“Witches, my little floral cushion. That’s what we are.” A delicious and wicked thrill went through Blue at the word. It was not that she had aspirations of being a witch; it was that she had been a nameless accessory for so long that the idea of having a title, or being anything, was a delicious one.

But misguided.

“Maybe you,” Blue said.“But the best I can do is not help people. Sometimes.” She thought about how she had pulled the plug on Noah in Monmouth but had been unable to at Jesse Dittley’s. That, she realized, had been Gwenllian.

“People!” Gwenllian laughed gloriously. “People! Men? What makes you think you are a friend to men?”