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distrust and fear between us, and not a little anger.
    My father stirred, crossing to his desk. He sat heavily in his seat, aimlessly rearranging the open books and documents on his desk, not looking at me.
    ‘Nonetheless, if you wish to remain here at Lytton Park under my protection, you will tell that boy it is time he returned to the Lady Elizabeth at Hatfield.’ He drew an unsteady breath. ‘The King ordered him to guard the princess, you told me so yourself. There is no longer anything here for him, so he may as well leave. No, do not argue with me. I am master in my own house and you are still my daughter, bound in obedience to me.’
    ‘Father—’
    ‘I want that Spaniard to leave my house!’ he insisted, lifting his head to stare at me, his eyes glittering with frustration. ‘I have been patient enough. You will tell him today that his stay here is over. Is that clear?’
    I took a deep breath and forced my itching fingers to be still, though it was difficult to control the fury coursing through my own veins. I was not ‘bound’ to him in obedience, even if I was his daughter, and one word from me could make him forget this conversation for ever.
    Yet he was my father, this was his house, and for the moment I had nowhere else to go. Or nowhere as safe from Marcus Dent. That much was true, and all the spells in the world would not change it. And he was right too: Alejandro had been charged to protect the Lady Elizabeth. Who was I to stand between him and his duty?
    ‘It is almost Christmas Day,’ I muttered. ‘May I spend the holy day with him first?’
    My father hesitated a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well, Alejandro may stay until Christmastide is over. But do not let me catch you alone with him again,’ he reminded me harshly. ‘And no more spells, you hear me? Not while you are a guest under my roof.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed reluctantly.
    He stood, pushing back his chair, and began to pace his study restlessly. ‘You think me cruel, and perhaps I am. But I swear this is for your own good, Meg. Your mother, Catherine Canley, was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. So beautiful that it was rumoured she had even caught the eye of the King. She was slender and graceful as a faery’s child, with long fair hair that fell past her waist, and eyes blue as the summer sky. I will not deny it, I was captivated by her wit and beauty. But I could not overlook her sins against God, and told her so when I asked her to marry me.’
    I stared, speechless.
    ‘On the day that we were wed, your mother promised me faithfully that she would stop casting spells. That she would be nothing but an obedient wife and mother to our children. But she lied. Oh, I daresay Catherine no longer slipped out at the full moon and danced naked about the circle like her wicked sister Jane. But there were signs, and I am not a fool. Your grandmother was a witch too, you see, and neither of her daughters ever quite found the strength to give up their hellish power.’ My father turned, looking at me grimly. ‘But you will find that strength, Meg. Or leave the safety of these four walls.’
    It was St Stephen’s Day and snow was falling all around us, fragile white blooms of ice that melted as soon as they touched my cheek.
    Christmas had come and gone with horrible speed, and now I must tell Alejandro to leave Oxfordshire.
    Staring into whirling whiteness, I longed to capture this perfect moment for ever and keep it from changing. But I had promised my father not to work magick at the house. Though outside in the grounds, of course, I was not exactly
under his roof
.
    Still, it was dangerous to work magick without good cause. Perhaps I should swear to give up magick, as my mother had done on her wedding day. Certainly my magick only seemed to endanger those I loved.
    I drew my fur-lined mantle tighter.
    Now that Christmas Day was past, the weather had turned colder along with my mood. Indeed, I ought to have been freezing. But