Beside a mournful statue of an angel, sheltering in the relative coolness of its winged shadow, and at some remove from the main company attending the duke’s funeral, Nicholas Stricklend, permanent private secretary to the minister for Foreign Affairs, waits and watches. He has no desire to engage in small talk with others in attendance. Nor does he wish to give his condolences to the chief mourners. He wants merely to observe. To witness the interment. To assure himself that the leader of the Lazarus Coven is indeed dead and gone, once and for all, no longer occupying that privileged position of power and influence.

A squirrel scampers by close to where Stricklend stands. The quick movement of its claws on the dust-dry ground scuffs up fallen pine needles, some of which land on the senior ranking civil servant’s spotless shoes. He regards the needles with distaste. Their presence offends him. He does not consider himself unrealistic in his expectations of life; he is aware that perfection, however sincerely strived for, is often unattainable. However, it is his habit to aim for nothing less, so that even when his attempts fall short, a high standard is maintained. What he finds irksome almost beyond endurance is the way in which the actions of others on occasion cause his cherished ideal to be compromised. Focusing on his shoes he exhales firmly, directing his breath effortlessly, as if it were within everyone’s capabilities, the distance to his feet so that the pine needles are blown away as on a zephyr, and his shoes regain their matchless shine. The squirrel, sensing danger, freezes. Its face registers first fear and then pain, as it drops to the ground. After one small gasp it is stilled forever. The nearby rooks fall silent.

Stricklend returns his attention to the family of the recently deceased duke. He met Lord Robert’s widow several times when she was still the duchess of Radnor. No doubt she would remember him, just as she would remember all her guests. She would naturally value her reputation as an excellent hostess but now, even so soon after the duke’s passing, she appears to Stricklend diminished. Her husband’s illness had been protracted and his death prepared for, but still the shock of it shows. Though her face might be veiled, her demeanor, her deportment, her seeming lack of substance are plainly visible. On her right, her son, Frederick, presents a picture of almost equal frailty. The young man is tall and good-looking, with the family’s black hair and fine, aristocratic features, but he is painfully thin, and there is a restlessness about him that gives him away. Stricklend doubts the youth will make a good duke. He will not come close to filling his father’s shoes.