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A Resistance of WitCHes

MORGAN RYAN

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers

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For Matt— who held the door open long enough for me to walk through

THE HIGH PRIESTESS

London, November 1940

Years later, when Lydia recalled that day at Downing Street, she would often find herself thinking about the door.

It was an ordinary door in almost every respect, if unusually beautiful—glossy black, with a sheen so high she could nearly see her reflection. Gleaming brass mail slot. Iron knocker. The number ten, painted with the zero at a slightly whimsical tilt. And yet, to Lydia, there was something enchanted about it as well. In hindsight, she would think that perhaps it was because in all the stories, passing through a magical door was a rite of passage—the black‑and‑white partition where one’s old life ends, and a newer, stranger one begins.

It was a chilly day in London, the coldest they’d had since March, and an icy mist fell across the paving stones like lace. Lydia would for‑ ever remember the way her jacket itched at the back of her neck, how her stomach twisted into knots as she stole a glance at the woman be‑ side her: Isadora Goode, her mentor of just two weeks. She watched in fascination as the frozen raindrops twisted away from Isadora’s form

just before impact, as if each one had considered the cost of the collision and then thought better of it.

Isadora reached out and rapped the knocker, hard.

One. Two. Three.

The face Isadora wore that day was thirty‑four. Thirty‑four, she had informed her young charge, was exactly old enough to be taken seri‑ ously, but still young enough to be interesting. Lydia was sixteen and two weeks and wore her face exactly as it was. By graduation she would master the art of glamouring her features, making herself appear pink cheeked and button nosed, a sweet rose of a girl like so many of her classmates, instead of skinny, pale, and hawkish. She would wear her glamour daily, the way some women wear lipstick. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.

A butler opened the glossy black door and peered at the two women.

“Miss Isadora Goode and Miss Lydia Polk, to see the prime minis‑ ter,” Isadora said briskly.

The butler scowled. “I’m afraid the ladies do not have an appointment.”

Lydia watched as Isadora pulled a mother‑of‑pearl case from the pocket of her peacock‑blue overcoat and, from the case, a card. It was inky black and bore no name, just a single inscrutable symbol, embossed in gold.

“I believe you must be mistaken,” she said.

The butler blinked at the card, then back up at the two women in the doorway. He appeared momentarily confused, then seemed to remem‑ ber himself.

“Yes, of course. The prime minister has been expecting you.” He looked surprised as the words fell out of his mouth, as if they’d been spoken by someone else.

When she thought back on that day, Lydia recalled that there had been a change in the air as she passed over that threshold—a prickling of the skin, a sensation of falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Funny,

as the place didn’t look like anything very special to her. She’d expected glittering crystal chandeliers and tall, light‑filled rooms, something like the great hall of the academy, only grander. Instead, it was rather drab and smelled of cigars. The windows had been fitted with blast‑proof shutters that blocked out the light, and there was an abandoned quality about the place. Above her head, the electric candlesticks in the light fixture gave off a faint hum.

“Miss Polk, do stop goggling.” Isadora frowned as the butler disap‑ peared with their coats.

Lydia quickly turned her attention to her shoes. They were cobalt‑ blue suede, and already beginning to bite into her ankles.

“Isadora Goode!” Lydia looked up again to see a rotund man ap‑ proaching them at a swift pace. Isadora’s face broke into a perfectly ar‑ ranged expression of joy.

“Winston!” Isadora embraced the older man, kissing him once on each cheek.

“My God, how long has it been?”

“Too long.” Isadora smiled warmly.

He looked extremely old to Lydia, older than he had appeared in the black‑and‑white newspaper photographs she’d seen of him before that day. He was jowly, with thinning hair, and wore excellent clothes that somehow managed to look rumpled on his round frame. Still, his eyes were a shocking shade of blue, and there was a sharpness there that Lydia liked.

The prime minister’s brow furrowed as he took in Isadora’s face. “Why, it must be more than thirty years. But you look . . . why, you’re . . .”

“Winston, you embarrass me.” Isadora laughed softly. Lydia didn’t think Isadora looked embarrassed at all.

“Please allow me to introduce my apprentice, Miss Lydia Polk. Lydia Polk, Mr. Winston Churchill.”

Lydia curtsied. “Prime Minister.”

“Charmed, Miss Polk.” Churchill leaned over and took Lydia’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “Now. What brings two such lovely creatures to call on a tired old man?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit,” Isadora murmured, and Churchill nodded gravely. “May we speak privately?”

“Of course.” Churchill gestured for Isadora to come with him. Lydia began to follow, until Isadora stopped her with a sharp look.

“Lydia, stay here.”

With that, Isadora and the prime minister disappeared into another room, leaving Lydia behind.

She stood alone, feeling awkward and insignificant without Isadora by her side. The walls were bare, with only empty nails and ghostly out‑ lines to suggest the art that had been hastily taken down and carted away in the wake of the Blitz. Rain pattered on the shutters, too loud in the cavernous silence. After a moment of fidgeting, Lydia sighed and seated herself in a hard, high‑backed chair against the wall. She thought she heard the tinkle of Isadora’s familiar laughter, but she couldn’t make out any words.

Why bring me along only to have me wait outside? she wondered irri‑ tably.

Then an idea occurred to her. She would be in terrible trouble if she were caught, but projection was her strongest subject. She felt sure she could manage without being detected.

Lydia chose a spot on the wall upon which to fix her gaze and al‑ lowed her eyes to relax. Her breathing slowed. If the butler had walked by, he might have thought she was extremely deep in thought, or per‑ haps a little odd, but he did not appear. She waited until her body began to feel heavy, almost as if it were sinking into the floor, and then, very quickly, she stood.

When she turned around, she saw herself sitting in her chair with a far‑off look on her face. She hated seeing herself like that, even more

than she hated looking at herself in the mirror. In the mirror she could arrange her face in a way that would minimize its flaws, turn up the corners of her lips to make herself look softer, although not necessarily prettier. Now that she’d stepped outside of herself, her face had gone slack, mouth turned down, eyes fixed on nothing. She resisted the im‑ pulse to reach out and fuss with her hair.

Isadora’s laughter rang out again. Leaving her body where it sat, Lydia followed the sound, walking unseen past room after empty room, noticing the deep marks left in the plush carpets where desks and chairs had once been, until she heard Isadora’s voice again, coming from just behind a set of heavy wooden doors. She took a breath and stepped through, bracing herself against the uncomfortable way the matter tugged at her as she slipped through to the other side.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room was furnished, with shelves of books lining the walls, and an enormous mahogany table running the length of the room. Churchill and Isadora were seated at one end of the table, their bodies angled toward one another. Churchill had already begun working on a fat cigar, while Isadora pulled a black cigarette from a sleek, monogrammed case. Churchill offered Isadora a light, which she accepted with a coy smile and tilt of her head.

“How is Clementine?” Isadora asked.

“She’s managing. You know Clemmie. Unflappable as always.”

Isadora exhaled a plume of lavender smoke. “And you? How are you?”

“Well, the damned Huns haven’t managed to kill me yet, although they do keep trying.” Churchill coughed and gestured with his cigar to‑ ward the shuttered windows. “It’s only dumb luck the Luftwaffe haven’t blown Downing Street to kindling, although they did get close. Last month they blew up my kitchen. Very nearly killed my poor cook, as well.”

It felt treasonous, spying on Isadora, to say nothing of the prime

minister. Lydia found herself slowly backing into the gloomy corner by the door—although she was certain she could not be seen—as Isadora offered some polite, sympathetic comment regarding the prime minis‑ ter’s cook.

“Isadora. ” The way Churchill said the name was so familiar, Lydia would have blushed had she been inside her body. “It is wonderful to see you after all these years, but neither of us has ever been very good at idle chitchat. Why are you here?”

Isadora held his gaze and drew on her cigarette, taking her time.

“The war,” she said. “You’re losing.”

The prime minister pursed his lips, then nodded.

“I’d like to offer my help.”

Churchill raised an eyebrow. “Like in Pretoria?”

Isadora smiled. “Pretoria was personal. This would be something more . . . official.”

“Isadora, forgive me, but I’m old and grumpy and, as you yourself pointed out, quite busy at the moment losing a war. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d speak plainly.”

Isadora lifted a snifter of brandy from the table and sipped it slowly before speaking. “I’m offering you the aid of the academy.”

Something dropped inside Lydia’s chest, as if she’d tripped coming down the stairs.

Churchill’s cigar sat forgotten in his hand, ash gathering on the tip. “You mean . . .”

“The witches of Britain are at your service.”

Churchill sat very still, regarding Isadora through a plume of smoke. Lydia held her breath.

“Why?” he said finally.

Isadora raised her eyebrows.

“The witches of Britain have never offered their assistance before.

Not during plague, or war. I daresay you’ve had good reason not to. Why, before this moment, I only had the vaguest notion that your academy even existed. If it weren’t for the things I’ve seen with my own eyes, the things I’ve seen you do . . . well, I would think you were quite mad.”

Isadora waited patiently.

“Britain has been no friend to witches.” Churchill tapped the ash from his cigar. “Why help us now?”

“Because without us you will lose, and then we are all doomed.”

Churchill regarded her in thoughtful silence before speaking. “You’ve seen it?”

“Not me, I have no talent for spying the future. But our Seers’ visions have been clear: Hitler’s army will never stop, not until they’ve overrun all of Europe.”

“If the Americans—”

“It won’t be enough. The Americans will only delay the inevitable.”

Lydia was growing tired. She could feel her body pulling her back like a fish on a hook, but she couldn’t leave. Not now. Isadora was the grand mistress of the Royal Academy of Witches—the most powerful witch in Britain, sworn to safeguard the secrecy of the academy with her life. Lydia couldn’t conceive of what horrific vision of the future could have caused Isadora to break that oath, and that failure of imagi‑ nation frightened her more than anything her sixteen‑year‑old mind could have conjured up.

Churchill appeared to have aged in the last few moments, as if cursed with the terrible knowledge of things to come. “If you join us, will we win?”

Just before Lydia was flung back into her exhausted body, she heard Isadora’s reply.

“If we join you, you will have a chance.”

Lydia maintained a careful silence as Isadora and Churchill said their goodbyes, then followed her mistress to the waiting car. She noticed it again, the subtle change in the weight of the air as she passed back through that shining black door—not a magical feeling, but not exactly mundane either. Lydia had the disconcerting sense that she was returning to the ordinary world, only to find that there was no such thing as ordinary anymore.

Once they had settled into the back of the grand mistress’s chauf‑ feured car, Isadora allowed her glamour to fade. She was sixty years old—handsome and well kept, but sixty just the same. Lydia had never seen her true face before that moment, and something about the sight of it, with all its lines and imperfections, drove home the gravity of what had just occurred.

“Well?” Isadora broke the silence. “What did you think?”

Lydia looked up sharply. “The prime minister seems very nice.” She paused. “I was glad to be able to see Downing Street for myself.”

Isadora held Lydia in her gaze.

“Miss Polk, if I didn’t want you to observe my conversation with the prime minister, you would not have been able to observe it.”

Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. “Grand Mistress—”

“Your skill as a projectionist is impressive. Most girls your age can’t remain hidden for nearly so long. They always end up showing their faces at the most inopportune moments.” Lydia stared, unsure how to respond. “The prime minister would never have been so candid in the presence of a stranger, particularly one so young. Still, I hoped observ‑ ing might be instructive for you.” She arched one slim brow. “Tell me what you thought.”

Lydia swallowed. “Swearing the academy to the war effort, revealing our existence . . .”

“To the prime minister alone.”

Lydia nodded. “It’s never been done. We’ve always remained sepa‑ rate. Hidden.” She had a sudden, jarring thought. “The high council approved this?”

Isadora studied her. “The high council was not asked for their ap‑ proval.”

Lydia was stunned. She knew almost nothing of the twelve witches of the high council, although she would soon learn. Some of them were her teachers, ordinary enough in the light of day, but together, under cover of darkness, they became something else entirely. She imagined them as otherworldly, like the Fates, or the Norns. Frightening, power‑ ful women, not to be trifled with—and each with their own alliances and agendas. A decision of this magnitude would have required their unanimous approval. To proceed without it was unimaginable, even for one as formidable as the grand mistress.

Isadora chuckled softly at Lydia’s expression. “Have I shocked you?”

Lydia quickly fixed her face. “No, Grand Mistress.”

“The council still believes that secrecy and isolation will protect us from Hitler’s war. They’re wrong. I thought it best in this instance to ask forgiveness, rather than permission.”

Lydia tried to imagine begging forgiveness from the witches of the high council and shuddered. “It must be of utmost importance that we help, then,” she said carefully.

“Do you think we should help?” Isadora’s face revealed nothing.

Lydia looked out the window at the violence wreaked on the streets of London by the Blitz. Piles of brick and stone lay scattered where buildings had stood just days before, and massive craters gaped like wounds where bombs had fallen in the night. Sandbags sat in heaps in front of shops and banks, and everywhere men and women glanced anxiously at the sky, searching the clouds for German bombers.

For the rest of her life, Lydia would remember the Blitz. She would

vividly recall the bone‑rattling explosions and the screams of air raid sirens, dozens of witches chanting long into the night to protect the academy from destruction. How it had felt, lying awake and terrified all through the night, whispering the secret words to herself, adding her small scrap of power to the current of magic coming from the elder witches in the hall below. And each morning, she would wake and find the academy still standing. She should have been relieved, but deep down, she was racked with a terrible guilt, knowing that thousands were dead while she lived. Innocent people, without any magic to pro‑ tect themselves, lying beneath the rubble.

“Yes,” she said. “We should help.”

Isadora nodded.

“Do you know why you were chosen to be my apprentice?”

Lydia had often wondered. There were other, more obvious choices. Girls with more natural talent, more charm, better families.

“Mistress Jacqueline says it’s because we must be very much alike.”

Isadora snorted. “Oh, my dear girl, we are nothing alike.” Lydia’s face burned, but if Isadora noticed Lydia’s dismay, she showed no sign of it. “I was always very skilled at charms. Manipulations, influencing the minds of men. I mastered glamours two years ahead of the rest of my class.”

Lydia felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her.

“Politics and influence, that was my talent, right from the beginning. Bringing others along to my side of things. That was why I was se‑ lected. Because that was what would be required.”

Lydia’s mortification slowly gave way to curiosity. “Required for what?”

Isadora smiled but did not answer. She took another black cigarette from her case and lit it, filling the car with an aroma that reminded Lydia more of incense than tobacco smoke. “You have no talent for di‑ plomacy. Your teachers tell me you are hardheaded, and honest to a

fault. You bow to no one when you know you’re right, not even when doing so would save you pain and trouble. And when you have decided upon a thing, you will see it through to the end, even if it costs you dearly.”

Lydia could scarcely feel insulted. She’d been summed up too accu‑ rately to deny a word of it.

“Why, then?” she asked. “Why choose a graceless, obstinate, irritat‑ ingly principled girl to be your apprentice?”

Isadora looked at her a little sadly.

Lydia would remember that look. Years later, she would recall every detail, every line and curve, and she would wonder if perhaps Isadora had known every terrible thing that would come to pass, right from the beginning.

“Because that is what will be required.”

THE MOON

Two

London, October 1943

Lydia sat at her mother’s kitchen table and reminded herself, not for the first time, that she was a grown woman now.

She told herself that she was the right hand of the grand mistress, and had been for nearly three years. That she was a graduate of the academy, nineteen years old and in the full bloom of her power. That she had the respect of her peers and of her students and of the grand mistress herself.

And yet somehow, sitting in her mother’s kitchen, Lydia may as well have been eleven years old.

“What do they have you teaching now at the academy?” her mother asked.

“Projection. Mistress Sybil has decided to dedicate herself fully to council matters, and they’ve asked me to take on her classes.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Both women sipped their tea.

Lydia glanced around the cluttered flat, taking in the hodgepodge of amber bottles and canning jars, each one holding something more

disagreeable than the last. Fat bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling— calendula, feverfew, primrose—all giving off the same musty, herbal smell that had always given Lydia a headache, even when she was a child. On the cookstove, some murky concoction simmered away, stink‑ ing like hot, wet laundry.

Lydia’s mother, Evelyn, had never attended the academy, nor was she interested in the political or magical goings‑on inside its walls. She was an herbalist, with a talent for soothsaying she had inherited from her own mother, who had inherited it from her mother before her. She made a modest living selling tea and telling fortunes and had always assumed her daughter would do the same, until the day Lydia, then eleven, announced that she’d applied for entrance to the academy, unbe‑ knownst to anyone at all, and had been accepted.

“Do they teach herbs at the academy?” Evelyn asked.

Lydia sipped her tea. “They teach Advanced Botanical Philosophy as an elective.”

Evelyn frowned. “Would you say the class is more botany or . . . philosophy?”

“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t take it.”

Evelyn pressed her lips together like she had something to say but was determined to keep it to herself. She often looked like that, as if she were biting her tongue, trying to hold in something that desperately wanted to come out. Minding my mouth, Lydia once heard her say. As if that made her meaning any less obvious.

They made a strange pair, sitting across from one another at the rick‑ ety kitchen table. Evelyn Polk was forty‑four and barefaced, with no evident interest in fashion or appearances. Her hair, once dark, had now gone woolly gray and hung in a single plait down her back. Lydia, on the other hand, wore her glossy black hair swept up and rolled in the fash‑ ion popular among the other young women of the academy. Her dress

was a deep indigo, and on her lapel, she wore a silver rose entwined with thorns—the emblem of the academy. The brooch had been a gift from Isadora upon Lydia’s graduation.

She finished her tea. Evelyn reached for her cup, but Lydia placed her hand firmly over the top and kept it there. Evelyn made an exasper‑ ated sound.

“Mother.”

“What, I’m not allowed to read your tea leaves anymore?”

Lydia left her hand over her cup and said nothing.

“Why? Because it’s not high magic? No classes on reading tea leaves at the academy I suppose?”

“No, it’s just none of your business.”

Evelyn looked bruised, and Lydia immediately regretted hurting her feelings. She’d always resented that nothing was a secret from her mother. Every private longing and event of Lydia’s childhood had been spied by Evelyn in the bottom of her teacup, to the point that as an adult, Lydia had developed a strong preference for coffee.

Evelyn began to clear the dishes, leaving Lydia’s teacup behind.

“Mother,” she said again.

Evelyn puttered at the sink, keeping her back turned. “I understand you’ve been busy at the academy, Lydia. I understand you’re a young woman now, and you want your privacy. And I know you’re supposed to present yourself a certain way, being the right hand of the grand mistress.” The dishes clattered loudly in the bottom of the sink. “But, Lydia Polk, you are still my child, and when you come into my house, I would appreciate it if you wore the face I gave you.”

Lydia was surprised by her mother’s sudden intensity. She consid‑ ered standing her ground, then thought better of it, and allowed the subtle glamour to fade.

“I thought it was quite tasteful.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the face you’ve got.” Evelyn came closer to get a better look at her daughter. “You’ve got my mother’s cheekbones, I think.”

“As well as her nose,” said Lydia.

“It’s a lovely nose!” Evelyn gave it a tap with her index finger. “I’ll never understand why you hate it so.” She turned back to the dishes in the sink, taking more care now that the tension had dissipated. “I have an idea. Why don’t you stay for supper? I have a little gin if you’re tired of tea. We could stay up, get tipsy, and read each other’s cards. What do you say?”

“I can’t. I have academy business this evening.” Lydia watched Eve‑ lyn’s face fall again.

“So late?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What type of business?”

“Mother, you know I can’t—”

“Is it to do with Project Diana?”

Lydia felt herself go very still.

Damn her, she thought. She never could keep anything secret from Evelyn.

“I don’t know what you mean.” But the lie was somehow worse than saying nothing at all. It fell flat on the floor between them, clumsy and obvious. Lydia retrieved her handbag from the kitchen chair and wrapped her mother in a stiff embrace. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you next week. All right?”

“Next week. Right.” Evelyn looked deflated.

Lydia kissed her on the cheek. “Goodbye, Mother.”

She made for the door and had scarcely turned her back before the glamour appeared once again, a softer version of her own face, with full pink cheeks and a perfect, upturned nose.

“Lydia—”

But the door closed, and Lydia was gone.

Lydia felt an uneasy guilt settle on her as the taxi carried her away from her mother’s flat in Hackney. Her relationship with Evelyn had always been fraught, even when she was a child. Lydia had felt like a changeling in her mother’s house—a fastidious, particular child, raised among the cheerful chaos of Evelyn’s life. Lately the chasm be‑ tween them had become wider still as Lydia’s role in the war effort had grown, and secrets had begun to pile up between them. Lydia reminded herself that she kept things from Evelyn for her own protection. Still, lying had never been easy for her, least of all when it came to her mother, who had a tiresome habit of knowing everything all the time, whether you wanted her to or not.

And now Evelyn knew about Project Diana.

No, Lydia thought, she knew the name, nothing more. There was no telling where Evelyn had come up with it—likely from some dream she’d had, or from dabbling in a bit of bibliomancy, as she had a habit of doing. But there was nothing at all to suggest that she knew anything more than that. Evelyn wasn’t omniscient, after all. Just nosy.

As she paid the driver and stepped from the taxi, Lydia looked out across the mass of brown‑and‑gray‑clad commuters and spotted a flash of red hair atop a brilliant, kelly‑green overcoat—it was Kitty Fraser, navigating the current of bodies at a brisk pace, a stack of parcels under her arm. Lydia waved, and Kitty grinned and waved back, nearly drop‑ ping her cargo.

“What did you buy?” Lydia called as she quickly crossed the busy street.

“Oh, a few things I’ve been needing, and then a lot of things I didn’t

need at all.” Kitty spun on her heels, momentarily distracted by a hand‑ some fellow in uniform. “How’s your mum?” she asked, hooking her free arm through Lydia’s as they walked together toward the academy.

Lydia sighed. “Evelyn is . . . Evelyn.”

Kitty was a Scottish girl of twenty and Lydia’s best friend for the last eight years. She was a full head shorter than Lydia, and sportily built, with a mass of flaming red curls that refused to be tamed and a smile that could get her out of almost any kind of trouble. She and Lydia had met their very first day at the academy, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

“I don’t know why you’re so tough on your ma. I think she’s brilliant. She’s like the witches in the old stories.”

“You didn’t grow up with her. She’s never understood why I joined the academy. She still wishes I would move back home and become a fortune teller, like her and Gran.” Lydia turned to say something else but quickly recoiled, finding that suddenly it wasn’t Kitty by her side at all, but Evelyn.

“Oh please, love, don’t be so hard on your old mum. Why, I only want you to come back home and make charms and potions with me forever and ever. Maybe we’ll find you a nice husband and you can make lots and lots of wee witch babies!”

“Great Mother, that is creepy, Kitty!” Lydia choked, but she couldn’t keep herself from doubling over with laughter. “You know you shouldn’t change out in the open like that.”

Quick as a blink, Kitty was Kitty again. She rolled her eyes. “People only see what they expect to see.” She grinned, and where just a mo‑ ment ago Kitty had stood, now there was Isadora Goode, in her full glory. “Miss Polk, do stop goggling,” Kitty intoned, in a perfect imita‑ tion of the grand mistress’s voice.

Lydia fell into another fit of laughter as she pulled open the door of a little flower shop with a green awning that bore the name Ship‑

ton Flowers. The store was small and unassuming, and had existed in this exact location for longer than anyone could remember. The smell alone—freshly cut stems, dust, the sickly sweet perfume of moldering rose petals—filled Lydia with a sense of familiar nostalgia every time she crossed the threshold. Inside was cool and dark, with tidy rows of tin buckets bursting with fragrant white lilies, enormous yellow sun‑ flowers, and pillowy garden roses in shades of pink, yellow, and violet. Spools of brightly colored ribbon hung along one wall, while jumbled rows of blue and green glass vases shone like jewels on the other.

The shopkeeper looked up as they entered.

“Miss Polk.” She gave Kitty a wry look through her spectacles. “Miss Fraser.”

Kitty dropped her glamour and offered a playful curtsy. “Judith. The hydrangeas look lovely today.”

“Thank you, Miss Fraser.”

They walked to the back of the shop, where the sweet smell of flow‑ ers gave way to the musty odor of trampled leaves and standing water, through the cluttered workroom, and past buckets, mops, and brooms to stand before a chipped green door. The door looked in every way like a storage closet, save for the faded white rose painted on its center, sur‑ rounded by thorns—forever locked, for all but a select few.

Lydia laid her left hand on the rose, and the door swung open easily.

Beyond the green door, the full grandeur of the academy sprawled before them. Gleaming white marble floors threaded with gold stretched far beyond the boundaries of the squat, brown brick building they had entered just moments ago. Elder witches dressed in modern, jewel‑ toned fashions went about their business, while academy students in their cobalt‑blue uniforms traveled in gaggles of threes and fours, gos‑ siping and laughing. Two matching spiral staircases flanked the great hall, intricately carved from gleaming ebony wood like the wings of an enormous black bird, soaring up toward a high domed ceiling, which

glowed with stained glass depictions of beasts, flowers, stars and moons, and scenes of beautiful women caught performing heroic acts and feats of magic. It had taken Lydia most of her first year at the academy to determine that it was in fact the shabby exterior of the building that wore the glamour, rather than the opulent interior.

Kitty bid Lydia a quick goodbye and bounded up the spiral stairs with her parcels, nearly colliding with a trio of young teachers as she went. Lydia watched her go, then continued making her way across the great hall until she reached another door, this one jet black and bearing a raised carving of a raven. She laid her hand on the carving, and the door opened.

The grand mistress’s personal study was a circular room lined with books stacked several stories high. Wrought iron catwalks lined the pe‑ rimeter like scaffolding, and Persian carpets in shades of burgundy and gold covered the floors. A single, enormous arched window flooded the room with a hazy glow, giving the study a dreamy, enchanted feeling. In the center of the room, two lush green velvet sofas faced one another, and between them, an ornately carved table held a statue of the goddess Diana—the huntress—bow in hand, a small deer by her side.

Isadora was standing at the window, wreathed in a halo of rosy light. She turned when Lydia entered, and crossed the room to greet her with a kiss on each cheek. “How is your mother?” she asked.

“She’s well, Grand Mistress, thank you for asking.” Lydia always felt uncomfortable whenever Isadora asked after her mother. Isadora seemed to have no strong feelings about the woman either way, yet Evelyn Polk harbored a profound resentment toward Isadora Goode, which came out anytime her name was spoken.

They sat, and Lydia felt herself being swallowed up by the plush green sofa. Isadora lit a black cigarette, and a rich, floral perfume filled the air.

“I wanted to speak with you before this evening’s ritual, to ensure

you are adequately prepared,” Isadora said. “Our success is essential to the war effort. I will require your complete focus.”

Lydia hesitated. She’d been a part of Project Diana since she was still just a student, using her skill as a projectionist to track magical objects before they could fall into Nazi hands. Hitler and his army of syco‑ phants had shown a troubling interest in the occult for some time now, twisting whatever lore best suited their needs, gathering up whatever arcane objects caught their fancy and stashing them in mines and cas‑ tles all over Europe. Most were harmless, shiny bric‑a‑brac with no real magic. Every once in a while, however, Hitler’s treasure hunters would stumble upon something with real power. This was where Project Diana would step in. Hunting, Isadora called it. Lydia’s projection would ven‑ ture out in search of the artifact, gathering clues from the object’s sur‑ roundings to determine where it might be hidden. Then it was a simple matter of sending an academy Traveler to snatch up whatever tome or relic the Nazis were targeting and hiding it away, safe and sound within the walls of the academy. Lydia usually liked to know as much as she could about the artifacts she tracked, but everything about that eve‑ ning’s ritual had been kept a closely guarded secret. Strange, as Isadora usually kept her in the closest confidence.

“I’m afraid I haven’t yet been briefed, Grand Mistress,” Lydia said carefully.

Isadora exhaled a plume of smoke, considering her apprentice. “It is essential that you do not discuss what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Do you understand?”

Lydia nodded, but Isadora’s tone made her uneasy.

“You’ll be locating a grimoire. People have called it by different names over the centuries, but the one that seems to have stuck is Grimorium Bellum. Roughly translated, The Book of War. The book’s exact con‑ tents have long been a closely guarded secret, one that I’m afraid has become lost over time, although theories persist—spells to rain down

fire, shudder the earth. Spells to bring about famine, plague, madness. Some even say it can call forth an army of spectral assassins, capable of razing entire civilizations to the ground.” She examined the glowing end of her cigarette, watching the smoke rise in a single, twisting col‑ umn. “Rumor and speculation, all. The only thing we do know for cer‑ tain is that wherever the book goes, death inevitably follows.”

Isadora stopped and held Lydia in her gaze for what felt like a very long time. “I’m sure you can imagine what the Nazis would do if they were to find such a weapon.” It began to rain, droplets splashing against the windowpane.

Yes. Lydia could imagine. She’d seen the newsreels and heard the madman speak. He’d already invaded Poland, Denmark, Norway, and France, only to name a few. It seemed he wouldn’t rest until he held the whole of the world in his fist. His Luftwaffe had already killed thousands of innocent Britons in the Blitz, leaving all of England bat‑ tered, scarred, and traumatized. And then there were the camps—Jews, Roma, homosexuals, men, women, children, all swept out of the cities and the ghettos, carted away like cattle as part of the Nazis’ monstrous mass extermination effort. She’d heard it from the Seers at the acad‑ emy, who wandered listless and weeping after the things they’d wit‑ nessed in their visions. Millicent Corey lived just down the hall from her in the teachers’ residences. She’d woken screaming one night and didn’t stop for hours, no matter how they’d tried to soothe her, until Lydia had finally gone to the infirmary to get her something to help her sleep.

“Yes, Grand Mistress. I can imagine.” Lydia’s voice did not betray the flush of horror she felt, remembering the things Millicent described. Isadora leaned forward, and Lydia thought she saw Isadora’s black cigarette tremble slightly between her fingertips.

“Then I don’t need to tell you how important it is that the Nazis do not succeed in finding that book.”

Very far away, Lydia heard what might have been thunder, or the roar of an airplane engine. Isadora’s stoic demeanor returned, and when she spoke again, it was with her usual businesslike tone.

“Our intelligence tells us that the Nazis have been recruiting. Young women, specifically. Many of them orphaned, or otherwise vulnerable. All of them from magical families.”

Lydia felt her blood turn icy. “You think they’re forming a coven?”

Isadora exhaled, perfuming the air with smoke. “I do. However, many on the council disagree with my assessment.” Isadora paused for a moment. “The truth is, the council has lost its appetite for the war effort. They never had much of one to begin with, but I managed to force their hand on the matter three years ago. Now, well . . .” She trailed off, her gaze fixed on something far away. “I think many of them find it easier to pretend the threat does not exist than to admit that it does and then have to face it.”

Lydia watched Isadora’s face, afraid to speak or even breathe. After a moment, Isadora looked at Lydia, her gaze steely once more. “Dark magic like what’s found in the Grimorium Bellum is extremely taxing to perform. Magic like that requires a full coven, and an auspicious time. The winter solstice is in ten weeks. Whatever the Nazis are planning, I expect they will attempt it then. Our spies believe the Nazis are close to finding the book. I’m asking you to find it first.”

Lydia felt something hardening inside her, crystallizing into a single‑ minded determination. “How will I track it?”

Isadora put out her first cigarette and lit a second.

“The book was in the antiquities collection at the Louvre, before the Nazis invaded Paris three years ago. Just before the invasion, the most valuable pieces were packed up and taken to Château de Chambord for safekeeping. Many of the pieces have been moved several times since then, scattered across the French countryside in the hopes of keep‑ ing them out of Nazi hands. We have reliable intelligence that the

Grimorium Bellum was sent to Château de Laurier in Dordogne. One of our agents was deployed last week to retrieve it, but she was intercepted and forced to flee. By the time she returned, the book had already been moved.”

“Intercepted by whom? The Nazis?”

“The curator,” Isadora said, with obvious irritation. “However, our agent had the book in her hands before she was stopped, and was able to get away with a small piece of one of the pages. The agent will be joining us in the ritual, and you will have her energy to work from, as well as the piece she tore from the book.”

Lydia nodded. It would be enough. More than enough. “Who is the agent?”

Isadora stabbed out her cigarette, and sighed.

Three

Icannot believe you didn’t tell me!” Lydia stood in the open door‑ way of Kitty’s cluttered bedroom, inside their shared suite on the teachers’ floor of the academy. Kitty lay sprawled on her stomach across her unmade bed, swinging her feet behind her. She looked up from her book with a mix of feigned innocence and gleeful pride.

“Och, I’m so sorry! I wanted to tell you everything, but Isadora was so serious about the whole thing, I was sure she’d hex my whole family if I told.”

“I forgive you, you silly thing.” Lydia tossed herself onto the bed next to Kitty and kicked off her shoes with a sigh. “But only if you tell me everything, I’m dying to know.”

“It was boring, really. Mostly I was just hanging around some drafty castle, pretending to be a pudgy old Frenchman until I could get the book. It was honestly the dullest mission I’d ever done, right up until I got punched in the face.”

“Punched?” Lydia was aghast. “Who punched you?”

Kitty grinned. “Henri Boudreaux.”

“Who?”

“One of the curators. Well, the curator’s assistant, I think. Big fella with a nasty right hook. Handsome, too, but we didn’t exactly have time to get acquainted, what with me being a fat old Frenchman at the time.”

The realization was dawning on Lydia now. “Last week you went home for a few days and came back with that horrible fat lip. You told me you’d been out walking and fell on your gob.”

“I know, but I didn’t! I was in Dordogne, getting punched in the face!” Kitty was obviously delighted with herself.

Lydia wrapped her arms around her friend. “Kitty, I love you, but you are absolutely mad.”

“I’m just glad I can finally tell you! So there I am, being old, and dull, and French, and praying to the Mother that I can get my hands on this bloody book before the fella I’m impersonating comes back from the café where my Traveler, that absolute prig, Fiona McGann—”

“Fiona McGann is no prig! Why, she abducted that Nazi scientist last month with nothing but a nail file and a simple muddling charm. Really, Kitty, if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re jealous—”

“Jealous? Why would I be jealous?”

“Because Fiona’s nearly as good a Glamourer as you are, and we both know you couldn’t travel into the next room if I paid you.”

Kitty gave her a filthy look. “I happen to be a specialist. Can I finish?” She waited until Lydia gave her an exasperated nod. “Right, so horrible, uptight Fiona McGann is batting her lashes and getting the real French‑ man pissed in some café. Meanwhile, I find where they’re keeping the book, and pop open the crate, when who comes along but Henri bloody Boudreaux!”

“And he just punched you? With no provocation?”

“Well, no. First, I tried to talk my way out of it, and then I tried run‑ ning, and then we tussled for a little bit, and then he punched me.”

“Oh, Kitty. ”

“But when he punched me, I dropped my glamour. So, there we are, he’s just seen a fat old Frenchman turn into a beautiful fiery‑haired maiden, and he’s punched her right in the mouth! He was off me in a second, but he’d also grabbed the book. Anyway, I had to get out of there, so I took off running. I broke in and tried again the next night, but by then it was too late. The book was gone. So here we are.”

“Kitty, he saw you?” Lydia sat up on the bed. “The curator saw you drop your glamour?”

“Relax. Nobody will believe him. I’d be surprised if he still believes it himself.”

Lydia couldn’t imagine how the man could ever forget such a thing, but held her tongue. “That piece of the book you stole. Where is it?”

“Isadora has it. Said it needed to be kept under lock and key until the full moon, when we could trace it, just for safekeeping.”

Kitty was getting bored now that the topic had shifted away from her grand adventures in France. She sat up and began fussing with Lyd‑ ia’s hair, pulling out the pins and rearranging the curls.

“What do you need me there for, anyway? I thought you Projection‑ ists could find anything, anywhere, just by putting your mind to it.”

Lydia laughed; Kitty had never had the patience for advanced projec‑ tion. “It doesn’t work like that. If I’ve touched something, like, say, this hairpin, then I can project to it anytime I like. I could even project to you, if I had to. But I’ve never touched the Grimorium Bellum. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You’ve never touched the Grimorium Bellum, but I have. Is that right?” Kitty fluffed Lydia’s hair, making it go wild.

“Exactly. The Grimorium Bellum left a mark on you the second you touched it, and that’s what I’ll use to track it. There are other ways too. Using a piece of the thing, like that scrap of paper you nicked. Or if I go

to the place where an object once was, sometimes I can follow the trail from there.”

“So you don’t need me after all.” Kitty sprawled across the bed with her feet in Lydia’s lap. “Thank the Mother. I can’t stand these fussy late‑ night rituals, and black really isn’t my color.”

Lydia gave Kitty’s leg a swat. “I do, too, need you.”

“Och, why?”

“For insurance, mostly. Using a piece of the thing can be difficult if it’s too small or too damaged. If that happens, I’ll have you to draw from instead.”

Kitty groaned. “Fine. But I’m wearing your pearl earrings to the cer‑ emony.”

“Go ahead. They’re fake.”

Kitty gave Lydia’s shoulder a playful nudge. “What will it be like, anyway? Will you go into a trance and speak in tongues?”

“No.”

“Will the whole council be there?” A hint of nerves crept into Kitty’s voice, although she did her best to hide it.

“Yes. Like I said, if I’ve touched a thing, I can project to it anytime I want. But tonight, I’ll have to send my projection who knows where, and with nothing to guide me but a scrap of paper and your silly self. That’s tricky business, even for me. Something like that can only be done under a full moon at midnight, and it’s near impossible without a full coven. The council will act as a sort of amplifier, to make the book easier for me to trace.”

“Lord, will it be a lot of horrible chanting?”

“Only for the first few minutes. After that it’s mostly silent.”

“So I shouldn’t try to make you laugh,” Kitty said with a wicked grin.

“Definitely not.”

Kitty tossed herself across Lydia’s lap. “But I’m so good at it!” Quick as a blink she transformed her face into that of Mistress Helena, who

had taught them both healing arts when they were still just girls. Hel‑ ena had always been a ridiculous figure to Kitty and Lydia, simultane‑ ously self‑important and exceedingly sensitive. Kitty loved to imitate her whenever Lydia was taking herself far too seriously. Lydia squawked with laughter, pushing Kitty away, and Kitty tumbled to the floor shrieking, wearing her own face once again.

“I have to get ready!” Lydia wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

“Will she be there?” Kitty lay sprawled across the floor. “Please say yes!”

“I’m getting dressed.” Lydia walked across the hall to her own tidy room, leaving Kitty where she lay.

“Should I go like this?” Lydia turned back, and Kitty was Helena once again, grinning up from the floor in Kitty’s bright green dress.

“Get dressed, Kitty!” Lydia shouted, still laughing, and slammed the door.

Kitty announced she was going to dinner, and was still gone when Lydia emerged from her room, freshly made up and dressed in a slim black velvet gown with a matching clutch. She thought about joining Kitty in the dining room, but then thought better of it. Lydia rarely ate before a tracking spell, as she was almost always too anxious, and the spellwork often left her feeling queasy. Kitty, on the other hand, could seemingly eat any time of the night or day, and often did, claiming that all her constant shape‑shifting required extra fuel.

When Lydia arrived in the ceremonial chamber, the high council was already there, gathered like black crows in groups of twos and threes in the dimly lit chamber. The sight of them put a sudden twist of un‑ easiness in Lydia’s stomach. Mistress Jacqueline was grumbling in a low whisper to Mistresses Helena and Pearl, all three looking annoyed to be there at such a late hour.

“. . . don’t even see why it’s necessary. It’s no business of ours if . . .”

“. . . what has Britain ever done for us? Why should we continue to risk witch lives for . . .”

“. . . power hungry, that’s what it is. She never should have been allowed to involve the academy in . . .”

Just then, Mistress Jacqueline caught Lydia’s eye and fell suddenly silent. She offered a syrupy smile and quickly turned away.

Moonlight cascaded down from the round skylight above the altar, the soft silver glow mingling with golden pinpoints of scattered candle‑ light. Isadora stood alone in the center of the room, cutting a severe figure in her black satin evening gown. She nodded to Lydia when she arrived, but did not move to greet her.

Lydia scanned the room, passing over the gaggles of whispering gos‑ sips and the false, sickly sweet smiles, until she found a friendly face at last—Mistress Sybil, who appeared to be caught in a rather one‑sided conversation with Mistress Alba. Lydia watched with amusement as Sybil made her apologies and crossed the room to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

Sybil Winter and Isadora Goode had come up through the academy together as girls, and while Isadora had few close friends, Lydia had al‑ ways 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 sub‑ ject 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.