The coven was in turmoil, of course. For a while it looked as if I would be cast out. But with war upon us, with the Sentinels’ threat now an open one, with a figurehead who has declared himself, it was decided that to lose a Head Witch, to have to find another, would be too damaging to the coven. I am still goaded and harassed by the Dark Spirit. It is as if the Sentinels, having failed in their attempt to gain the Elixir by controlling me through my love for my brother, are awaiting their moment, biding their time. And while they wait, they send their spirit servant to haunt me, to wear me down, no doubt, in the hope that by giving me no peace I will be less able to withstand their next attack, whenever it comes.

“Are you going to give us some of that, love?” An elderly man stands in front of me, his bowl of soup raised expectantly.

“I’m sorry, yes.” I give him as big a piece as I dare. Too generous a helping would have Sister Agnes remonstrating with me in an instant. I realize I had drifted off into my own thoughts and shake my head as if to banish them. No good can come of dwelling on what cannot be changed. There are others who need me now.

It takes two hours to feed everyone who has come seeking food. By the end of the queue we are scraping the great tin cauldrons and the bread has gone entirely. A further hour is required to wash up and clean away so that the kitchen will be ready for use in the morning. Glancing at the clock I see it is already nearly four. I have promised Mama I would take tea with her, and I must not be late. Small moments of normality seem to help her. I quicken the speed of my washing and wiping until Sister Bernadette, sensing my hurry, bids me go home, assuring me they can manage and will anyway do better without me charging about the place like a clockwork mouse.

I whip off my apron and call my farewells over my shoulder as I go. Outside I break into a trot. I have grown accustomed to looking a sight and no longer pay attention to the looks of surprise my disheveled state sometimes attracts. It is hard to be concerned about such trivia as untidy hair or an unflattering garment. It is little enough that I do in this terrible time. Vanity has no place here.

I arrive at Fitzroy Square flushed and perspiring. My dress is one I chose for the freedom of movement it allows me and for the durability of the fabric. I hope that I might sneak upstairs and quickly change and redo my hair, but my mother’s voice reaches me in the hallway.

“Lilith? Lilith, is that you?”