Just as Jane had predicted, morning light did wonders for her new home. With the sun shining in, the cluttered bedroom looked less gloomy, and even a little bit less intimidating. It definitely helped that this time, when she woke up, Malcolm was there, with his long, golden torso bare until where it disappeared invitingly under the thousand-thread-count sheets. His long-lashed eyes opened while she watched him, and his lips curved up into a happy, unguarded smile.

She began to reach for him automatically, but her stomach rumbled angrily, suggesting that her appetite for food was more urgent than her appetite for anything else. “Is there a kitchen in this place?” she asked hopefully. “Or is it true that New Yorkers live exclusively on takeout?”

“A little of both,” he replied cheerfully, swinging his legs out from under the covers and treating her to a delicious view of his muscled derrière. “There is a kitchen, but we mostly use it for eating takeout.” He went into the bathroom and turned on the water. “The staff cooks, but the rest of us burn water, so . . .” he yelled over the hiss and spray of the shower head.

Jane reached for an Egyptian cotton robe hanging from the bathroom door, but then reconsidered: even if kitchens were robe-appropriate in most houses, she vaguely recalled passing a study and a library on her way to her room last night. The Dorans probably preferred their guests to wear something a little more formal than sleepwear. She rolled out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, which was already shrouded in a thick cloud of steam.

A tanned hand snaked out from behind the shower curtain, and she squealed happily as Malcolm tugged her into the shower with him. The water pressure was spa-massage worthy, and Jane’s determination to focus on breakfast wavered briefly when Malcolm began to lather soap gently on her bare skin. But he apparently had eggs and bacon on the brain, since he was tender, but also brisk and efficient as he ran his hands all over her body. When they had finished, he gave her a playful push. “Now get dressed, you temptress, you. I won’t have the tabloids running stories on how I starve you.”

She grinned at him and wrapped a fluffy towel around her body, but a seed of doubt was working its way into her mind. Tabloids? Malcolm had mentioned that his family was in the spotlight of Manhattan society, of course. And she had known that he had been photographed for his entire life, that every accomplishment and mistake had been documented for the public. But she had never really considered that the same scrutiny might be extended to Malcolm’s wife. She wasn’t an heiress, a party girl, or a household name. She wasn’t anybody; there was no reason for anyone to care what she did.

Except that now she was going to be the wife of a somebody, and that was going to be the end of anonymity for her. Caesar’s wife must be above reproach, she reminded herself. But Caesar’s wife is a witch, so now what? Being photographed by everyone from Vanity Fair to US Weekly probably wasn’t what Gran had meant when she had told her to hide. She shivered a little as she remembered Gran’s letter: “People will be looking for you.” People who had had much more practice hiding their magic than she did, people who would notice the slightest oddness about her immediately—and who might expose her to the Dorans . . . to Malcolm.

She shut down that train of thought abruptly and shook the tension out of her shoulders. There was nothing she could do about media attention, and anyway, it hadn’t even started yet. Maybe they wouldn’t be all that interested in her, and her magic had been reassuringly quiet since they had left France. She could gloss over her family background if anyone asked, and as long as she kept smiling and didn’t knock out the power, everything would be fine.

That decided, Jane glanced around for her suitcase, but then her mind adjusted to what it had absorbed last night: the hangers, racks, and shelves of the closet were already filled with her clothes . . . as well as some she could swear were brand-new. She clasped her hands together in delight and did an impromptu little twirl before settling down to the very serious business of choosing the day’s outfit.

A floaty white blouse, charcoal-gray pencil skirt, and retro string of pearls later, Jane found herself clicking down the halls after Malcolm.

In spite of his earlier concern for her hunger, he evidently couldn’t resist suggesting that they take the long way to the kitchen so that she could see more of the magnificent house. That included a closer view of the gallery, with paintings dating back to medieval times; the sitting room; the library, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves and handy rolling ladders; but not of the study, since the door was closed. “My dad hangs out in there sometimes,” Malcolm explained in a clipped tone, and Jane, recalling Mr. Doran’s whiskey glass and bleary eyes from the night before, didn’t press for details. Nor did she ask how one family—even a sizable and close-knit one—would manage to use a living room, a den, a family room, a dining room, and a parlor. She was glad that she had gone for a more conservative, dressy outfit than she might have normally chosen for a breakfast at home with her fiancé. She might be overwhelmed, but at least she looked like she belonged.

Their tour wound to a merciful close in the kitchen, which Jane immediately identified as her favorite room of the house so far. It was spacious and airy; copper pots and kettles hung everywhere and dark green marble covered the countertops. Unlike the stuffy, tapestry-coated formal dining room next door, it was a room more about substance than style, and, contrary to Malcolm’s claims about only eating takeout, there was certainly plenty of substance. It contained every food Jane could possibly want: fresh fruit, pre-sliced vegetables, organic yogurt, hand-pressed pasta, and even brie flown in from Paris. It also contained a note on Lynne Doran’s monogrammed stationery.

“My dear Jane,” she read to herself while Malcolm tried valiantly to crack an egg. “Please join me at 21 Club at one o’clock. I look forward to getting to know all about you!”

“Your mother seems extremely pleased that I’m here,” Jane began cautiously.

Malcolm shrugged, tossing the shards of his demolished eggshell into the trash, and pushed the staff call button. “She’s always wanted a daughter,” he explained, and Jane bit her lip, remembering the mysterious name on the wall. The long-dead sister, the only daughter in her generation. Annette. “Besides,” he went on, and Jane blinked back into the moment, “she knows that I’m happy. What more could she want?”

Jane nodded. She was so used to Gran’s overbearing overprotectiveness that she probably couldn’t recognize a normal family dynamic when it was right in front of her. No doubt she would soon wonder how she had ever gotten along without such an involved and caring mother-figure.

Sofia shuffled into the kitchen, her wide eyes downcast. “Thank God,” Malcolm declared grandiosely to the tiny maid. “You’re just in time to save me from wrecking the place in an attempt to impress Jane. Would you whip me up one of those wonderful omelets of yours—sausage and peppers, please?”

He nodded encouragingly toward Jane, who found herself tongue-tied. Her usual breakfast was a cup of coffee—maybe with a croissant from her corner bakery if she had extra time. “Um, the same for me, please?”

Malcolm clucked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly. “You hate peppers, Jane. Relax, you can have anything you want! Even that weird German ham you insist is better than bacon.” He held his palms up, as if the very idea was beyond him.

Jane felt her gray eyes go wide with hope. “Speck? And . . . um, maybe tomatoes?”

“Cherry, grape, plum, beefsteak, or green zebra, miss?” Sofia asked in a neutral tone as she pulled a butcher-paper packet from a pile of similar ones in the refrigerator. Even from where she was standing, Jane could see that it was clearly marked SPECK. She felt suddenly warm and comfortable all the way down to her toes.

“Whatever’s on top,” she smiled, and then jumped as her handbag seemed to come to life, rattling across the floor.

Malcolm looked at her oddly, but she quickly placed the bag’s strange behavior, and reached in to draw out her iPhone, which was apparently in the midst of a seizure. The number wasn’t in her contact list, but it was in Manhattan’s 212 area code. “Hello?”

“You’ve landed!” a vaguely familiar bubbly voice squealed. “Jane, this is Pamela! From Conran and Associates. Antoine’s friend?”

Jane tried to reply, but Pamela, in spite of apparently hoping for a response, did not seem to be inclined to pause long enough for one.

“Things are moving fast down here, so we need you to come in ASAP. Are you free today, two-ish?” Pamela finally paused, but Jane was so caught off-guard that she didn’t manage to speak in time. A horrified gasp came through the phone’s speaker. “Ohmigod, you’re still available, right? We so urgently need to get this international division off the ground. You have to at least come in and hear my offer. Jane! Don’t commit to anyone else yet. Are you free at two?”

“Three,” Jane blurted finally, forcing her voice out into the tiny space allotted. “I can come at three.”

“Thank God. Forty-nine West Fourth, three p.m.”

The line clicked dead before Jane could say another word. She stared at the phone in her hand; the screen went dim. “I seem to have a job interview,” she announced thoughtfully. Then she caught up with the rush of Pamela’s words, and smiled happily. She had hoped to hit the ground running, so to speak, but things were moving even faster than she’d expected. And having something that got her out of the house, something that was just hers, would be a great way to keep from obsessing about reporters, witches, and fitting in with her new family-to-be.

“That’s great, honey!” Malcolm kissed the side of her head and set two sunny omelets onto the rough-hewn breakfast table. Jane noticed that Sofia had disappeared discreetly, passing the credit along to the man who couldn’t break an egg, and she marveled at how incredibly useful it must be to have good help for all the little things. No wonder Malcolm had always struck her as so self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin. He had truly led a charmed life.

And now I’ll have one, too, she thought, cutting into the tender froth. And a family, and a home, and, it sounds like, a job just waiting for me to come and accept it.

Things were most definitely looking up.