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slept badly that night. Twisting around in a knot of sheets, he was oppressed by a sense of foreboding, of something he hadn’t prepared for or had left undone. Eventually, he drifted off, only to start awake a few hours later. His head was bubbling with heat, swamped on all sides by a darkness that seemed full of strange flittings and whispering. And although he should have been afraid – he had a fever, he was ill, he was hallucinating – Lucas was instead filled with a strange exhilaration. In a waking dream, he rose from the bed and reached into the vast seething dark with his arms outstretched. Whatever he was waiting for, let it come. Let it consume him –
    But the next thing he knew, there was sunshine on his pillow, and music on the radio. In the light of an ordinary Saturday morning, the night’s strangeness soon seeped away.
    His stepsister, Philomena, and her mother were having breakfast in the kitchen, their every mouthful droolingly scrutinised by the family Labrador, Kip. In the four years since Marisa had married his father, Lucas had never seen her appear without perfectly positioned hair and a perfectly polished face, even while in her dressing gown. Philly, meanwhile, was in her jogging kit, and picking moodily at a rice cake. ‘You look r-o-u-g-h,’ she informed him.
    ‘And good morning to you too.’
    ‘Dear me, Lucas – you are looking rather peaky. Are you feeling all right?’
    ‘Fine, thanks.’ He shook his head to clear the faint buzzing in his ears, and went to pat Kip. The dog bared his teeth and backed away, and Lucas looked at him in surprise. ‘Er . . . I just didn’t sleep that well.’
    ‘Well, make sure you don’t overdo it at this party at the Charltons’ tonight.’ Marisa took a delicate sip of green tea. ‘Though I suppose Philly can keep an eye on you.’
    Both Lucas and Philomena stiffened. ‘God, Mummy. I’m not a babysitter. It’s bad enough that Sophie’s parents are forcing her to let Nick’s little friends tag along.’
    ‘Oh, but, darling, I think holding a joint birthday party is a lovely idea. So inclusive. We should think about it for when you and Luc—’
    ‘Is Dad around?’ Lucas interjected hastily.
    ‘He got called into the office half an hour ago. Another crisis with the Goodwin trial, I imagine.’
    Ashton was prosecuting the case of Bradley Goodwin, a witch accused of freelancing for the Wednesday Coven. The Inquisition was pressing for the death penalty on the grounds that one of his banes had resulted in a police officer’s death. They hoped to use the threat of balefire to frighten Goodwin into cutting a deal. If he could be persuaded to inform on his former associates, the coven would be badly hit.
    So far, however, the trial had been beset by problems. Evidence had been tampered with, one of the witnesses had disappeared, and another had retracted their statement. Witch trials didn’t use ordinary juries, but a tribunal of judges drawn from a pool of retired inquisitors and serving military officers, civil servants and magistrates. All of the tribunal members were under inquisitorial guard.
    Marisa sighed. ‘Why these emergencies always seem to happen on the weekends, I really don’t know . . . Anyway, I suppose it’s time I got dressed.’
    As soon as her mother was gone, Philomena looked at Lucas through narrowed eyes. ‘Seriously, you’d better not tag after me tonight. Gid will probably be there, and the last thing he’ll want is to be cornered by some fanboy banging on about the bloody Inquisition.’
    Lucas stretched and yawned. ‘Don’t you think I’ll have better things to do than spend my time cramping your style?’
    ‘It hasn’t stopped you before.’
    Philomena shared her mother’s expertly applied hair colour and expensive tastes, but her sturdy frame and heavy features were her father’s, the banker Rupert Carrington. She was well-groomed and fashionable enough to pass for attractive, well-connected and