My other teacher, to whom I owe any skill with magic that I might lay claim to at all, is the eldest senior witch of our coven, Druscilla Larkspur. Druscilla is a woman who has magic at the core of her bones. To stand next to her is to feel it. I wonder that non-witches are not disconcerted by the force that emanates from her, for they can have no understanding of what it is that makes her eyes shine and her skin glow, even though she has at the very least passed her ninetieth year. True, she looks in all other respects like an elderly woman, if rather tall and surprisingly straight backed, and though she carries a walking stick she appears never to need to trust any weight to it. She is very thin, and her face shows the struggles and cares that have afflicted her through life. Yet there is such a strength about her. She was a patient teacher, but loathed laziness, and would suffer neither pride nor false modesty in her students, so that each of us trod a fine line if we were not to incur her displeasure. She often conducted her sessions in total darkness, which was a test in itself.

I smiled at Louis. “Druscilla says practice is never a waste of time, not if you are striving for perfection.”

“I don’t think it’s something one can be perfect at. It’s not as if the spirits are all orderly, organized beings who do what they are told…”

“You are not supposed to tell them anything, not when you are calling…”

A noise from the doorway to the catacombs made us both jump. We turned to find Father standing there, wearing an expression of barely contained irritation.

“I am glad to hear you have learned that much from your studies at least, Lilith,” he said.

Somewhat stung, I answered, “I do my best, Papa.”

“I hope so. Let’s hear it, then. Let’s see how much you both know, if you are so very expert.” He spat out the final word, pointedly directing it at Louis. “Which of you can tell me the difference between ‘calling’ and ‘summoning’?”

To his credit, Louis responded without a trace of rancor in his voice.

“A called spirit is requested to attend, invited to step into the Land of Day and commune with the living. A summoned spirit has no choice. If the necromancer is skillful, whoever he summons must at the very least speak with him. At best he must show himself, too, whether he wants to or not.”

“And if the necromancer is lacking in skill? What might be the outcome then?”