Ian looked a little disappointed, like he’d hoped she might say something else entirely, but Ken smiled. “That has nothing to do with me, I’m afraid. You’ll notice a number of unseasonal oddities here.”

It’s because there’s a lot of magic here.

But she couldn’t say that. Maybe there really were witches here. Or maybe this was something else entirely, some sort of wicked, Gothic trap designed to ensnare reckless, naïve witches who didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. Was that unlikely? Yes. Impossible? No. Either way, this much she did know: she, Ian, and Ken were all dancing around the subject, each trying to figure out how much the other knew, and she couldn’t be the one to crack first.

So she pretended to lose interest in the unseasonal lavender, smiled her sunniest smile, and said, “Shall we go in, then?”

Mika had had a number of doubts about the existence of the children, people on the internet not typically being known for their attachment to the truth, but the inside of the house put most of those doubts to rest. It was crammed full to bursting with cheerful armchairs, blankets, plants, and books. The walls were painted a creamy white that was occasionally interrupted by the squiggle of a crayon or a smudge of finger paint; the pairs of trainers, ballet flats, and wellies crammed into an untidy line in the front hallway varied in sizes from pre-schooler to adult; one of the windows had a distinctive smear on it that suggested a child’s nose was frequently pressed up against it; and, of course, there were toys all over the place.

A lot of work had obviously been done on the house to keep it clean and warm. New radiators clanked merrily and there was a lit fireplace in the enormous front room. Bright cushions and cosy rugs added life to the soft sofas and armchairs. The stairways, tables, and floorboards were all made of polished, sturdy wood, and there were potted plants in every hallway and room they passed on their way to the very back of the house, where they stopped at last in a rustic, sunlit kitchen.

There were two people in the kitchen: a short, round white woman in her fifties, who Mika presumed was Lucie, and a scowling white man in his mid-thirties, who had to be Jamie. The woman, who was examining a tray of potted herbs with a critical eye, turned as they entered, but the man remained at the open French doors on the other end of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest and his scowl pointed out into the back garden.

“Perfect timing! You can start dinner,” the woman said to Ian.

“Mika, meet Lucie,” said Ian, bounding across the kitchen. “Won’t someone put the kettle on while I preheat the oven?”