a grand double door, ornately embellished with an enormous green dragonfly, its body brightly enameled, its wings constructed from layers of finest spun silver—is the entrance to the main hall. A second, in a wall by itself, stands beneath a low lintel, solid and fortified with iron studs and wide strap hinges. Iago has sprinted down the stairs and now sits on a bench, idly washing his paws.

I turn to my maid and take her hands.

“Wait here for me.”

“Are you sure, my lady?”

“I am sure.”

“Then I will stay behind. But, if you need me…”

“… I will call you.”

Violet nods and gives a small smile of encouragement. I am not sure why I should feel so nervous. Is it excitement? No, something more. Fear, perhaps? I choose not to believe that. In truth, what is there to be frightened of? I have been preparing for this moment for so long. Father prepared me. I must believe I am ready. I summon my courage and move swiftly across the floor to place my palm against the low door.

“Open,” I command, and the door swings slowly on its heavy hinges. I step inside. As I pass them, torches burst into flame, until at last the passageway broadens and I am standing in the wide and ancient space where the bodies of my forebears truly lie: the Montgomery catacombs. And there, in the center of the stone tiled floor, a tired smile playing on his dear, familiar face, his hands outstretched in greeting, stands my father.

*   *   *