“I’m sure you do, to other people.”

Together they enter the London residence of Lord Grimes. They are taken directly through the restrained yet expensive decor of the hall and out via French windows to the long walled garden at the back of the house. Outside, all is genteel elegance and enjoyment, and reminds Bram of the way things were done before the war. Liveried servants move swiftly and silently among the guests, silver platters held high, wordlessly distributing ice-cold champagne cocktails and delicate canapés. There is a gentle murmur of polite conversation. When Lilith had asked Bram to attend the garden party with her, she had told him that all those attending—aside from Bram himself—would be members of the Lazarus Coven. The many hours she had spent attempting to explain to him what that meant, what her life as a witch was like, had left him in no doubt that these were not ordinary people. His own experiences of Lilith’s magic, and his suffering at the fearsome power of the Dark Spirit, have shown him vivid glimpses of the other world that they inhabit. Even so, standing among the pretty flower beds and lawns, sipping his cool drink from a fine crystal glass, watching the smartly turned-out men and exquisitely dressed women chatting happily, it is hard to accept that he is, in fact, surrounded by witches.

And the woman I love is one of them. The thought is no longer new to him, yet each time he considers it he finds it freshly amazing.

Lilith gently steers him into the midst of her fellows. She is at once greeted warmly by their host. She kisses his cheek.

“Lord Grimes, allow me to introduce you to my friend, Bram Cardale.”

“Ah, the artist!” He offers Bram a firm handshake. “Delighted you could come to my little gathering. Lilith speaks so very highly of you, I am exceptionally pleased to meet you at last.”

“It was kind of you to invite me, Lord Grimes. You have a very beautiful garden.”

“Oh, nothing to do with me, I assure you. My gardener won’t let me so much as prune a rose, so alas I can take no credit.”

“Lilith, darling!” A bent and arthritic woman swathed in layers of diaphanous pink fabric, her hair rigidly waved, descends upon them, arms outstretched. Behind her a straight-backed elderly woman turns a piercing gaze onto the newcomer.

Lilith whispers in Bram’s ear. “Brace yourself, my love.” She turns to smile at the pair and then says, clearly and firmly, raising her voice just a notch so that all may hear, “Victoria, Druscilla, may I present Mr. Bram Cardale. Bram, you are now in the company of two of the most gifted witches you will ever meet.”

Idle chatter is abruptly replaced by stunned silence.