The grandfather clock struck midnight, thunderous and slow, and a hundred masked faces glimmered above raised cups. My breath fogged the edge of my own mask, still ragged from weaving through the swirling dancers with Constance’s silver goblet in both hands. The ballroom was all candlelight and gilt, the black river beyond the windows swallowing moonlight.
Constance Hollis, the High Witch—my one reason for coming back—leaned forward in her throne of carved walnut. She took the cup from me with fingers like braided roots, held my gaze a beat too long, and drank. I flinched as the room went silent. She smiled. The cup slipped from her hand, hit the marble, shattered: a single, ringing note. Then, Constance folded as if her bones had melted. Frost crawled from her lips, spidering along her jaw. She slumped into her chair.
Every door in Ravensmere slammed in unison, their old iron locks clanging home. Shadows leapt and flickered as every candle guttered blue. No one breathed.
Sabine Hollis, draped in midnight velvet and pearls, turned to me with a voice like a cold blade: “Cursed sleep. Dead by dawn. And she drank from your hands.”
A hundred witches pivoted as one. Their masks—fox, crow, stag, serpent—hid their eyes, but I felt every suspicion burning holes through me. I tried to breathe. My own mask, a simple black domino, felt suddenly like a noose.
That was when Gabriel stepped between me and the crowd, tall in his black suit, mask askew. I hadn’t seen him up close in three years—not since the summer I left, swearing I’d never need the Hollis name or him again. His voice was steady as steel. “Nobody touches them,” he said, planting himself between me and the circling coven, “until we know what was in that cup.”
The moment stretched, brittle and electric. Sabine’s mouth opened, sharp with protest. Behind her, Rowan Pike, the steward, hurried to Constance’s side, feeling for a pulse as frost crept up the old woman’s throat. I could see Sabine’s fingers twitching, itching to cast something she’d regret. The crowd pressed closer, hungry for blood or confession.
I glanced at Gabriel. He shot me a look, unreadable behind the mask, but his stance was defiant—dangerous. The air thickened with old spells. Somewhere, a clock ticked away my innocence.
Then, across the room, a mask in the shadows moved, too quickly, slipping away from the crowd—out of place, out of rhythm. Someone who didn’t want to be seen now that the house was sealed.
My heart hammered. The doors wouldn’t open. Constance would die at dawn if I didn’t untangle the truth. And I’d just become the prime suspect in a coven that never forgave.
I had to move. Now.