I have to resist the near overwhelming desire to throw myself into my father’s arms. I know, of course, that he is walking in spirit, that his body lies in the gleaming coffin newly placed among our ancestors behind him, and that, however heartfelt his gesture, he cannot embrace me. I am not, as many others would have been, in the least bit alarmed or afraid to see my father’s ghostly form standing in front of me. I understand the dangers and the benefits of calling on the dead to aid magic and to divine the future. It has always brought me great comfort to know my loved ones are reachable in this way, if they themselves are willing to be called. Even so, I have to prepare myself for the fact that I will miss Papa’s physical embrace, and that it will take time to adjust to his nonmaterial presence. Standing here with him now I remember the first time I was called upon to fully summon a spirit on my own. It was a thrilling moment. The first time I not only heard but saw someone from the Land of Night. Saw them take shape in front of me. Watched them walk toward me. Spoke with them. Listened to them. All the time knowing they were there because I was a necromancer, and they had answered my call.

It is not a skill that comes to anyone on the first time of trying.

For weeks, Louis and I had been charged with perfecting the art of calling spirits to speak with us, without asking them to show themselves. As ever, Louis was bored with the mundane business of repetition and practice, and eager to move on to what he saw as necromancy proper.

“I mean to say, Lily, how many times are we expected to do this? I can call the voices at the drop of a hat. Your father knows that. So does Lord Grimes, and Druscilla. It’s a waste of time, doing it again and again.” He paced the floor of the antechamber restlessly.