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Sadie. You’ve grown up as beautiful as I knew you would. It’s so good to see you here with my boy.

The words are in my head, delivered in a strong, rural Irish accent.

I drop my head into my hands. This shouldn’t be scary. I’ve been brought up to believe in spirits, to see them as sources of advice and love. But I’ve never managed to make contact with my own ancestors. Why the hell is Gabriel’s mother, of all people, trying to have a chat?

We were all so sad when you went away. I know I’m biased as a mother, and I know he doesn’t always go about things the right way, but you should trust my Gabriel.

I ought to reply, but I’m stunned and unsure what to say. So, I simply bow my head towards the statue, then jump to my feet.

“Okay?” Gabriel asks, taking my arm.

I nod frantically. “Fine. I really should be getting back, though.”

“Thank you for doing that. Now seriously, will you join me for dinner tonight?”

I’ve basically been given orders by a ghost. Besides, against all my better judgement, the idea is still intriguing. And maybe, just maybe, I can get some intel that’ll be useful for the case.

“No blockers, no guards, and never mention this to anyone, but other than that… you can pick me up at six.”

Gabriel grins like he’s won the lottery. “Perfect. I’ll sort out reservations.”

I dread to think what combination of threats and mind control he intends to employ to get the table he wants, but I’m past caring.

I glance back at the statue of Maeve as a thought strikes me. “Isn’t your father buried here? Shouldn’t he have a statue by now?”

Gabriel looks away. “It’s still too raw. I’ll erect one once the case is over. It’s probably for the best as far as you’re concerned though—I doubt you’d get as positive a reaction from him as from my mother. He was never your biggest fan.”

I bow my head. I guess his dad just really, really hated all Sadlers.

“In the meantime, do you want to go inside for a moment?” Gabriel gestures towards the church’s one solid door.

“Can you activate it?”

He walks over to the door. “This is the Witches’ Church, not the Sadlers’ personal family chapel. It’s keyed to my blood as surely as to yours.”

I run to catch him up, then hold out my hand. He takes it and lifts it up. Together, we grip the massive brass handle and pull. Despite its age, heaviness, and general air of disrepair, it opens smoothly.

With our hands still raised and adjoined—and I’m barely conscious of the fact I’m holding his hand, such is my concentration—we step over the threshold of the ruined church and into its perfectly preserved interior. Where I’d stood on grass moments ago, there’s now a stone floor with ornately carved wooden pews at regular intervals. A huge stained-glass window dominates the far wall, with small ones every few feet along the side walls. They show scenes from the Bible, from local history, and from practitioner lore, all artfully depicted by craftsmen who possessed both artistic skill and enough power to bring their innermost visions to glorious life. Everywhere, candles glow, ranging from those several feet high that cast their light on the main window, to tiny ones in holders by each pew. A scent of beeswax and of incense rises around us, and there’s a faint, disembodied sound of organ music in the cool air.

Back when I still lived in Mannith, I came to the graveyard every few weeks, but I haven’t been inside the church since my nan’s funeral when I was fifteen. You need two practitioners with the right strength and lineage to make it snap into life. However many times the physical church has been destroyed, this true heart of it has always survived. It was intended as a sanctuary, impenetrable by those who would do us harm.

“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper. “I’d forgotten.”

“Me too. Mum used to bring me here all the time. She used to tell me I’d have my wedding here one day. But after she died, Dad had no interest in visiting, and no one else in my circle could trigger the mechanism.”

I smile. “It’d be an odd place for a wedding. For a start, you’d have to make sure you had a bride who could see anything except nettles and crumbling walls when she opened the door.”

“That wouldn’t be an issue. I’d never marry anyone who couldn’t.”

“Your retinue of flings and admirers will be crushed to hear that,” I reply.

I keep my tone jokey, and my eyes averted from his. Because I have an alarming suspicion it’s our wedding he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.

“I’ll see you at six,” I add, turning to go. “Out by Langley Hill. There’s no way I’m having you pick me up outside The Windmill. Or God forbid, my parents’ house.”

“See you then.” He stares up at the stained-glass windows, lost in thought.

EIGHTEEN