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A whirlpool of light, blinding brightness with eddies of glare, like the summer sun on still water.

A voice called her name. “Miranda . . . my love . . .Miranda . . .” Adam .

. . Adam was calling her from somewhere within the dazzling chaos.

She felt fingers upon her skin, in her hair, but it was not his touch.

Paper-dry, a lizard’s reptilian caress, the touch of Death.

The unseen hands wandered to her neck, lingering on the column of her throat, sliding downward.

She tried to move, to brush the unseen creature away, but she heard the clink of chains. A manacle held her wrist.

Miranda’s eyes flew open. She was lying on a divan, fixed by a length of iron to the floor.

“I thought that might bring you around,” Ropwell jeered. “In any case, it was a delightful way to while away the time. No one else here but the two of us.”

She tried to get up only to fall back when the room began to sway.

Once more, she closed her eyes trying to still the spinning sensation and steady her thoughts.

Recollection returned, along with a sense of dread.

It took no witchcraft to determine that Ropwell was desperate and therefore dangerous.

Only dire need could have spurred the man to kidnap a Wodesby witch, and witch he believed her to be.

Was this the doom that Hecate had set for her then?

To die for lack of sorcery just when she had found true magic?

Chained, at Ropwell’s dubious mercy, there was no weapon left her.

Save illusion. She nurtured that small spark of hope.

If she could use Ropwell’s belief in her to her advantage, play upon the fear that was companion to his faith in her power, she might be able to purchase some time.

A dangerous masquerade, a dance on the razor’s edge, the least slip would likely prove fatal, but it was the only chance she had.

Her restrained hand slipped to a hidden pocket as she felt Ropwell’s breath on her cheek.

Brandy . . . if he was somewhat foxed that might prove to her advantage.

“Touch me again, Ropwell and you are a dead man,” Miranda warned, shoving him aside with her free hand. The unexpected blow sent him flying off the divan. She rose with languid grace as he got unsteadily to his feet. From the look of it, he had taken a heavy dose of Dutch courage.

“You are in no position to make threats, Miss Wilton. I have it upon excellent authority that iron negates a witch’s powers,” Ropwell said angrily.

“Some of them,” Miranda informed him with every appearance of icy disdain.

“‘However, you are still in mortal jeopardy. Obviously you have been possessed by some demon, else you would not have taken so foolish a risk. The wrath of the Wodesbys is not usually hazarded unless the stakes are high. You may have thwarted me, but my family will find me. And you.”

His sneer was frozen on his lips and while he was not yet trembling, the whites of his eyes had enlarged perceptibly.

Fear. She would build on it. “Why are you daring my anger, demon?” she asked, though she could guess the answer.

“Answer and know you this, my brother the Mage has never been known to take insult lightly. So even should you prove to be a satanic shade with powers greater than mine, my brother Damien will pursue you to the very halls of Hades. He has more than a passing acquaintance with the master there.”

The image of an angry Lord Wodesby pounding the gates of hell was quelling. It took some moments before Ropwell found his voice. “You did not seem so adept at self-defense when we were in Gutmacher’s Hall, Miss Wilton.”

She gave him what she hoped was a knowing smile.

“I was content to let Brand defend me. Men always prefer to believe that they are stronger and in control. Adam does not believe what I am, and for the moment it suits me so. But you believe, don’t you, Ropwell?

Else, I would not be here. So, tell me what you want or let me go about my business. ”

Ropwell looked at her in confusion. Her reaction was entirely unexpected, as was her demeanor. Despite her stained, torn, clothing, she had an arrogant air of royalty. “You are the witch,” he sputtered. “Why do you not tell me?”

Miranda forced a laugh, her fear tinging it just the right maniacal shade.

“It would appear that you do not know as much about witches as you would think, milord. We are not all Seers and Readers of thoughts, but I think I can guess what you are seeking. This.” She raised her free hand, plucking at the air above her as if gathering fruit from a bough and threw a shower of gold, silver and copper at his feet, the entire contents of her hidden pocket.

Once more she laughed, this time at his open-mouthed awe.

“It always comes down to money with mortals. You wish me to find your late wife’s jewels.

However, you are mistaken if you believe that you have won my favor with cold iron.

” She picked up the length of chain and rattled it distastefully.

Ropwell looked down at the fallen coins, moving one of them with the toe of his boot. “I made your brother an excellent proposal, far more than the original five-hundred pounds that I suggested at Lady Pelton’s séance” he said, his tones those of a recalcitrant schoolboy.

“You offered him money?” Miranda said, with a throaty chuckle. “Ah, Ropwell, the devil must favor you, for I’ve seen Damien transform men into mice for lesser insults. As you can see, we have no need for paltry bits of shiny metal. Besides, you should have come to me.”

“Then what do you want?” Ropwell asked suspiciously.

“For the jewels?” Miranda tapped her chin in a gesture of consideration.

“First-born sons are preferable, though Damien has been known to accept a daughter should she prove uncommon pretty. But you are without issue, so you have naught to barter there . . . hmm. I suppose I could ask for your immortal soul.”

“You did not ask for Lady Pelton’s soul,” Ropwell protested. “You would not even take her diamond necklace.”

“She was my Grandmere’s friend and summoning her lord was not a difficult task.

Pelton’s shade actually wished to see her.

However, I suspect that your Felicity might be somewhat reluctant to do anything to assist you,” Miranda explained with scorn.

“Uncooperative ghosts can be almost as unpleasant as angry mages. When you put that into the cauldron, I doubt that your soul would be worth the trouble, tarnished as it is. Moreover, Damien might consider it forfeit anyway under the circumstances.” She quirked a brow, observing him carefully.

She dared not push him beyond fear and into the realm of anger, or she was lost.

“P . . . p . . . please, Miss Wilton, I meant no harm. It is just th . . .th . . . that those jewels are my last hope,” Ropwell told her.

“Very well,” she sighed. “I suppose that your soul will have to do, though Damien will be sorely vexed with me. Between Parliament and the Exchange we have had a surfeit of souls come on the market of late. Now, we must get it all right and tight, in contract form of course, before my brother’s arrival. ”

She sounded as if she truly believed it imminent and Ropwell hastened out of the room in search of writing implements.

As his footsteps retreated, Miranda collapsed on to the divan, drawing a ragged breath.

From the layer of dust, it looked as if this room had not been visited for some time.

She got up and walked the full length of her tether, searching for something that she might use as a weapon, but the tower room was bare, save a small, cracked mirror, warped wardrobe, a plain wooden table and a bed.

Moonlight shone silver through a large window that rose from floor to ceiling.

The river winding below was likely the Thames, though she could not be sure.

As she tried to puzzle out her location, she heard a curse and the sound of stumbling on the stair.

Miranda found herself praying that her captor would not put an end to himself before she could win her freedom.

With a triumphant flourish, Ropwell produced a portable writing desk.

“Not quite parchment, but it will do,” Miranda pronounced, donning the mask of bravado once again as she pulled out a sheet of yellowed vellum and a quill. She picked up the sharpening knife. “If you will just give me your left thumb.”

“For what purpose?” Ropwell asked suspiciously, taking a step back.

Miranda put down the knife with exasperation.

“Honestly, Ropwell, do you think I could gut you with a wee bit of steel such as this? All soul contracts must be made out in blood, or else they are invalid. Now, if you wish me to summon your wife, then we had best get on with it before the night wanes. Surely you can spare a bit of claret with a fortune at stake?”

Ropwell stuck out his hand and averted his eyes.

. . .

Warm in his place by the hearth, Thorpe glared ferociously, as Damien entered the library at Wodesby House, Angel at his heels. Adam stalked across the floor to confront the Mage. “What did you get from the man that Miranda shot?” he asked.

“His employer supplied no name, but from the description that he gave me, we can now be certain that it was Ropwell that hired him,” Damien said, looking down at Brand with a forbidding expression that would have stilled the tongues of most men.

Not Brand’s.

“A revelation!” Adam said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “How many spells and incantations did it require, Wodesby, to confirm what I posited nearly an hour ago?”

“No sorcery at all Brand, but science,” Damien replied, holding up a bruised hand. “Physical force was sufficient and, if I might say, somewhat satisfying.”