“Oh yeah, Dad was always disappearing for one reason or another,” Rudolf says with a chuckle, “but it didn’t mean anything and he definitely wasn’t dancing with butterflies in the rose garden, or any of the other rumors the servants like to spread.”

The wind cuts across whatever he was saying like a dancer stealing someone else’s partner away, and his siblings and their spouses shift in their seats, discomfited by how it seems alive, and aware, and patient.

“I – I mean – it’s not like any of us really believes in witches, right?”