As I sit in my room composing a letter to Mama I struggle to find suitable subjects about which to write. After the events of recent times, and the failed abduction attempt, I determined it was no longer safe to have her here in London. With some difficulty, I convinced her that the increase in the number of zeppelin raids was reason enough to send her out to Radnor Hall. The bombing alarmed her so, I knew she would be eager to escape it, and yet she does not like our country house. I believe she feels closer to Father here. Closer to Freddie. I was forced to spin another lie concerning Withers’s health, telling her that he was unwell and badly needed the restorative peace and air of the countryside. At last she agreed to go. In my letter, I reassure her that the house continues to run smoothly despite her absence—although of course she is keenly missed—and that the servants are coping without Withers. I tell her what is blooming in the garden, which is very little just now, with spring reluctant to appear, as if such a cheerful season should be skipped as a matter of propriety amidst all the gloom of wartime London. I cannot mention anything that touches on the suffering people are experiencing here. To speak of the difficulties faced by Mangan’s family would only distress her. I dare not mention Freddie. I know she likes to talk of him, but to engage in the fantasy that he is still alive is surely to compound the problem. I can only hope she will adjust given time. And of course I cannot write to her of what is on my mind. How many times, I wonder, did Father long to unburden himself to the woman he loved most in the world, but was unable to do so because she knew nothing of him being a witch? I do not think I have ever felt so very alone. But who can I turn to in the coven? And Bram. If he were here would I tell Bram everything? Could I? Could I ever make a non-witch understand?

I try to put my mind to finishing the letter, but all of a sudden I am assailed by a feeling of such dread and fear that I drop my pen and clutch at my heart. My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe, and I know without a speck of doubt that Bram is in terrible danger. In front of me the splotch of ink from my dropped fountain pen spreads thickly across the white sheet of paper, as blood might spread across pale flesh.

“Bram!” I cannot help calling his name aloud in a breathless whisper of despair. “Oh, Bram!”