“Oh, no.” Mama, suddenly the frail dowager duchess, sinks a little deeper into the cushions of the sofa. “I shall be quite content to remain here in the cool. You two young things go out. Run along now, I insist,” she says, waving us away.

Outside the air still retains a morning freshness, though the sun is bright and the sky a cloudless stretch of blue above us. In the rigorously tended flower beds lilies and pinks bloom quietly and sweetly, but the sunshine sets the orange petals of the tiger lilies alight and causes the blue of the giant ceanothus on the south wall to sing. I lead Louis along the narrow gravel path, up the broad stone steps, past the little pond and its trickling fountain, and up to the paved corner with wrought-iron table and chairs. Someone has had the foresight to open the sun parasol, so that a pool of shade covers the seating area. Iago is stretched out on the warm stones, luxuriating in the sunshine. I stoop to stroke him as I pass, his gleaming fur almost too hot to touch comfortably.

“You foolish puss,” I tell him, “you’ll cook yourself.” I choose a chair in the shade and sit down. Louis takes the seat next to me. My eye is caught by the small rose bed to the left of the table. Mama was right, it is late for roses. Most blooms are starting to wither, petals crisping in the heat. Father would have had words with the gardener for not seeing to them sooner. No one wants to look at death while they sip their lemonade. No one save a necromancer, maybe. Who else can see the beauty in decay?

I glance at Louis and know that he would understand. There is, indeed, an intimacy to be found in the company of another witch that is inevitably absent when I am with a non-witch. I know Louis would have me believe that only a witch could ever truly understand another witch. And the viscount is a very fine witch indeed, and has grown into a necromancer worthy of respect. And he is my friend, and I do feel in need of a friend just now.

“Well, Lilith, I am astonished to find myself sitting alone with you, and at your own instigation,” says Louis, his bright blue eyes laughing. “Should I be encouraged?”

“I could not endure another word on the subject of weddings.”

“Lady Annabel is somewhat single-minded on the topic.”

“With Father gone, marrying me off has become her chief concern.”

“And she does enjoy it so. Why not humor her? Marry me before the month is out and make your dear mother happy.”

“Charmingly put, Louis.”

“I’ve tried charm”—he shakes his head—“waste of time on you, Lily, you deflect my best attempts as if you were clad in armor.”

“I can’t possibly agree to some huge society wedding while we are in mourning.”