Druscilla steps closer to Bram. She raises her walking stick and prods him with it, as if testing to see if he is real. She prods him harder, and he realizes she is in fact testing his temper.

“What manner of man are you, Bram Cardale?” she asks.

“Perhaps you should better ask that question of somebody other than me.”

“Morningstar loves you.” Druscilla shrugs. “It seems to me we should trust her judgment.”

Victoria waves her arms in a gesture of exasperation. “The girl is in love, Druscilla. Her judgment is skewed by a handsome face and no doubt honeyed words.”

“You are speaking of our Head Witch!” Druscilla snaps, frowning fiercely at Victoria, before turning her glare on the rest of the company. “You would all do well to remember that. Morningstar is our rightful leader, the appointed head of our coven. She asks that we accept this man into our community.”

“A non-witch!” Victoria repeats.

“At present,” Druscilla concedes. “And perhaps he will remain so. Or perhaps not.”

Lilith moves to stand beside her mentor. “Druscilla, what are you thinking?”

“Many members of this coven were not born witches, though they apparently choose to forget that fact now. They were proposed by Lazarus witches, put forward, accepted, and inducted.”

“But never like this,” Victoria points out. “Our existence was never divulged to anyone without our consent. Morningstar has broken with tradition…”

“And so she might. It is her right to govern us her way. She trusts this man. And I confess”—she turns back to Bram and he experiences the powerful sensation that she is able to see into his very soul—“I find there is … something about him. Some raw material, some … spark. Well, young man. Would you be willing to be tested? To be scrutinized and challenged and, should you be deemed suitable, to be instructed in the ways of Lazarus?”

Bram gives a polite bow. “I am willing to do whatever is necessary for the woman I love, Druscilla. I promise.”

Lord Grimes hurries forward, breathlessly attempting to save his party and restore a happier mood. “A toast, ladies and gentlemen. Charge your glasses. There we are, that’s it.” He holds his own champagne flute high. “To Bram Cardale,” he calls out, “welcome!” And behind him a shaken band of witches echoes the toast, “Welcome!”

*   *   *