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“It is a glamour. I need to appear to age to my mortal servants. Witches age very slowly after we reach maturity. We live many lifetimes with different names and faces. One day, I will change my face and name and this version of me will supposedly die.”

“You look a lot more like Ágota with your true face,” I remark.

Ágota peers at the mirror and smirks. “I do wear your features better.”

In the mirror, she is the same young woman as always. I do notice her eyes glow slightly in her reflection, but otherwise, there is no difference. Soffia tromps over to us to peer into the mirror to scrutinize Ágota’s reflection and mine. I glimpse a much younger, prettier version of Balázs’s wife when she leans close. She, too, is glamoured.

Without a word, she storms across the floor and through a doorway. It clangs shut behind her.

“Is this proof enough?” Balázs’s voice sounds dangerous.

The coven members all nod, some with great reluctance.

“I need to speak to my daughter and her sister. You may go.”

I am satisfied when a few witches, including the red-haired lady and the man with the silver hair, bow their heads to Ágota before departing. When the last of them leaves the great hall, Balázs covers the mirror and gestures with it toward a different door.

In silence, we follow him.

“We need privacy to discuss what I plan to do with the two of you,” he says to us, winking.

The new room is tidy with a large desk covered in ledgers and papers, a bookcase filled with books, and a huge chair with a back that is carved to resemble a burning tree. Seating himself behind the desk in the impressive chair, Balázs holds the mirror toward Ágota.

“This is yours by right, Ágota. You were correct. Viorica did leave the mirror behind when she fled with you.”

Ágota plucks it from his hand with a satisfied look and stores it in her bag. “What else do you have that belonged to my mother?”

“A few items that I will return to you. They do rightfully belong to you. Especially since you are the Archwitch.”

With a nod of her head, Ágota leans her hip against the edge of his desk and waits for him to speak. I linger near the door, still uncertain of how much we should trust her father. Balázs settles back in his chair and drops his glamour. It is strange to watch him become a much younger version of himself. He now looks more like Ágota’s older brother.

“I am glad you’ve come here, Ágota, but your presence does complicate matters.”

“Why should that matter? You are my father. I am an Archwitch. The coven will have to accept the truth.”

“Oh, they are already accepting it, but they are not happy about it. In the old world, the Archwitches taught the newly ascended ones the exalted magicks. Unfortunately, they all died attempting to hold the portal open between our world and this one.” With a sad sigh, he runs his hand over his hair. “Viorica was young and untrained. She had to learn on her own. I will guide you to the best of my abilities, but your power far exceeds mine. That is why the book you carry is so valuable. It will guide you when I cannot.”

“How many Grandwitches are there?” Ágota asks.

Balázs holds out his arms. “Only me.”

“Oh!” I approach his desk and lean my elbows on the surface to stare at him. “Are you the king of the witches?”

“No, no. Maybe. A little like one. There are not many of us left, you know.”

Ágota frowns. “We are hard to kill though. How can that be?”

“Our enemies learned to burn us. That is why we hide and tread carefully when interacting with humans.”

Ágota sets her long hands on the edge of the table beside me and leans toward her father, eyebrows lowering. “My mother told me to come to you if she died. She also said you loved me, but she could not trust you to stop Soffia. That you were smitten with her.”

“I arrogantly believed I could broker peace between them. I married Soffia because I loved her deeply. I still do, I suppose. Viorica was the woman I had loved since childhood, but I was wise enough to understand she would never marry. She could not. So much of the magic of our old world was hidden inside her and her legacy would be a new Archwitch. She refused to marry because she did not want a man to claim that power and raise the future Archwitch to serve him.”

“Men are fools,” I say. “Mother always said so.”

Balázs casts a sorrowful look in my direction. “Men are fools. They love power. All kinds of power and they will do just about anything to obtain it. That is why there are so many wars. Your mother was correct in that regard. I also acknowledge my own foolishness in not recognizing the danger of Soffia’s jealousy even though she agreed that I should sire the new Archwitch.”

“She agreed?” Ágota gaps at him in disbelief.