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Sybil Winter and Isadora Goode had come up through the academy together as girls, and while Isadora had few close friends, Lydia had always observed a respectful camaraderie between the two women.

Sybil had taught projection at the academy until her recent retirement and had always shown a special interest in Lydia, whose talent for the subject had been evident from her very first lesson.

Lydia, meanwhile, had always taken comfort in Sybil’s motherly attention and companionship.

Being Isadora’s apprentice was rewarding in its own way, of course, but Isadora could be prickly and demanding.

Sybil, on the other hand, had always coaxed Lydia’s talents to the fore with warmth and good humor.

Sybil wore no glamour today, or any other day, and although her face was creased, her blue eyes still held a spark of youth, and her hair had stayed mostly golden, threaded with silver.

“Where is Miss Fraser?” Sybil whispered.

“She’s coming.”

Sybil clucked softly. “She really cannot be late. Not for this.”

There it was again, the same murmur of apprehension she’d heard from Isadora earlier that same day. Lydia found herself overcome by a sudden wave of uneasiness, as if it were contagious.

“If she’s late, I can manage without her. But she’ll be here.”

“I’m sure you can.” Sybil gave Lydia’s hand a squeeze. “Still, if she doesn’t arrive in time, I’m certain Isadora will make her sorry.” She cast the grand mistress a wary glance. “Let’s both hope she gets here soon.”

Lydia looked at Isadora, who was watching her, waiting. Her heart fluttered slightly. It was nearly time. She stepped forward, but Sybil pulled her back.

“Wait.” She reached out and smoothed one of Lydia’s dark curls with her fingertips. “There. Perfect.”

···

Kitty did arrive in time, but barely. The council had already begun to arrange themselves in a circle, shifting nervously where they stood. Lydia ran over and embraced her as she walked through the door.

“Isadora looks like she’s been sucking lemons,” she whispered. “What on earth took you so long?”

“I’m sorry.” Kitty’s gaze barely landed on Lydia’s, skimming instead across the room full of black-clad council members.

Lydia thought her friend must have been quite nervous after all.

Kitty was such a funny thing, perfectly happy to waltz into a German army base or a top secret cabal with nothing but a borrowed face and a lot of gusto, but the pomp and circumstance of traditional spellwork had always made her itchy.

Lydia draped her arm through Kitty’s as she guided her toward the black stone altar. “Don’t worry, you don’t need to do anything special. I’ll do all the work. All right?” It felt strangely calming, playing at being so cool and confident. For a second it almost felt true.

Kitty smiled weakly. “All right.”

Isadora approached, accompanied by the soft rustling of satin.

“Miss Fraser,” Isadora said.

“Grand Mistress.”

There was a moment of silence as Isadora regarded her, eyebrows raised in silent recrimination for her tardiness. Then Isadora turned to address the council.

“Hail, sisters,” Isadora began.

“Hail, Grand Mistress,” the council called back in unison.

Isadora allowed the silence to settle back over the room before she continued. Candlelight flickered across the gathered faces.

“We gather tonight in support of our sister Lydia as she seeks the Grimorium Bellum . May the full moon light her way on her journey. May our voices guide her to her prize. May the Great Mother bless our cause. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” said the council.

Lydia stole a glance at Kitty, hoping to see a glimmer of that familiar mischief, but Kitty was staring intently at the silver bowl on the altar before them.

Isadora returned to the altar and produced a small silver box from the pocket of her gown.

The box flipped open, revealing a brittle scrap of stained brown vellum no larger than Lydia’s fingertip.

Ever so carefully, Isadora placed the piece of paper into the bottom of the silver bowl.

Lydia might have imagined it, but she thought for a moment the candles glowed brighter in the bowl’s reflection.

Isadora took Lydia’s hand, and she in turn reached for Kitty.

Isadora looked around the room, finally resting her gaze on Lydia. “Let us begin.”

The grand mistress was the first to recite the incantation, her voice filling the chamber like a bell. After a moment the others joined, and now a dozen voices were rising together to call out the words of power that would propel Lydia toward the Grimorium Bellum.

In past ceremonies the council’s chanting had honed Lydia’s senses, easily sending her consciousness away from her on the tide of their voices, but tonight she felt stymied.

The piece of the Grimorium Bellum Kitty had retrieved was barely more than dust, and its connection to the book was weak and threadbare.

Lydia could just barely feel the low pulse of magic emanating from the bowl on the altar, reaching out for its missing piece like a phantom limb, but the signal was dull, like trying to listen to a radio through a heavy wooden door.

Given enough time, perhaps she could have made sense of it, but the council was watching with impatience.

She could feel their eyes like insects crawling on her skin, hungry and expectant.

No matter , she thought. There are other ways .

She turned her attention away from the scrap of paper on the altar and reached for Kitty with her mind.

Tracking through another person had a way of opening up a sort of channel, like a long hallway between their minds, where memories could flow, if only for a second.

She’d never tracked through Kitty before, but she thought she knew what she might find inside her best friend’s mind—bracing hikes in green rolling hills; half a dozen squawking, red-haired siblings; the taste of biscuits and black tea on her tongue, so sweet it made her teeth ache.

Scenes from an idyllic Highland childhood.

But as Lydia reached for her friend with her mind, she found no flash of Highland green, no comforting fire.

Instead, a burst of memories blazed through her, so bright and sharp it was almost blinding— Hunger like a wound.

A woman’s voice, ranting and raving. Freezing water all around her, lungs burning, terror so profound it blotted out everything else.

Kitty’s hand felt cold in hers. Odd , Lydia thought. Kitty’s hands were always warm.

She opened her eyes.

Kitty was watching her, and now, finally, there was the smile Lydia had been waiting for all evening, but it was wrong somehow.

Joyless. Kitty released her hand, and from inside her dress she pulled a bone-handled dagger.

Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form the words, Kitty lashed out, fast and sure, and slashed Isadora’s throat.