And then Hecate walked in.

Not theatrically. Not like an entrance asking for applause. She entered with that look people have when they do not want to fill the room, they simply want to see how ridiculous it has become since they were last there.

Black clothes. Quiet gaze. A small irony around the mouth. The kind of face that makes you want to speak carefully and I am, unfortunately, not a man of caution.

I smiled like a host who believes he controls the concept.

“Hecate,” I said, “welcome back to the field.”

She looked at me.

“The field?”