“You expected her to be triumphant?” The young man gives a snort. “Then I must question the wisdom of having the challenge set in the first place. All that has been achieved is to show the wretched girl in a favorable light, to strengthen her position, in fact. There is much at stake here, Stricklend. What game are you playing?”

Stricklend pauses before answering. He does not care for his visitor’s tone. He does not care to have his wisdom called into question. In truth, he does not care for the man sitting opposite him. He finds him peevish and uncooperative and a little too ready to point out the failings of others in an attempt to puff up his own importance. A habit Stricklend considers a sign of weakness, and an indication a person cannot, ultimately, be trusted. He makes a silent promise to himself that, when the moment presents itself, he will find a way to rid himself of this particular ally. One less dagger lurking in the shadows, he reasons, is one more threat to his master’s plan removed.

“Believe me,” he says at last, “I am not a man who plays games. Had the young witch failed the challenge the Lazarus Coven would, I grant you, have been thrown into disarray, a situation we might well have taken advantage of. But, in that event, there would be no guarantee her replacement would fit better with the wishes of the Sentinels. I am quite fond of the adage, ‘Better the devil you know.’ At least now we are informed of precisely whom we are dealing with. The girl has courage and not a little talent in the art of conjuring. The summoning of a demon is no easy matter.”

The visitor shakes his head. “The summoning is simple enough. It is controlling what answers the call that requires skill.”

“And the new Head Witch equipped herself admirably on that score, by your own account.”

“One of the minor witches was taken by the demon. There was a certain amount of panic and chaos.”

“Things could have been much worse.”

“They very nearly were.”

“My dear man, is that the memory of fear I detect?” Stricklend rarely smiles, and when he does so it is not a pretty sight.

The visitor shifts in his seat, tapping his cane on the polished floorboards with ill-masked agitation. “You were not there,” he says pointedly.

“To my regret. I should have liked to have witnessed the young woman at work. As it is I shall have to make do with your report. Which I’m sure is both accurate and thorough.”