Page 7

“Meow.”

Just then, the familiar sound interrupted her thoughts. Marina looked up and saw her small black cat sauntering into the room with the confidence of a creature who believed the entire house belonged to her.

She smiled, opening her arms before murmuring fondly, “There you are, Luna.” The cat jumped into her lap at once, snuggling against her. Marina chuckled, her fingers stroking the lustrous fur. “Of course,” she whispered affectionately, “you had to hide away all through Harper’s visit. When will you finally decide to become friends?”

Luna purred, and Marina knew Harper would find such rejection offensive. Marina’s fingers continued moving through the cat’s fur, petting her idly. As much as she had fought it, Harper’s earlier question resurfaced. Do you still believe in your dreams?

“All pointless now,” she murmured.

She was thirty. Six years had passed since the scandal, yet it had followed her like a shadow. And at this point, she wondered whether it would follow her even into her grave.

“Who would ever marry a witch? Let alone have children with her?” she said with dry amusement. It sounded even more absurd saying it out loud.

Then, as though the heavens themselves had been waiting for her to ask such a question, a knock sounded at her door.

Marina froze, her hand stilling against Luna’s back. For several seconds, she stared toward the door.

Knock.

Another one.

Carefully, she lifted Luna from her lap and rose. She crossed to the window and peered through the glass.

No one.

Of course. She knew this game. Someone would knock, disappear before she could answer, then return to do it all over again. Three or four times, usually, until they grew bored or she stopped responding.

Not again.

It was nearly dinnertime, and she had every intention of enjoying a peaceful evening. Whether her visitors were mischievous children or Lady Beatrice’s minions, she meant to send them on their way.

And she knew precisely how.

She opened the door and stepped out. The sun had almost set, but it was light enough for her to see nobody was in the garden. That didn’t mean they were not hiding nearby.

Marina cleared her throat and lowered her voice to the deepest, most mysterious tone she could manage.

“Ezzara… Morthana… Veloria.”

She added a few more meaningless words, waving one hand dramatically toward the garden from the doorway, as though summoning something dreadful from the darkness beyond. The corner of her mouth twitched as she struggled not to laugh at her own silliness.

Then a deep masculine voice sounded beside her.

Unfamiliar. Commanding. And so unexpectedly close that every hair on her arms stood on end.

“Are you truly a witch?”

Three

“Are you truly a witch?”

Ambrose watched the woman before him start so violently that he almost regretted speaking. She spun toward him, one hand flying to her breast, her dark blue eyes widening as she struggled to catch her breath.

He had expected Lady Whitmore to look rather different. The glasshouse outside, the herbs hanging about the candlelit cottage, and the open books scattered across nearly every available surface suited a woman known throughout the neighborhood as the Christmas Witch. But the lady herself bore little resemblance to the creature the villagers had invented. She was tall and slender, with dark curls framing a face that was far too lovely to belong to any witch he had ever imagined.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, pressing her hand more firmly against her chest. “Who are you? And what are you doing hiding on my porch?”

“A question I might have asked myself a moment ago,” he replied, glancing toward the doorway. “Though I confess I was rather more interested in discovering whether your incantation would produce anything dreadful.”