“… Charlotte is quite the darling of high society now and is in the newspaper on the arm of some duke or other nearly every day, it seems. Or course, Lilith was so very busy with her war work, doing so marvelously in the soup kitchens at St. Mary’s Convent. And now she is to be married. I think you met her husband-to-be, the Earl of Winchester? He was still a viscount back then, of course, but his father was killed quite recently, in an air raid. How people have suffered! Mangan seems to recall Lilith’s fiancé being at that rather grand ball you went to some years back, do you remember? You and Perry looked terribly dashing, and poor dear Mangan was barely let through the door, he looked such a fright! We saw the notice in the Times. So I suppose she will cease being Lady Lilith Montgomery and become Lady Lilith Harcourt instead. Oh, say you will stay with us at least until the week after your show finishes, so that Mangan may have plenty of time with you, do…”

Lady Lilith Harcourt. Louis. Of course. She was always going to marry Louis. She was always going to marry an earl. She was always going to marry a witch. Why wouldn’t she marry an earl?

Bram folds the letter and puts it in his jacket pocket. He is not quite ready to dispose of it yet. He will go to London. He will stay in the familiar muddle of the house in Bloomsbury and enjoy letting Jane fuss over him, and see the children, and spend time with Mangan. He will hold his exhibition, show his work to the world, and brace himself for its reaction. But he will not look for Lilith. He will not hold her hand and tell her what is in his heart. He will not.

He busies himself checking the packaging on his paintings, and marking them off against the list he has made, with the layout of the hang attached. As he does so, his eye is caught by a slim, unwrapped canvas standing in the corner of the room behind some works that are unfinished. He knows what it is. He knows what he will see if he chooses to look at it. Who he will see.

Cross with himself now, he strides over to the corner and drags the canvas from its hiding place. Without pausing, he takes the painting and carries it to the empty easel, where he sets it up and stands back, mouth grim, determined to face his fears. Lilith’s enigmatic face gazes back at him. The artist in him is struck at once by the quality of the work. It is one of his best, and he knows it. The man in him is struck by the beauty of the subject.

Dear God, Lilith. What spell have you cast over me?