And the nearer I draw to the heart of our coven, the more at home I feel. How could I ever explain such a thing to one who has never experienced the joy of being a born witch? What would dear Charlotte make of it? Would she think me a monster?

When I open my eyes they have adjusted to the gloom, so that different levels of darkness present themselves. There is a faint line of paler darkness, from the windows of the summer house seeping in from around the door behind us. There is a chink of moonlight dropping from a tiny fissure in the stone roof above. And there is the coal black of the descent in front of us. Although I am familiar with every stair, every twist and turn, every uneven convolution of the descending steps, I will not venture farther without light. This is my sanctum. My coven. Mine. I will never approach cloaked in the dark. I will always, now, arrive in a glow of warm light. For the Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven is the bridge between day and night, between outer and inner, between life and death. Here, from this day on, I stand for the pulse of the living, even when I walk among the dead. I must always move in light, or risk being lost to the other side before my time.

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