At this the spirit laughs. It is a mirthless, guttural sound. I shake my head and open my eyes. Iago jumps from the chair and winds himself around my ankles, his fur tickling my bare skin. He meows loudly, sensing some unseen disturbance. Mercifully, the spirit falls silent. I try to put from me the notion that he is with me still. That he will be with me throughout the inauguration. How frequently does he listen to my thoughts? I wonder. Is he, in fact, with me always?

Looking up I am startled to see Violet has put on her mask and her cape. Of course I knew that everyone present would be masked. Everyone other than me. Even so, it is a shock to see my trusted friend and maid hidden and disguised, here in my own bedroom. The wearing of masks is deemed necessary to reinforce the coven’s creed of secrecy. For we guard a secret so powerful, so wonderful, and so terrible, that no person is greater than its keeping. I force myself to concentrate on what I must do now, and not to be distracted by listening for the return of the spirit who appears to dog my steps.

“My lady.” Violet’s speech is distorted by her mask, which has been specifically designed to prevent individual voices being recognizable. “It is time to go.”

“Has Withers seen to it that no one will see us leave the house?” It would not do to have a servant catch sight of the two of us so outlandishly attired crossing the lawns and disappearing into the summer house.

“He treated everyone downstairs to wine with their supper, my lady. Strong wine. They will all be fast asleep by now.”

As will Mama and Freddie, for much the same reason, though I strengthened their wine with a Sleeping Spell.

Taking no lamp, but being guided by the moonlight, we leave the house and follow the path to the rear of the garden, Iago trotting on silent paws beside us. When we reach the stone staircase that descends and twists so steeply, I speak the words that make the torches burst into life. A low murmur of voices can be heard drifting up toward us and the cool air that would fill the subterranean space on any other day has been replaced by an unpleasant warmth generated by the presence of so many heavily robed people. Or rather, not people at all, but witches. Every last one of them. So much spellcraft, so much skill, so much magic, all gathered in one place this night. All gathered for me.