If Tamsin had her way she would be destined to appear in the marriages section of Witch Weekly as someone who had risen above her station in life to marry a man of substance. The Prophet and modesty could both go to hell at the same time, as far as she was concerned, but it would not do to say so.

Especially not to him. Age had not changed his nature, she was pleased to note, though it had leant his boyish good looks a certain edge. She decided immediately that she liked it.

“Of course,” Tamsin lied effortlessly. “I never miss them.”

Perhaps he would spot her in the stands and fly to her side like an old knight? She would tie a favour to his broomstick and everybody would see him single her out and oh, she was getting excited at the very thought!

“Will you look for me next time?”