Quiet tears rim the eyes of the slim figure, back-lit by a honey coloured moon that hovers over wine-dark seas, it’s light flaring across the path its reflection makes and climbing in through the creeper framed tower wind eye. The glamorous light also picks out a brace of looms and whalebone chairs in the floor’s centre.
A second source of light grows brighter. This light is warmer, the scent of resin and burning herbs fills the heavy night air. Above the fire is a cauldron, hanging by a thin chain from a tripod. There is little smoke. This is a witch-fire. A strong enchantment is being prepared. There is much to be asked for; and it must be done well; done without fear. In all honesty.