“Oh, Lily, you know how I long to help you organize your big day. Any excuse to dress up,” she says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Her words are flippant, but I know she is only trying to be cheerful, to tease me out of my melancholy.

“My family is in mourning,” I remind her. “If we did set a date it would have to be months, perhaps years from now.”

“Well, it seems a silly waste of time to me, your not starting your lives together. You have so much in common,” Charlotte points out. “Both fabulously wealthy, irritatingly good-looking, impeccable pedigrees…”

“Charlotte, I’m not a racehorse.”

“You know what I mean. You are so well suited.”

We are both witches, I add silently to myself. I know this is the main reason my father wanted me to marry Louis. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to have such a secret casting a shadow over a marriage. With a non-witch for a husband I would never truly be able to be myself. To be totally honest. To let my guard down. And now I have the mystery challenger to think about. Someone wanted to see me fail. How can I concern myself with weddings at the moment? But, of course, I cannot make this point to Charlotte.

“Oh, look, Lily, this must be the place!” she cries, leaning out of the carriage window for a better view of the unremarkable brick town house.

We step from the carriage into dazzling sunshine, which dances prettily off Charlotte’s becoming, slender dress, making the pale blue shimmer. I feel suddenly drab and unattractive in my somewhat old-fashioned black gown.

“Come along, Lily.” Charlotte takes my arm and all but drags me up the steps to the house. “I can’t wait to meet the famous Richard Mangan! They say he has a beard like a Russian tsar and a growl like a grizzly bear.”

“Both of which sound insufferably hot to me.”

“Now, now. No gloom. Not today. Let’s try and be merry just for a short time, shall we?”

I manage to smile and nod but am unsure that I will succeed in being convincingly merry. Finding the front door open we step inside. The hallway is cool and dark, with not a sign of anyone to receive us. I have to remind myself that Charlotte believes this to be the first time I have ever set foot in the house, or ever encountered any of its occupants.

“Hello?” Charlotte sings out. “Hello, anybody there?”

We venture farther in, navigating the gloomy space, walking around discarded shoes and toys. Sounds of chiseling emanate from the back of the house.

“His studio must be that way,” says Charlotte, forging ahead.

“Shouldn’t we wait for someone? We can’t just barge in,” I tell her, trying to act as I would if it were true this was my first visit to the place.