The Book of Life

7

I stood in Sarah’s stillroom and stared through the dust on the surface of the window’s wavy glass. The whole house needed a good airing. The stiff brass latch on the sash resisted my attempts at first, but the swollen frame finally gave up the fight and the window rocketed upward, quivering with indignation at the rough treatment.

“Deal with it,” I said crossly, turning away and surveying the room before me. It was a familiarly strange place, this room where my aunts had spent so much of their time and I so little. Sarah left her usual disorderly ways at the threshold. In here all was neat and tidy, surfaces clear, mason jars lined up on the shelves, and wooden drawers labeled with their contents.

CONEFLOWER, FEVERFEW, MILK THISTLE, SKULLCAP, BONESET, YARROW, MOONWORT.

Though the ingredients for Sarah’s craft were not arranged alphabetically, I was sure some witchy principle governed their placement, since she was always able to reach instantly for the herb or seed she needed.

Sarah had taken the Bishop grimoire with her to Sept-Tours, but now it was back where it belonged: resting on what remained of an old pulpit that Em had bought in one of Bouckville’s antique shops. She and Sarah had sawed off its supporting pillar, and now the lectern sat on the old kitchen table that had come here with the first Bishops at the end of the eighteenth century. One of the table’s legs was markedly shorter than the other—nobody knew why—but the unevenness of the floorboards meant that its surface was surprisingly level and solid. As a child I’d thought it was magic. As an adult I knew it was dumb luck.

Various old appliances and a battered electrical-outlet strip were strewn around Sarah’s work surface. There was an avocado green slow cooker, a venerable coffeemaker, two coffee grinders, and a blender. These were the tools of the modern witch, though Sarah kept a big black cauldron by the fireplace for old times’ sake. My aunts used the slow cooker for making oils and potions, the coffee grinders and blender for preparing incense and pulverizing herbs, and the coffee machine for brewing infusions. In the corner stood a shining white specimen fridge with a red cross on the door, unplugged and unused.

“Maybe Matthew can find something more high-tech for Sarah,” I mused aloud. A Bunsen burner.

A few alembics, perhaps. Suddenly I longed for Mary Sidney’s well-equipped sixteenth-century laboratory. I looked up, half hoping to see the splendid murals of alchemical processes that decorated her walls at Baynard’s Castle.

Instead dried herbs and flowers hung from twine strung up between the exposed rafters. I could identify some of them: the swollen pods of nigella, bursting with tiny seeds; prickly-topped milk thistle;

long-stemmed mullein crowned with the bright yellow flowers that earned them the name of witches’ candles; stalks of fennel. Sarah knew every one of them by sight, touch, taste, and smell. With them she cast spells and manufactured charms. The dried plants were gray with dust, but I knew better than to disturb them. Sarah would never forgive me if she came into her stillroom and discovered nothing but stems.

The stillroom had once been the farmhouse’s kitchen. One wall was occupied by a huge fireplace complete with a wide hearth and a pair of ovens. Above it was a storage loft accessible by a rickety old ladder. I’d spent many a rainy afternoon there, curled up with a book listening to the rain patter against the roof. Corra was up there now, one eye open in lazy interest.

I sighed and set the dust motes dancing. It was going to take water—and lots of elbow grease—to make this room welcoming again. And if my mother had known something that might help us find the Book of Life, this is where I would find it.

A soft chime sounded. Then another. Goody Alsop had taught me how to discern the threads that bound the world and pull on them to weave spells that were not in any grimoire. The threads were around me all the time, and when they brushed together, they made a sort of music. I reached out and snagged a few strands on my fingers.

Blue and amber—the colors that connected the past to the present and the future. I’d seen them before, but only in corners where unsuspecting creatures wouldn’t be caught in time’s warp and weft.

Not surprisingly, time was not behaving as it should in the Bishop house. I twisted the blue and amber threads into a knot and tried to push them back where they belonged, but they sprang back, weighting the air with memories and regret. A weaver’s knot wouldn’t fix what was wrong here.

My body was damp with perspiration, even though all I’d done was displace the dust and dirt from one location to another. I’d forgotten how hot Madison could be at this time of year. Picking up a bucket full of dingy water, I pushed against the stillroom door. It didn’t budge.

“Move, Tabitha,” I said, nudging the door another inch in hopes of dislodging the cat.

Tabitha yowled. She refused to join me in the stillroom. It was Sarah and Em’s domain, and she considered me an invader.

“I’ll set Corra on you,” I threatened.

Tabitha shifted. One paw stretched forward past the crack, then the other as she slipped away.

Sarah’s cat had no wish to battle my familiar, but her dignity forbade a hurried retreat.

I pushed open the back door. Outside, a drone of insects and an unrelenting pounding filled the air.

I flung the dirty water off the deck, and Tabitha shot outside to join Fernando. He was standing with a foot propped up on a stump we used to split wood, watching Matthew drive fence posts into the field.

“Is he still at it?” I asked, swinging the empty bucket. The pounding had been going on for days:

first replacing loose shingles on the roof, then hammering the trellises into place in the garden, and now mending fences.

“Matthew’s mind is quieter when he is working with his hands,” Fernando said. “Carving stone, fighting with his sword, sailing a boat, writing a poem, doing an experiment—it doesn’t really matter.”

“He’s thinking about Benjamin.” If so, it was no wonder Matthew was seeking distractions.

Fernando’s cool attention turned to me. “The more Matthew thinks about his son, the more he is taken back to a time when he did not like himself or the choices he made.”

“Matthew doesn’t often talk about Jerusalem. He showed me his pilgrim’s badge and told me about Eleanor.” It wasn’t a lot, given how much time Matthew must have spent there. And such ancient memories weren’t likely to reveal themselves to my witch’s kiss.

“Ah. Fair Eleanor. Her death was another preventable mistake,” Fernando said bitterly. “Matthew should never have gone to the Holy Land the first time, never mind the second. The politics and bloodshed were too much for any young vampire to handle, especially one with blood rage. But Philippe needed every weapon at his disposal if he hoped to succeed in Outremer.”

Medieval history was not my area of expertise, but the Crusader colonies brought back hazy memories of bloody conflicts and the deadly siege of Jerusalem.

“Philippe dreamed of setting up a manjasang kingdom there, but it was not to be. For once in his life, he underestimated the avarice of the warmbloods, not to mention their religious fanaticism. Philippe should have left Matthew in Córdoba with Hugh and me, for Matthew was no help to him in Jerusalem or Acre or any of the other places his father sent him.” Fernando gave the stump a savage kick, dislodging a bit of moss clinging to the old wood. “Blood rage can be an asset, it seems, when what you want is a killer.”

“I don’t think you liked Philippe,” I said softly.

“In time I came to respect him. But like him?” Fernando shook his head. “No.”

Recently, I’d experienced twinges of dislike where Philippe was concerned. He had given Matthew the job of family assassin, after all. Sometimes I looked at my husband, standing alone in the lengthening summer shadows or silhouetted against the light from the window, and saw the heaviness of that responsibility weighing on his shoulders.

Matthew fitted a fence post into the ground and looked up. “Do you need something?” he shouted. “Nope. Just getting some water,” I called back.

“Have Fernando help you.” Matthew pointed to the empty bucket. He didn’t approve of pregnant women doing heavy lifting.

“Of course,” I said noncommittally as Matthew went back to his work.

“You have no intention of letting me carry your bucket.” Fernando put a hand over his heart in mock dismay. “You wound me. How will I hold up my head in the de Clermont family if you don’t allow me to put you on a pedestal as a proper knight would do?”

“If you keep Matthew from renting that steel roller he’s been talking about to resurface the driveway, I’ll let you wear shining armor for the rest of the summer.” I gave Fernando a peck on the cheek and departed.

Feeling restless and uncomfortable in the heat, I abandoned the empty bucket in the kitchen sink and went in search of my aunt. It wasn’t hard to find her. Sarah had taken to sitting in my grandmother’s rocking chair in the keeping room and staring at the ebonized tree growing out of the fireplace. In coming back to Madison, Sarah was being forced to confront the loss of Emily in an entirely new way. It had left her subdued and remote.

“It’s too hot to clean. I’m going into town to run errands. Do you want to come?” I asked.

“No. I’m okay here,” Sarah said, rocking back and forth.

“Hannah O’Neil called again. She’s invited us to her Lughnasadh potluck.” Since our return we’d received a stream of phone calls from members of the Madison coven. Sarah had told the high priestess, Vivian Harrison, that she was perfectly fine and was being well taken care of by family. After that, she refused to talk to anyone.

Sarah ignored my mention of Hannah’s invitation and continued to study the tree. “The ghosts are bound to come back eventually, don’t you think?”

The house had been remarkably free of spectral visitors since our return. Matthew blamed Corra, but Sarah and I knew better. With Em so recently gone, the rest of the ghosts were staying away so that we didn’t pester them with questions about how she was faring.

“Sure,” I said, “but it’s probably going to be a while.”

“The house is so quiet without them. I never saw them like you did, but you could tell they were around.” Sarah rocked with more energy, as if this would somehow bring the ghosts closer.

“Have you decided what to do about the Blasted Tree?” It had been waiting for Matthew and me when we returned from 1591, the gnarled black trunk taking up most of the chimney and its roots and branches extending into the room. Though it seemed devoid of life, the tree did occasionally produce strange fruit: car keys, as well as the image of the chemical wedding that had been torn from Ashmole 782. More recently it had offered up a recipe for rhubarb compote circa 1875 and a pair of false eyelashes circa 1973. Fernando and I thought the tree should be removed, the chimney repaired, and the paneling patched and painted. Sarah and Matthew were less convinced.

“I don’t know,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I’m getting used to it. We can always decorate it for the holidays.”

“The snow is going to blow straight through those cracks come winter,” I said, picking up my purse.

“What did I teach you about magical objects?” Sarah asked, and I heard a trace of her normal sharpness.

“Don’t touch them until you understand them,” I intoned in the voice of a six-year-old.

“Cutting down a magically produced tree certainly qualifies as ‘touching,’ don’t you agree?” Sarah motioned Tabitha away from the hearth, where she was sitting staring at the bark. “We need milk. And eggs. And Fernando wants some kind of fancy rice. He promised to make paella.”

“Milk. Eggs. Rice. Got it.” I gave Sarah one last worried look. “Tell Matthew I won’t be long.”

The floorboards in the front hall creaked out a brief complaint as I crossed to the door. I paused, my foot glued in place. The Bishop house was not an ordinary home and had a history of making its feelings known on a variety of issues, from who had a right to occupy it to whether or not it approved of the new paint color on the shutters.

But there was no further response from the house. Like the ghosts, it was waiting.

Outside, Sarah’s new car was parked by the front door. Her old Honda Civic had met with a mishap during its return from Montreal, where Matthew and I had left it. A de Clermont functionary had been tasked to drive it back to Madison, but the engine had fallen out somewhere between Brockville and Watertown. To console Sarah, Matthew had presented her with a metallic purple Mini Cooper, complete with white racing stripes edged with black and silver and a personalized license plate that said NEW

BROOM. Matthew hoped this witchy message would obviate Sarah’s need to put bumper stickers all over the vehicle, but I feared it was only a matter of time before this car looked like the old one.

In case anyone thought Sarah’s new car and her lack of slogans meant her paganism was wavering, Matthew purchased a witch antenna ball. She had red hair and was wearing a pointy hat and sunglasses.

No matter where Sarah parked, someone stole it. He kept a box of replacements in the mudroom cupboard.

I waited until Matthew was hammering in his next fence post before jumping into Sarah’s Mini. I reversed it and sped away from the house. Matthew hadn’t gone so far as to forbid me from leaving the farm unaccompanied, and Sarah knew where I was going. Happy to be getting away from the tension, I opened the sunroof to catch the July breezes on my way into town.

My first stop was at the post office. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed the tight swell under the hem of my T shirt with interest but said nothing. The only other people in the post office were two antiques dealers and Smitty, Matthew’s new best friend from the hardware store.

“How is that post maul working out for Mr. Clairmont?” Smitty asked, tapping his sheaf of junk mail against the brim of his John Deere hat. “Haven’t sold one of them in ages. Most people want post pounders these days.”

“Matthew seems quite happy with it.” Most people aren’t six-foot-three vampires, I thought, chucking the sales flyer for the local grocery store and the offers for new tires into the recycling bin.

“You’ve caught a good one there,” Smitty said, eyeing my wedding ring. “And he seems to be getting along with Miz Bishop, too.” This last was said in a slightly awed tone.

My mouth twitched. I picked up the stack of catalogs and bills that remained and put them in my bag. “You take care, Smitty.”

“Bye, Mrs. Clairmont. Tell Mr. Clairmont to let me know when he decides about that roller for the driveway.”

“It’s not Mrs. Clairmont. I still use— Oh, never mind,” I said, catching Smitty’s confused expression. I opened the door and stepped aside to let two children enter. The kids were in hot pursuit of lollipops, which Mrs. Hutchinson kept on the counter. I was almost out the door when I heard Smitty whispering to the postmistress.

“Have you met Mr. Clairmont, Annie? Nice guy. I was beginning to think Diana was going to be a spinster like Miz Bishop, if you know what I mean,” Smitty said, giving Mrs. Hutchinson a meaningful wink.

I turned west onto Route 20, through green fields and past old farmsteads that had once provided food to the area’s residents. Many of the properties had been subdivided and their land turned to different purposes. There were schools and offices, a granite yard, a yarn shop in a converted barn.

When I pulled in to the parking lot of the supermarket in nearby Hamilton, it was practically deserted. Even when college was in session, it was never more than half full.

I maneuvered Sarah’s car into one of the plentiful open spaces near the doors, parking next to one of the vans that people bought when they had children. It had sliding doors to allow for the easy installation of car seats, lots of cup holders, and beige carpets to hide the cereal that got flung on the floor. My future life flashed before my eyes.

Sarah’s zippy little car was a welcome reminder that there were other options, though Matthew would probably insist on a Panzer tank once the twins were born. I eyed the silly green witch on the antenna. As I murmured a few words, the wires in the antenna rerouted themselves through the soft foam ball and the witch’s hat. No one would be stealing Sarah’s mascot on my watch.

“Nice binding spell,” a dry voice said from behind me. “I don’t believe I know that one.”

I whirled around. The woman standing there was fiftyish with shoulder-length hair that had gone prematurely silver and emerald green eyes. A low hum of power surrounded her—not showy, but solid.

This was the high priestess of Madison’s coven.

“Hello, Mrs. Harrison.” The Harrisons were an old Hamilton family. They’d come from Connecticut, and, like the Bishops, the women kept the family name regardless of marriage. Vivian’s husband, Roger, had taken the radical step of changing his last name from Barker to Harrison when the two wed, earning him a revered spot in the coven annals for his willingness to honor tradition and a fair amount of ribbing from the other husbands.

“I think you’re old enough to call me Vivian, don’t you?” Her eyes dropped to my abdomen.

“Going shopping?”

“Uh-huh.” No witch could lie to a fellow witch. Under the circumstances it was best to keep my responses brief.

“What a coincidence. So am I.” Behind Vivian two shopping carts detached themselves from the stack and rolled out of their corral.

“So you’re due in January?” she asked once we were inside. I fumbled and nearly dropped the paper bag of apples grown on a nearby farm.

“Only if I carry the babies to full term. I’m expecting twins.”

“Twins are a handful,” Vivian said ruefully. “Just ask Abby.” She waved at a woman holding two cartons of eggs.

“Hi, Diana. I don’t think we’ve met.” Abby put one of the cartons in the section of the cart designed for toddlers. She buckled the eggs into place using the flimsy seat belt. “Once the babies are born, you’ll have to come up with a different way to keep them from getting broken. I’ve got some zucchini for you in the car, so don’t even think of buying any.”

“Does everybody in the county know that I’m pregnant?” I asked. Not to mention what I was shopping for today.

“Only the witches,” Abby said. “And anybody who talks to Smitty.” A four-year-old boy in a striped shirt and wearing a Spider-Man mask sped by. “John Pratt! Stop chasing your sister!”

“Not to worry. I found Grace in the cookie aisle,” said a handsome young man in shorts and a gray and maroon Colgate University T-shirt. He was holding a squirming toddler whose face was smeared with chocolate and cookie crumbs. “Hi, Diana. I’m Abby’s husband, Caleb Pratt. I teach here.” Caleb’s voice was easy, but there was a crackle of energy around him. Could he have a touch of elemental magic?

My question highlighted the fine threads that surrounded him, but Vivian distracted me before I could be certain.

“Caleb is a professor in the anthropology department,” Vivian said with pride. “He and Abby have been a welcome addition to the community.”

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. The whole coven must shop at the Cost Cutter on Thursday.

“Only when we need to talk business,” Abby said, reading my mind with ease. So far as I could tell, she had considerably less magical talent than Vivian or Caleb, but there was obviously some power in her blood. “We expected to see Sarah today, but she’s avoiding us. Is she okay?”

“Not really.” I hesitated. Once the Madison coven had represented everything I wanted to deny about myself and about being a Bishop. But the witches of London had taught me that there was a price to pay for living cut off from other witches. And the simple truth was that Matthew and I couldn’t manage on our own. Not after everything that had transpired at Sept-Tours.

“Something you want to say, Diana?” Vivian looked at me shrewdly.

“I think we need your help.” The words slipped out easily. My astonishment must have shown, for the three witches all started to laugh.

“Good. That’s what we’re here for,” she said, casting an approving smile at me. “What’s the problem?”

“Sarah’s stuck,” I said bluntly. “And Matthew and I are in trouble.”

“I know. My thumbs have been bothering me for weeks,” Caleb said, bouncing Grace on his hip.

“At first I thought it was just the vampires.”

“It’s more than that.” My voice was grim. “It involves witches, too. And the Congregation. My mother may have had a premonition about it, but I don’t know where to begin searching for more information.”

“What does Sarah say?” Vivian asked.

“Not much. She’s mourning Emily all over again. Sarah sits by the fireplace, watches the tree growing out of the hearth, and waits for the ghosts to come back.”

“And your husband?” Caleb’s eyebrows lifted.

“Matthew’s replacing fence posts.” I pushed a hand through my hair, lifting the damp strands from my neck. If it got any warmer, you’d be able to fry an egg on Sarah’s car.

“A classic example of displaced aggression,” Caleb said thoughtfully, “as well as a need to establish firm boundaries.”

“What kind of magic is that?” I was astonished that he could know so much about Matthew from my few words.

“It’s anthropology.” Caleb grinned.

“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else.” Vivian smiled warmly at the growing crowd of onlookers in the produce section. The few humans in the store couldn’t help noticing the gathering of four otherworldly creatures, and several were openly listening in on our conversation while pretending to judge the ripeness of cantaloupes and watermelons.

“I’ll meet you back at Sarah’s in twenty minutes,” I said, eager to get away. “The arborio rice is in aisle five,” Caleb said helpfully, handing Grace back to Abby. “It’s the closest thing to paella rice in Hamilton. If that’s not good enough, you can stop by and see Maureen at the health-food store. She’ll special-order some Spanish rice for you. Otherwise you’ll have to drive to Syracuse.”

“Thanks,” I said weakly. There would be no stops at the health-food store, which was the local hangout for witches when they weren’t at the Cost Cutter. I pushed my cart in the direction of aisle five.

“Good idea.”

“Don’t forget the milk!” Abby called after me.

When I got back home, Matthew and Fernando were standing in the field, deep in conversation. I put the groceries away and found the bucket in the sink where I’d left it. My fingers automatically reached for the tap, ready to twist it open so that the water flowed.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered, pulling the empty bucket out of the sink. I carried it back to the stillroom and let the door swing shut.

This room had seen some of my greatest humiliations as a witch. Even though I understood that my past difficulties with magic had come about because I was a weaver and spellbound to boot, it was still difficult to leave the memories of failure behind.

But it was time to try.

Placing the bucket on the hearth, I felt for the tide that always flowed through me. Thanks to my father, not only was I a weaver, but my blood was full of water. Crouching next to the pail, I directed my hand into the shape of a spout and focused on my desires.

Clean. Fresh. New.

Within moments my hand looked like metal rather than flesh and water poured from my fingers, hitting the plastic with a dull thud. Once the bucket was full, my hand was just a hand again. I smiled and sat back on my heels, pleased that I’d been able to work magic in the Bishop house. All around me the air sparkled with colored threads. It no longer felt thick and heavy but bright and full of potential. A cool breeze blew through the open window. Maybe I couldn’t solve all of our problems with a single knot, but if I were going to find out what Emily and my mother knew, I had to start somewhere.

“With knot of one, the spell’s begun,” I whispered, snagging a silver thread and knotting it securely.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the full skirts and a brightly embroidered bodice that belonged to my ancestor Bridget Bishop. Welcome home, granddaughter, said her ghostly voice.

8

Matthew swung the maul and lowered it onto the head of the wooden post. It landed with a satisfying thwack that reverberated up his arms, across his shoulders, and down his back. He lifted the maul again.

“I don’t believe you need to strike the post a third time,” Fernando drawled from behind him. “It should still be standing straight and tall when the next ice age comes.”

Matthew rested the business end of the maul on the ground and propped his arms on the shaft. He was not sweaty or winded. He was, however, annoyed at the interruption.

“What is it, Fernando?”

“I heard you speaking to Baldwin last night,” he replied.

Matthew picked up the posthole digger without responding.

“I take it he told you to stay here and not to cause any trouble—for now,” Fernando continued.

Matthew thrust the two sharp blades into the earth. They descended quite a bit farther into the soil than they would have if a human had been wielding the tool. He gave the implement a twist, withdrew it from the ground, and picked up a wooden post.

“Come, Mateus. Fixing Sarah’s fence is hardly the most useful way to spend your time.”

“The most useful way to spend my time would be to find Benjamin and rid the family of the monster once and for all.” Matthew held the seven-foot fence post in one hand as easily as though it weighed no more than a pencil and drove the tip into the soft earth. “Instead I’m waiting for Baldwin to give me permission to do what I should have done long ago.”

“Hmm.” Fernando studied the fence post. “Why don’t you go, then? To hell with Baldwin and his dictatorial ways. See to Benjamin. It will be no trouble for me to look after Diana as well as Sarah.”

Matthew turned a scathing glance on Fernando. “I am not going to leave my pregnant mate in the middle of nowhere—not even with you.”

“So your plan is to stay here, fixing whatever you can find that is broken, until the happy moment when Baldwin rings to authorize you to kill your own child. Then you will drag Diana along to whatever godforsaken hole Benjamin occupies and eviscerate him in front of your wife?” Fernando flung his hands up in disgust. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Baldwin won’t tolerate anything but obedience, Fernando. He made that very clear at Sept-Tours.”

Baldwin had dragged the de Clermont men and Fernando out into the night and explained in brutal and detailed terms just what would befall each and every one of them if he detected a whisper of protest or a glimmer of insurrection. Afterward even Gallowglass had looked shaken.

“There was a time when you enjoyed outflanking Baldwin. But since your father died, you have let your brother treat you abominably.” Fernando snagged the post maul before Matthew could get his hands on it.

“I couldn’t lose Sept-Tours. Maman wouldn’t have survived it—not after Philippe’s death.”

Matthew’s mother had been far from invincible then. She had been as fragile as blown glass. “The château might technically belong to the Knights of Lazarus, but everyone knows that the brotherhood belongs to the de Clermonts. If Baldwin wanted to challenge Philippe’s will and claim Sept-Tours, he would have succeeded, and Ysabeau would have been out in the cold.”

“Ysabeau seems to have recovered from Philippe’s death. What is your excuse now?”

“Now my wife is a de Clermont.” Matthew gave Fernando a level look.

“I see.” Fernando snorted. “Marriage has turned your mind to mush and bent your spine like a willow twig, my friend.”

“I won’t do anything to jeopardize her position. She might not yet understand what it means, but you and I both know how important it is to be counted among Philippe’s children,” Matthew said. “The de Clermont name will protect her from all sorts of threats.”

“And for this tenuous toehold in the family, you would sell your soul to that devil?” Fernando was genuinely surprised.

“For Diana’s sake?” Matthew turned away. “I would do anything. Pay any price.”

“Your love for her borders on obsession.” Fernando stood his ground when Matthew whirled back around, his eyes black. “It is not healthy, Mateus. Not for you. Nor for her.”

“So Sarah’s been filling your ears with my shortcomings, has she? Diana’s aunts never really did approve of me.” Matthew glared at the house. It may have been a trick of the light, but the house appeared to be shaking on its foundations with laughter.

“Now that I see you with their niece, I understand why,” Fernando said mildly. “The blood rage has always made you prone to excessive behavior. Being mated has made it worse.”

“I have thirty years with her, Fernando. Forty or fifty, if I’m lucky. How many centuries did you share with Hugh?”

“Six,” Fernando bit out.

“And was that enough?” Matthew exploded. “Before you judge me for being consumed with my mate’s well-being, put yourself in my shoes and imagine how you would have behaved had you known that your time with Hugh would be so brief.”

“Loss is loss, Matthew, and a vampire’s soul is as fragile as that of any warmblood. Six hundred years or sixty or six—it doesn’t matter. When your mate dies, a part of your soul dies with him. Or her,”

Fernando said gently. “And you will have your children—Marcus as well as the twins—to comfort you.”

“How will any of that matter if Diana is not here to share it?” Matthew looked desperate.

“No wonder you were so hard on Marcus and Phoebe,” Fernando said with dawning understanding.

“Turning Diana into a vampire is your greatest desire—”

“Never,” Matthew interrupted, his voice savage.

“And your greatest horror,” Fernando finished.

“If she became a vampire, she would no longer be my Diana,” Matthew said. “She would be something—someone—else.”

“You might love her just the same,” Fernando said.

“How could I, when I love Diana for all that she is?” Matthew replied.

Fernando had no answer for this. He could not imagine Hugh as anything but a vampire. It had defined him, given him the unique combination of fierce courage and dreamy idealism that had made Fernando fall in love with him.

“Your children will change Diana. What will happen to your love when they are born?”

“Nothing,” Matthew said roughly, snatching at the maul. Fernando tossed the heavy tool easily from one hand to the other to keep it out of his reach.

“That is the blood rage talking. I can hear it in your voice.” The maul went sailing through the air at ninety miles an hour and landed in the O’Neils’ yard. Fernando grabbed Matthew by the throat. “I am frightened for your children. It pains me to say it—to even think it—but I have seen you kill someone you loved.”

“Diana. Is. Not. Eleanor.” Matthew ground out the words one at a time.

“No. What you felt for Eleanor is nothing compared to what you feel for Diana. Yet all it took was a casual touch from Baldwin, a mere suggestion that Eleanor might agree with him rather than you, and you were ready to tear them both apart.” Fernando searched Matthew’s face. “What will you do if Diana sees to the babies’ needs before yours?”

“I’m in control now, Fernando.”

“Blood rage heightens all the instincts a vampire has until they are as keen as honed steel. Your possessiveness is already dangerous. How can you be sure you will keep it in check?”

“Christ, Fernando. I can’t be sure. Is that what you want me to say?” Matthew drove his fingers through his hair.

“I want you to listen to Marcus instead of building fences and seeing to the gutters,” Fernando replied. “Not you, too. It’s madness to even think of branching out on my own with Benjamin on the loose and the Congregation up in arms,” Matthew snapped.

“I was not talking about forming a scion.” Fernando thought Marcus’s idea was excellent, but he knew when to keep his own counsel.

“What, then?” Matthew said with a frown.

“Your work. If you were to focus on the blood rage, you might be able to stop whatever plans Benjamin is setting into motion without striking a single blow.” Fernando let this sink in before he continued. “Even Gallowglass thinks you should be in a laboratory analyzing that page you have from the Book of Life, and he doesn’t understand the first thing about science.”

“None of the local colleges have sufficient laboratories for my needs,” Matthew said. “I haven’t only been buying new downspouts, you see. I’ve been making inquiries, too. And you’re right.

Gallowglass has no idea what my research entails.”

Nor did Fernando. Not really. But he knew who did.

“Surely Miriam has been doing something while you were gone. She’s hardly the type to sit around idly. Can you not go over her most recent findings?” Fernando asked.

“I told her they could wait,” Matthew said gruffly.

“Even previously gathered data might prove useful, now that you have Diana and the twins to consider.” Fernando would use anything—even Diana—to bait this hook if it would get Matthew acting instead of simply reacting. “Perhaps it’s not the blood rage that explains her pregnancy. Perhaps she and the witch in Jerusalem both inherited an ability to conceive a vampire’s child.”

“It’s possible,” Matthew said slowly. Then his attention was caught by Sarah’s purple Mini Cooper skidding and slipping along on the loose gravel. Matthew’s shoulders lowered, and some of the darkness disappeared from his eyes. “I really have to resurface the driveway,” he said absently, watching the car’s progress.

Diana got out of the car and waved in their direction. Matthew smiled and waved back. “You have to start thinking again,” Fernando retorted.

Matthew’s phone rang. “What is it, Miriam?”

“I’ve been thinking.” Miriam never bothered with pleasantries. Not even the recent scare with Benjamin had changed that.

“What a coincidence,” Matthew said drily. “Fernando’s just been urging me to do the same.”

“Do you remember when someone broke in to Diana’s rooms last October? We feared at the time that whoever it was might be looking for genetic information about her—hair, nail clippings, bits of skin.”

“Of course I remember,” Matthew said, wiping his hand over his face.

“You were sure it was Knox and the American witch Gillian Chamberlain. What if Benjamin was involved?” Miriam paused. “I have a really bad feeling about all this, Matthew—like I’ve woken up from a pleasant dream only to discover that a spider has snared me in his web.”

“He wasn’t in her rooms. I would have caught the scent.” Matthew sounded sure, but there was a trace of worry in his voice as well.

“Benjamin is too smart to have gone himself. He would have sent a lackey—or one of his children.

As his sire, you can sniff him out, but you know that the scent signature is practically undetectable in grandchildren.” Miriam sighed with exasperation. “Benjamin mentioned witches and your genetics research. You don’t believe in coincidences, remember?”

Matthew did remember saying something like that once—long before he’d met Diana. He made an involuntary check on the house. It was a combination of instinct and reflex now, this need to protect his wife. Matthew pushed away Fernando’s earlier warning about his obsessiveness.

“Have you had a chance to delve further into Diana’s DNA?” He had taken the blood samples and cheek swabs last year.

“What do you think I’ve been doing all this while? Crocheting blankets in case you came home with babies and weeping about your absence? And yes, I know as much about the twins as the rest— which is to say not nearly enough.”

Matthew shook his head ruefully. “I’ve missed you, Miriam.”

“Don’t. Because the next time I see you, I’m going to bite you so hard you’ll have the scar for years.” Miriam’s voice shook. “You should have killed Benjamin long ago. You knew he was a monster.”

“Even monsters can change,” Matthew said softly. “Look at me.”

“You were never a monster,” she said. “That was a lie you told to keep the rest of us away.”

Matthew disagreed, but he let the matter drop. “So what did you learn about Diana?”

“I learned that what we think we know about your wife is minuscule compared to what we don’t know. Her nuclear DNA is like a labyrinth: If you go wandering in it, you’re likely to get lost,” Miriam said, referring to Diana’s unique genetic fingerprint. “And her mtDNA is equally perplexing.

“Let’s put aside the mtDNA for the moment. All that will tell us is what Diana has in common with her female ancestors.” Matthew would get back to Diana’s mitochondrial DNA later. “I want to understand what makes her unique.”

“What’s worrying you?” Miriam knew Matthew well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying.

“Her ability to conceive my children, for a start.” Matthew drew a deep breath. “And Diana picked up a sort of dragon while she was in the sixteenth century. Corra is a firedrake. And her familiar.”

“Familiar? I thought that business about witches and familiars was a human myth. No wonder her transmogrification gene is so strange,” Miriam muttered. “A firedrake. Just what we need. Wait a minute. Is it on a leash or something? Can we get a blood sample?”

“Perhaps,” Matthew said dubiously. “I’m not sure Corra would cooperate for a cheek swab, though.”

“I wonder if she and Diana are genetically related. . . .” Miriam trailed off, intrigued by the possibilities.

“Have you found anything in Diana’s witch chromosome that leads you to believe it controls fertility?” Matthew asked.

“That’s an entirely new request, and you know that scientists usually don’t find anything unless they’re looking for it,” Miriam said tartly. “Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can uncover. There are so many unidentified genes in Diana’s witch chromosome that some days I wonder if she is a witch.”

Miriam laughed.

Matthew remained silent. He couldn’t very well tell her that Diana was a weaver when not even Sarah knew.

“You’re keeping something from me,” Miriam said, a note of accusation in her voice.

“Send me a report on whatever else you’ve managed to identify,” he said. “We’ll discuss it more in a few days. Take a look at my DNA profile, too. Focus on whatever genes we haven’t identified yet, especially if they’re near the blood-rage gene. See if anything strikes you.”

“Ooo-kay,” Miriam said deliberately. “You have a secure Internet connection, right?”

“As secure as Baldwin’s money can buy.”

“Pretty damn secure, then,” she said under her breath. “Talk to you later. And, Matthew?”

“Yes?” he said, frowning.

“I’m still going to bite you for not killing Benjamin when you had a chance.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

“That’s easy. All I have to do is catch Diana. You’ll walk right into my arms then,” she said just before she disconnected.

“Miriam’s back in top form,” Fernando said.

“She always was able to recover from a crisis with amazing speed,” Matthew said fondly. “Do you remember when Bertrand—”

An unfamiliar car turned in to the driveway.

Matthew sprinted toward it, Fernando at his heels.

The gray-haired woman driving a dented navy Volvo didn’t seem a bit surprised to be confronted by two vampires, one of them exceptionally tall. Instead she rolled down the window.

“You must be Matthew,” the woman said. “I’m Vivian. Diana asked me to stop by and see Sarah.

She’s worried about the tree in the keeping room.”

“What is that scent?” Fernando asked Matthew.

“Bergamot,” Matthew replied, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s a common scent! Besides, I’m an accountant,” Vivian said indignantly, “not just the coven’s high priestess. What do you expect me to smell of—fire and brimstone?”

“Vivian?” Sarah stood at the front door and squinted into the sunlight. “Is someone sick?”

Vivian climbed out of the car. “Nobody’s sick. I ran into Diana at the store.”

“I see you’ve met Matthew and Fernando,” Sarah said.

“I have.” Vivian looked the two of them over. “Goddess preserve us from handsome vampires.”

She started walking toward the house. “Diana said you’ve got a bit of trouble.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Matthew said with a scowl.

“He always says that. Sometimes he’s even right.” Sarah beckoned to Vivian. “Come inside.

Diana’s got iced tea made.”

“Everything is fine, Ms. Harrison,” Matthew said, stalking alongside the witch.

Diana appeared behind Sarah. She looked at Matthew in fury, her hands on her hips.

“Fine?” she demanded. “Peter Knox murdered Em. There’s a tree growing out of the fireplace. I’m pregnant with your children. We’ve been evicted from Sept-Tours. And the Congregation could show up at any minute and force us to separate. Does that sound fine to you, Vivian?”

“The Peter Knox who had a crush on Diana’s mother? Isn’t he a member of the Congregation?”

Vivian asked.

“Not anymore,” Matthew replied.

“I think we’d better go inside after all.” Vivian shook her finger at Sarah. “You told me Em had a heart attack.”

“She did,” Sarah said defensively. Vivian’s lips curled in disgust. “It’s the truth! Matthew’s son said that was the cause of death.”

“You’re awfully good at telling the truth and lying at the same time, Sarah.” Vivian’s tone softened.

“Emily was a big part of our community. So are you. We need to know what really happened in France.”

“Knowing whether it’s Knox’s fault or not won’t change anything. Emily will still be dead.”

Sarah’s eyes brimmed with tears. She dashed them away. “And I don’t want the coven involved. It’s too dangerous.”

“We’re your friends. We’re already involved.” Vivian rubbed her hands together. “Sunday is Lughnasadh.”

“Lughnasadh?” Sarah said suspiciously. “The Madison coven hasn’t celebrated Lughnasadh for decades.”

“We don’t normally have a big celebration, it’s true, but this year Hannah O’Neil is pulling out all the stops to welcome you back home. And to give us all a chance to say good-bye to Em.”

“But Matthew—Fernando.” Sarah dropped her voice. “The covenant.”

Vivian shouted with laughter. “Diana’s pregnant. It’s a little late to worry about breaking the rules.

Besides, the coven knows all about Matthew. Fernando, too.”

“They do?” Sarah said, startled.

“They do,” Diana said firmly. “Smitty has bonded with Matthew over hand tools, and you know what a gossip he can be.” The indulgent smile she gave Matthew took some of the sting out of her words.

“We’re known as a progressive coven. If we’re lucky, maybe Diana will trust us with whatever is wrapped up inside her disguising spell. See you Sunday.” With a smile at Matthew and a wave to Fernando, Vivian got into her car and pulled away.

“Vivian Harrison is a bulldozer,” Sarah grumbled.

“Observant, too,” Matthew said thoughtfully. “She is.” Sarah studied Diana. “Vivian’s right. You are wearing a disguising spell—a good one.

Who cast it for you?”

“Nobody. I—” Unable to lie, and still unwilling to tell her aunt the truth, Diana snapped her mouth shut. Matthew scowled.

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” Sarah stomped back to the keeping room. “And I’m not going to that potluck. The whole coven is on some vegetarian kick. There will be nothing to eat but zucchini and Hannah’s famously inedible Key lime pudding pie.”

“The widow is feeling more herself,” Fernando whispered, giving Diana a thumbs-up as he followed Sarah into the house. “Returning to Madison was a good idea.”

“You promised you’d tell Sarah you’re a weaver when we were settled here at the Bishop house,”

Matthew said when he and Diana were alone. “Why haven’t you?”

“I’m not the only one keeping secrets. And I’m not just talking about the blood-vow business or even the fact that vampires kill other vampires with blood rage. You should have told me that Hugh and Fernando were a couple. And you definitely should have told me that Philippe had been using your illness as a weapon all these years.”

“Does Sarah know that Corra is your familiar, not a souvenir? And what about meeting your father in London?” Matthew crossed his arms.

“It wasn’t the right moment,” Diana said with a sniff.

“Ah, yes, the elusive right moment.” Matthew snorted. “It never comes, Diana. Sometimes we just have to throw caution to the wind and trust the people we love.”

“I do trust Sarah.” Diana bit her lip. She didn’t have to finish. Matthew knew that the real problem was she didn’t trust herself or her magic. Not completely.

“Take a walk with me,” he said, holding out his hand. “We can talk about this later.”

“It’s too hot,” Diana protested, though she still put her hand in his.

“I’ll cool you off,” he promised with a smile. Diana looked at him with interest. Matthew’s smile broadened.

His wife—his heart, his mate, his life—stepped down off the porch and into his arms. Diana’s eyes were the blue and gold of a summer sky, and Matthew wanted nothing more than to fall headlong into their bright depths, not to lose himself but to be found.

9

“No wonder we don’t celebrate Lughnasadh,” Sarah muttered, pushing open the front door. “All those awful songs about the end of summer and the coming of winter—not to mention Mary Bassett’s tambourine accompaniment.”

“The music wasn’t that bad,” I protested. Matthew’s grimace indicated that Sarah had a right to complain.

“Do you have more of that temperamental wine, Fernando?” Sarah flicked on the hall lights. “I need a drink. My head is pounding.”

“Tempranillo.” Fernando tossed the picnic blankets on the hall bench. “Tempranillo. Remember:

It’s Spanish.”

“French, Spanish, whatever—I need some,” she said, sounding desperate.

I stood aside so Abby and Caleb could get in the door. John was conked out in Caleb’s arms, but Grace was wide awake. She squirmed to get down.

“Let her go, Abby. She can’t hurt anything,” Sarah said, heading for the kitchen.

Abby put Grace down, and the child toddled straight toward the stairs. Abby laughed.

“She has the most amazing instincts when it comes to trouble. No stairs, Grace.” She swooped in and swung Grace up in the air before depositing her back on the floor and pointing her in the direction of the family room.

“Why don’t you put John in the keeping room?” I suggested. John had abandoned his Spider-Man mask and was wearing a T-shirt with the superhero on it instead.

“Thanks, Diana.” Caleb whistled. “I see what you mean about the tree, Matthew. So it just sprang up out of the hearth?”

“We think some fire and a bit of blood might have been involved,” Matthew explained, shaking out one of the blankets and following Caleb. The two had been chatting all evening about everything from academic politics to Matthew’s hospital work at the John Radcliffe to the fate of the polar bears.

Matthew arranged a blanket on the floor for John, while Caleb ran his fingers over the bark on the Blasted Tree.

This is what Matthew needs, I realized. Home. Family. Pack. Without other people to take care of, he retreated to that dark place where his past deeds haunted him. And he was especially prone to brooding now, given Benjamin’s recent reappearance.

I needed this, too. Living in the sixteenth century, in households rather than simply in houses, I had grown accustomed to being surrounded by other people. My fear of being discovered had receded, and in its place had grown a wish to belong.

As a result I’d found the coven potluck surprisingly enjoyable. The Madison witches had occupied an intimidating place in my imagination, but tonight the assembled witches were pleasant and, except for my high-school nemeses Cassie and Lydia, welcoming. They were also surprisingly powerless when compared to the witches I’d known in London. One or two of them had some elemental magic at their disposal, but none were as formidable as the firewitches or waterwitches of the past. And the Madison witches who could work the craft couldn’t hold a candle to Sarah.

“Wine, Abby?” Fernando offered her a glass.

“Sure.” Abby giggled. “I’m surprised you made it out of the potluck alive, Fernando. I was positive that someone was going to work a bit of love magic on you.”

“Fernando shouldn’t have encouraged them,” I said with mock severity. “There was no need to both bow and kiss Betty Eastey’s hand.”

“Her poor husband is going to hear nothing but ‘Fernando this’ and ‘Fernando that’ for days,” Abby said with another giggle. “The ladies will be very disappointed when they discover they are trying to saddle the wrong horse,” Fernando replied. “Your friends told me the most charming stories, Diana. Did you know that vampires are really quite cuddly, once we find our true love?”

“Matthew hasn’t exactly been transformed into a teddy bear,” I said drily.

“Ah, but you didn’t know him before.” Fernando’s smile was wicked.

“Fernando!” Sarah called from the kitchen. “Come help me light this stupid fire. I can’t get it to catch.”

Why she felt it was necessary to light a fire in this kind of heat was beyond me, but Sarah said Em had always lit a fire on Lughnasadh, and that was that.

“Duty calls,” Fernando murmured, giving Abby a little bow. Like Betty Eastey, she blushed.

“We’ll go with you.” Caleb took Grace by the hand. “Come on, sprout.”

Matthew watched the Pratts troop off to the kitchen, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“That will be us soon,” I said, slipping my arms around him.

“That’s just what I was thinking.” Matthew kissed me. “Are you ready to tell your aunt about being a weaver?”

“As soon as the Pratts leave.” Every morning I promised to tell Sarah about all that I’d learned from the London coven, but with every passing day it got harder to share my news.

“You don’t have to tell her everything all at once,” Matthew said, running his hands over my shoulders. “Just tell her you’re a weaver so you can stop wearing this shroud.”

We joined the others in the kitchen. Sarah’s fire was now crackling merrily in the stillroom, adding to the warmth of the summer evening. We sat around the table, comparing notes on the party and gossiping about the latest coven happenings. Then the talk turned to baseball. Caleb was a Red Sox fan, just like my dad.

“What is it about Harvard men and the Red Sox?” I got up to make some tea.

A flicker of white caught my eye. I smiled and put the kettle on the stove, thinking it was one of the house’s missing ghosts. Sarah would be so happy if one of them were ready to apparate again.

That was no ghost.

Grace tottered in front of the stillroom fireplace on unsteady, two-year-old legs. “Pretty,” she cooed.

“Grace!”

Startled by my cry, Grace turned her head. That was enough to upset her balance, and she tipped toward the fire.

I’d never reach her in time—not with a kitchen island and twenty-five feet between us. I reached into the pocket of my shorts and pulled out my weaver’s cords. They snaked through my fingers and twisted around my wrists just as Grace’s scream pierced the air.

I acted on pure instinct and rooted my feet into the floor. Water was all around us, trickling through deep arteries that crisscrossed the Bishop land. It was within me, too, and in an effort to focus its raw, elemental power I isolated the filaments of blue, green, and silver that highlighted everything in the kitchen and the stillroom that was tied to water.

In a quicksilver flash, I directed a bolt of water at the fireplace. A spout of steam erupted, coals hissed, and Grace hit the slurry of ash and water on the hearth with a thud.

“Grace!” Abby ran past me, followed by Caleb.

Matthew drew me into his arms. I was soaked to the skin and shivering. He rubbed my back, trying to restore some warmth.

“Thank God you have so much power over water, Diana,” Abby said, holding a tearful Grace.

“Is she okay?” I asked. “She reached out to steady herself, but she was awfully close to the flames.”

“Her hand is a little pink,” Caleb said, examining her small fingers. “What do you think, Matthew?”

Matthew took Grace’s hand.

“Pretty,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “I know,” Matthew murmured. “Fire is very pretty. Very hot, too.” He blew on her fingers, and she laughed. Fernando handed him a damp cloth and an ice cube.

“’Gain,” she commanded, thrusting her hand in Matthew’s face.

“Nothing seems to be damaged, and there are no blisters,” Matthew said after obeying the tiny tyrant’s command to blow on her fingers once more. He wrapped the cloth carefully around her hand and held the ice cube to it. “She should be fine.”

“I didn’t know you could wield waterbolts.” Sarah looked at me sharply. “Are you okay? You look different—shiny.”

“I’m fine.” I pulled away from Matthew, trying to draw the tattered remains of my disguising spell around me. I searched the floor surrounding the kitchen island, looking for my dropped weaver’s cords in case some surreptitious patching was required.

“What did you get all over yourself?” Sarah grabbed my hand and turned it palm up. What I saw made me gasp.

Each finger bore a strip of color down its center. My pinkie was streaked with brown, my ring finger yellow. A vivid blue marked my middle finger, and red blazed down my index finger in an imperious slash. The colored lines joined together on my palm, continuing on to the fleshy mound at its base in a braided, multicolored rope. There the rope met up with a strand of green that wandered down from my thumb—ironic, given the fate of most of my houseplants. The five-colored twist traveled the short distance to my wrist and formed a knot with five crossings—the pentacle.

“My weaver’s cords. They’re . . . inside me.” I looked up at Matthew in disbelief.

But most weavers used nine cords, not five. I turned over my left palm and discovered the missing strands: black on my thumb, white on my pinkie, gold on my ring finger, and silver on my middle finger.

The pointer finger bore no color at all. And the colors that twisted down to my left wrist created an ouroboros, a circle with no beginning and no end that looked like a snake with its tail in its mouth. It was the de Clermont family emblem. “Is Diana . . . shimmering?” Abby asked.

Still staring at my hands, I flexed my fingers. An explosion of colored threads illuminated the air.

“What was that?” Sarah’s eyes were round.

“Threads. They bind the worlds and govern magic,” I explained.

Corra chose that moment to return from her hunting. She swooped down the stillroom chimney and landed in the damp pile of wood. Coughing and wheezing, she lurched to her feet.

“Is that . . . a dragon?” Caleb asked.

“No, it’s a souvenir,” Sarah said. “Diana brought it back with her from Elizabethan England.”

“Corra’s not a souvenir. She’s my familiar,” I whispered.

Sarah snorted. “Witches don’t have familiars.”

“Weavers do,” I said. Matthew’s hand rested on my lower back, lending quiet support. “You’d better call Vivian. I need to tell you something.”

“So the dragon—” Vivian began, her hands wrapped tight around a steaming mug of coffee.

“Firedrake,” I interrupted.

“So it—”

“She. Corra is a female.”

“—is your familiar?” Vivian finished.

“Yes. Corra appeared when I wove my first spell in London.”

“Are all familiars dragons . . . er, firedrakes?” Abby shifted her legs on the family-room couch. We were all settled around the television, except for John, who had slept peacefully through the excitement.

“No. My teacher, Goody Alsop, had a fetch—a shadow self. She was inclined toward air, you see, and a weaver’s familiar takes shape according to a witch’s elemental predisposition.” It was probably the longest utterance I’d ever made on the subject of magic. It was also largely unintelligible to any of the witches present, who didn’t know a thing about weavers. “I have an affinity for water as well as fire,” I explained, plunging on. “Unlike dragons, firedrakes are as comfortable in the sea as in the flames.”

“They’re also able to fly,” Vivian said. “Firedrakes actually represent a triplicity of elemental power.”

Sarah looked at her in astonishment.

Vivian shrugged. “I have a master’s degree in medieval literature. Wyverns—or firedrakes, if you prefer—were once common in European mythology and legends.”

“But you . . . you’re my accountant,” Sarah sputtered.

“Do you have any idea how many English majors are accountants?” Vivian asked with raised eyebrows. She returned her attention to me. “Can you fly, Diana?”

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly. Flight was not a common talent among witches. It was showy, and therefore undesirable if you wanted to live quietly among humans.

“Do other weavers shimmer like you?” Abby asked, tilting her head.

“I don’t know if there are other weavers. There weren’t many left, even in the sixteenth century.

Goody Alsop was the only one in the British Isles after the Scottish weaver was executed. There was a weaver in Prague. And my father was a weaver, too. It runs in families.”

“Stephen Proctor was not a weaver,” Sarah said tartly. “He never shimmered and had no familiar.

Your father was a perfectly ordinary witch.”

“The Proctors haven’t produced a really first-rate witch for generations,” Vivian said apologetically.

“Most weavers aren’t first-rate at anything—not by traditional standards.” It was even true at a genetic level, where Matthew’s tests had revealed all sorts of contradictory markers in my blood. “That’s why I was never any good with the craft. Sarah can teach anybody how to work a spell—but not me. I was a disaster.” My laugh was shaky. “Daddy told me I should have let the spells go in one ear and out the other and then make up my own.”

“When did Stephen tell you that?” Sarah’s voice cracked across the room.

“In London. Daddy was there in 1591, too. I got my timewalking abilities from him, after all.” In spite of Matthew’s insistence that I didn’t have to tell Sarah everything at once, that’s how the story was coming out.

“Did you see Rebecca?” Sarah was wide-eyed.

“No. Just Daddy.” Like meeting Philippe de Clermont, seeing my own father again had been an unexpected gift on our journey.

“I’ll be damned,” Sarah murmured.

“He wasn’t there long, but for a few days, there were three weavers in London. We were the talk of the town.” And not only because my father kept feeding plot points and lines of dialogue to William Shakespeare.

Sarah opened her mouth to fire off another question, but Vivian held her hand up for quiet.

“If weaving runs in families, why are there so few of you?” Vivian asked.

“Because a long time ago, other witches set out to destroy us.” My fingers tightened on the towel that Matthew had wrapped around my shoulders.

“Goody Alsop told us that whole families were murdered to ensure that no children carried on the legacy.” Matthew’s fingers pressed into the tense muscles in my neck. “Those who survived went into hiding. War, disease, and infant mortality would have put considerable stress on those few remaining bloodlines.”

“Why eradicate weavers? New spells would be highly desirable in any coven,” Caleb asked.

“I’d kill for a spell that would unfreeze my computer when John jams the keys,” Abby added. “I’ve tried everything: the charm for stuck wheels, the spell for broken locks, the blessing for new endeavors.

None of them seem to work with these modern electronics.”

“Maybe weavers were too powerful and other witches were jealous. Maybe it was just fear. When it comes right down to it, I don’t think creatures are any more accepting of difference than humans are. . . .” My words faded into silence.

“New spells.” Caleb whistled. “Where do you start?”

“That depends on the weaver. With me it’s a question or a desire. I focus on that, and my cords do the rest.” I held my hands up. “I guess my fingers will have to do it now.”

“Let me see your hands, Diana,” Sarah said. I rose and stood before her, palms outstretched.

Sarah looked closely at the colors. Her fingers traced the pentacle-shaped knot with five crossings on my right wrist.

“That’s the fifth knot,” I explained while Sarah continued her examination. “Weavers use it to cast spells to overcome challenges or heighten experiences.”

“The pentacle represents the five elements.” Sarah tapped my palm where the brown, yellow, blue, and red streaks twined together. “Here are the four colors that traditionally represent earth, air, water, and fire. And the green on your thumb is associated with the goddess—the goddess as mother in particular.”

“Your hand is a magical primer, Diana,” Vivian observed, “with the four elements, the pentacle, and the goddess all inscribed on it. It’s everything a witch needs to work the craft.”

“And this must be the tenth knot.” Sarah gently released my right hand to take up my left. She studied the loop around the pulse at my wrist. “It looks like the symbol on the flag flying over Sept Tours.”

“It is. Not all weavers can make the tenth knot, even though it looks so simple.” I took a deep breath. “It’s the knot of creation. And destruction.”

Sarah closed my fingers into a fist and folded her own hand around mine. She and Vivian exchanged a worried look.

“Why is one of my fingers missing a color?” I asked, suddenly uneasy.

“Let’s talk about that tomorrow,” Sarah said. “It’s late. And it’s been a long evening.”

“We should get these kids into bed.” Abby climbed to her feet, careful not to disturb her daughter. “Wait until the rest of the coven hears that Diana can make new spells. Cassie and Lydia will have a fit.”

“We can’t tell the coven.” Sarah said firmly. “Not until we figure out what it all means.”

“Diana really is awfully shiny,” Abby pointed out. “I didn’t notice it before, but even the humans are going to see it.”

“I was wearing a disguising spell. I can cast another.” One glimpse of Matthew’s forbidding expression had me hastily adding, “I wouldn’t wear it at home, of course.”

“Disguising spell or no, the O’Neils are bound to know something is going on,” Vivian said.

Caleb looked somber. “We don’t have to inform the whole coven, Sarah, but we can’t keep everybody in the dark either. We should choose who to tell and what to tell them.”

“It will be far harder to explain Diana’s pregnancy than it will be to come up with a good reason for her shimmering,” Sarah said, stating the obvious. “She’s just starting to show, but with twins the pregnancy is going to be impossible to ignore very soon.”

“Which is exactly why we need to be completely honest,” Abby argued. “Witches can smell a half truth just as easily as a lie.”

“This will be a test of the coven’s loyalty and open-mindedness,” Caleb said thoughtfully.

“And if we fail this test?” Sarah asked.

“That would divide us forever,” he replied.

“Maybe we should leave.” I’d experienced what such divisiveness could do firsthand, and I still had nightmares about what had happened in Scotland when witch turned against witch and the Berwick trials began. I didn’t want to be responsible for destroying the Madison coven, forcing people to uproot themselves from houses and farms their families had owned for generations.

“Vivian?” Caleb turned to the coven’s leader.

“The decision should be left to Sarah,” Vivian said.

“Once I would have believed that all this weaving business should be shared. But I’ve seen witches do terrible things to each other, and I’m not talking solely about Emily.” Sarah glanced in my direction but didn’t elaborate.

“I can keep Corra indoors—mostly. I can even avoid going into town. But I’m not going to be able to hide my differences forever, no matter how good my disguising spell,” I warned the assembled witches.

“I realize that,” Vivian said calmly. “But this isn’t just a test—it’s an opportunity. When witches set out to destroy the weavers those many years ago, we lost more than lives. We lost bloodlines, expertise, knowledge—all because we feared a power we didn’t understand. This is our chance to begin again.”

“‘For storms will rage and oceans roar,’” I whispered.

“‘When Gabriel stands on sea and shore.

And as he blows his wondrous horn,

Old worlds die and new be born.’”

Were we in the midst of just such a change?

“Where did you learn that?” Sarah’s voice was sharp.

“Goody Alsop shared it with me. It was her teacher’s prophecy—Mother Ursula.”

“I know whose prophecy it is, Diana,” Sarah said. “Mother Ursula was a famous cunning woman and a powerful seer.”

“She was?” I wondered why Goody Alsop hadn’t told me.

“Yes, she was. For a historian you really are appallingly ignorant of witches’ lore,” Sarah replied.

“I’ll be damned. You learned how to weave spells from one of Ursula Shipton’s apprentices.” Sarah’s voice held a note of real respect.

“Then we haven’t lost everything,” Vivian said softly, “so long as we don’t lose you.”

Abby and Caleb packed their van with chairs, leftovers, and children. I was on the driveway, waving good-bye, when Vivian approached me, a container of potato salad in one hand.

“If you want Sarah to snap out of her funk and stop staring at that tree, tell her more about weaving.

Show her how you do it—insofar as you can.”

“I’m still not very good at it, Vivian.”

“All the more reason to enlist Sarah’s help. She may not be a weaver, but Sarah knows more about the architecture of spells than any witch I’ve ever met. It will give her a purpose, now that Emily is gone.” Vivian gave my hand an encouraging squeeze.

“And the coven?”

“Caleb says this is a test,” she replied. “Let’s see if we can pass it.”

Vivian pulled down the driveway, her car’s headlights sweeping the old fence. I returned to the house, turned off the lights, and climbed the stairs to my husband.

“Did you lock the front door?” Matthew asked, putting down his book. He was stretched out on the bed, which was barely long enough to contain him.

“I couldn’t. It’s a dead bolt, and Sarah lost the key.” My eyes strayed to the key to our bedroom door, which the house had helpfully supplied on an earlier occasion. The memories of that night pushed my lips up into a smile.

“Dr. Bishop, are you feeling wanton?” Matthew’s tone was as seductive as a caress.

“We’re married.” I shucked off my shoes and reached for the top button on my seersucker shirt.

“It’s my wifely duty to have carnal desires where you’re concerned.”

“And it’s my husbandly obligation to satisfy them.” Matthew moved from the bed to the bureau at the speed of light. He gently replaced my fingers with his own and slid the button through its hole. Then he moved on to the next, and the next. Each inch of revealed flesh earned a kiss, a soft press of teeth.

Five buttons later I was shivering slightly in the humid summer air.

“How strange that you’re shivering,” he murmured, sliding his hands around to release the clasp on my bra. Matthew brushed his lips over the crescent-shaped scar near my heart. “You don’t feel cold.”

“It’s all relative, vampire.” I tightened my fingers in his hair, and he chuckled. “Now, are you going to love me, or do you just want to take my temperature?”

Later I held my hand up before me, turning it this way and that in the silver light. The middle and ring fingers on my left hand each bore a colored line, one the shade of a moonbeam and the other as gold as the sun. The vestiges of the other cords had faded slightly, though a pearly knot was still barely visible on the pale flesh of each wrist.

“What do you think it all means?” Matthew asked, his lips moving against my hair while his fingers traced figure eights and circles on my shoulders.

“That you’ve married the tattooed lady—or someone possessed by aliens.” Between the new lives rooting within me, Corra, and now my weaver’s cords, I was beginning to feel crowded inside my own skin.

“I was proud of you tonight. You thought of a way to save Grace so quickly.”

“I didn’t think at all. When Grace screamed, it flipped some switch in me. I was all instinct then.” I twisted in his arms. “Is that dragon thing still on my back?”

“Yes. And it’s darker than it was before.” Matthew’s hands slid around my waist, and he turned me back to face him. “Any theories as to why?”

“Not yet.” The answer was just out of my reach. I could feel it, waiting for me.

“Perhaps it has something to do with your power. It’s stronger now than it’s ever been.” Matthew carried my wrist to his mouth. He drank in my scent, then pressed his lips to my veins. “You still give off the scent of summer lightning, but now there’s also a note like dynamite when the lit fuse first touches the powder.”

“I have enough power. I don’t want any more,” I said, burrowing into Matthew.

But since we’d returned to Madison, a dark desire was stirring in my blood.

Liar, whispered a familiar voice.

My skin prickled as if a thousand witches were looking at me. But it was only one creature who watched me now: the goddess.

I stole a glance around the room, but there was no sign of her. If Matthew were to detect the goddess’s presence, he’d start asking questions I didn’t want to answer. And he might uncover one secret I was still hiding. “Thank goodness,” I said under my breath.

“Did you say something?” Matthew asked. “No,” I lied again, and crept closer to Matthew. “You must be hearing things.”

10

I stumbled downstairs the next morning, exhausted from my encounter with witchwater and the vivid dreams that had followed.

“The house was awfully quiet last night.” Sarah stood behind the old pulpit with her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, red hair wild around her face, and the Bishop grimoire open in front of her. The sight would have given Emily’s Puritan ancestor, Cotton Mather, fits.

“Really? I didn’t notice.” I yawned, trailing my fingers through the old wooden dough trough that held fresh-picked lavender. Soon the herbs would be hanging upside down to dry from the twine running between the rafters. A spider was adding to that serviceable web with a silken version of her own.

“You’ve certainly been busy this morning,” I said, changing the subject. The milk-thistle heads were in the sieve, ready to be shaken to free the seeds from their downy surround. Bunches of yellow flowered rue and button-centered feverfew were tied with string and ready for hanging. Sarah had dragged out her heavy flower press, and there was a tray of long, aromatic leaves waiting to go into it.

Bouquets of newly harvested flowers and herbs sat on the counter, their purpose not yet clear.

“There’s lots of work to do,” Sarah said. “Someone’s been tending to the garden while we were gone, but they have their own plots to take care of, and the winter and spring seeds never got into the ground.”

Several anonymous “someones” must have been involved, given the size of the witch’s garden at the Bishop house. Thinking to help, I reached for a bunch of rue. The scent of it would always remind me of Satu and the horrors that I’d experienced after she took me from the garden at Sept-Tours to La Pierre. Sarah’s hand shot out and intercepted mine.

“Pregnant women don’t touch rue, Diana. If you want to help me, go to the garden and cut some moonwort. Use that.” She pointed to her white-handled knife. The last time I’d held it, I’d used it to open my own vein and save Matthew. Neither of us had forgotten it. Neither of us mentioned it either.

“Moonwort’s that plant with the pods on it, right?”

“Purple flowers. Long stalks. Papery-looking flat disks,” Sarah instructed with more patience than usual. “Cut the stems down to the base of the plant. We’ll separate the flowers from the rest before we hang them up to dry.”

Sarah’s garden was tucked into a far corner of the orchard where the apple trees thinned out and the cypresses and oaks of the forest didn’t yet overshadow the soil. It was surrounded by palisades of fencing made from metal posts, wire mesh, pickets, retooled pallets—if it could be used to keep out rabbits, voles, and skunks, Sarah had used it. For extra security the whole perimeter was smudged twice a year and warded with protection spells.

Inside the enclosure Sarah had re-created a bit of paradise. Some of the garden’s wide paths led to shady glens where ferns and other tender plants found shelter in the shadows of the taller trees. Others bisected the raised vegetable beds that were closest to the house, with their trellises and beanpoles.

Normally these would be covered with vegetation—sweet peas and snap peas and beans of every description—but they were skeletal this year.

I skirted Sarah’s small teaching garden where she instructed the coven’s children—and sometimes their parents—on the elemental associations of various flowers, plants, and herbs. Her young charges had put up their own fence, using paint stirrers, willow twigs, and Popsicle sticks to demarcate their sacred space from that of the larger garden. Easy-to-grow plants like elfwort and yarrow helped the children understand the seasonal cycle of birth, growth, decay, and fallowness that guided any witch’s work in the craft. A hollow stump served as a container for mint and other invasive plants.

Two apple trees marked the center of the garden, and a hammock spanned the distance between them. It was wide enough to hold both Sarah and Em, and it had been their favorite spot for dreaming and talking late into the warm summer nights.

Beyond the apple trees, I passed through a second gate into the garden of a professional witch.

Sarah’s garden served the same purpose as one of my libraries: It provided a source of inspiration and refuge, as well as information and the tools to do her job.

I found the three-foot-high stems topped with purple flowers that Sarah wanted. Mindful to leave enough to self-seed for next year, I filled the wicker basket and returned to the house.

There my aunt and I worked in companionable silence. She chopped off the moonwort flowers, which she would use to make a fragrant oil, and returned the stems to me so that I could tie a bit of twine around each one—no bunches here, for fear of damaging the pods—and hang them to dry.

“How will you use the pods?” I asked, knotting the string.

“Protection charms. When school starts in a few weeks, there will be a demand for them.

Moonwort pods are especially good for children, since they keep monsters and nightmares away.”

Corra, who was napping in the stillroom loft, cocked her eye in Sarah’s direction, and smoke billowed from her nose and mouth in a firedrake’s harrumph.

“I’ve got something else in mind for you,“ Sarah said, pointing her knife in the firedrake’s direction.

Unconcerned, Corra turned her back. Her tail flopped over the edge of the loft and hung like a pendulum, its spade-shaped tip moving gently to and fro. Ducking past it, I tied another moonwort stem to the rafters, careful not to shake loose any of the papery ovals that clung to it.

“How long will they hang before they’re dried?” I asked, returning to the table.

“A week,” Sarah said, looking up briefly. “By then we’ll be able to rub the skin from the pods.

Underneath is a silver disk.”

“Like the moon. Like a mirror,” I said, nodding in understanding. “Reflecting the nightmare back on itself, so that it won’t disturb the child.”

Sarah nodded, too, pleased by my insight. “Some witches scry with moonwort pods,” Sarah continued after a few moments. “The witch in Hamilton who taught high-school chemistry told me that alchemists collected May dew on them to use as a base for the elixir of life.”

“That would require a lot of moonwort,” I said with a laugh, thinking of all the water Mary Sidney and I had used in our experiments. “I think we should stick to the protection charms.”

“Okay, then.” Sarah smiled. “For kids I put the charms in dream pillows. They’re not as spooky as a poppet or a pentacle made of blackberry canes. If you were going to make one, what ingredients would you use for the stuffing?”

I took a deep breath and focused on the question. Dream pillows didn’t have to be big, after all— the size of the palm of my hand would do.

The palm of my hand. Ordinarily I would have run my fingers through my weaver’s cords, waiting for inspiration—and guidance—to strike. But the cords were inside me now. When I turned my hands and splayed the fingers wide, shimmering knots appeared over the tracery of veins at my wrist and the thumb and pinkie on my right hand gleamed green and brown in the colors of the craft.

Sarah’s Mason jars glinted in the light from the windows. I moved toward them, running my little finger down the labels until I felt resistance.

“Agrimony.” I traveled along the shelf. “Mugwort.”

Using it like the pointer on a Ouija board, I tilted my pinkie backward. “Aniseed.” Down moved my finger. “Hops.” Up it swooped in a diagonal line to the opposite side. “Valerian.”

What was that going to smell like? Too pungent?

My thumb tingled.

“A bay leaf, a few pinches of rosemary, and some thyme,” I said.

But what if the child woke up anyway and grabbed at the pillow?

“And five dried beans.” It was an odd addition, but my weaver’s instinct told me they would make all the difference. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Sarah pushed her glasses onto her head. She looked at me in astonishment, then grinned. “It’s like an old charm your great-grandmother collected, except hers had mullein and vervain in it, too—and no beans.”

“I’d put the beans in the pillows first,” I said. “They should rattle against one another if you shake it. You can tell the kids the noise will help with the monsters.”

“Nice touch,” Sarah admitted. “And the moonwort pods—would you powder them or leave them whole?”

“Whole,” I replied, “sewn onto the front of the pillow.”

But herbs were only the first half of a protection charm. Words were needed to go along with them.

And if any other witch was going to be able to use it, those words had to be packed with potential. The London witches had taught me a great deal, but the spells I wrote tended to lie flat on the page, inert on anyone’s tongue but mine. Most spells were written in rhyme, which made them easier to remember as well as livelier. But I was no poet, like Matthew or his friends. I hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Sarah said.

“My gramarye sucks,” I confessed, lowering my voice.

“If I had the slightest idea what that was, I’d feel sorry for you,” Sarah said drily.

“Gramarye is how a weaver puts magic into words. I can construct spells and perform them myself, but without gramarye they won’t work for other witches.” I pointed to the Bishop grimoire. “Hundreds and hundreds of weavers came up with the words for those spells, and other witches passed them down through the ages. Even now the spells retain their power. I’m lucky if my spells remain potent for an hour.”

“What’s the problem?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t see spells in words but in shapes and colors.” The underside of my thumb and pinkie were still slightly discolored. “Red ink helped my fire spell. So did arranging the words on the page so that they made a kind of picture.”

“Show me,” Sarah said, pushing a piece of scrap paper and a charred stick in my direction. “Witch hazel,” she explained when I held it up for clarification. “I use it as a pencil when I’m trying to copy a spell for the first time. If something goes wrong, the aftereffects are less . . . er, permanent than with ink.” She colored slightly. One of her unruly spells had caused a cyclone in the bathroom. For weeks we found spatters of suntan lotion and shampoo in the oddest places.

I wrote out the spell I’d devised to set things alight, careful not to say the words to myself and thereby work the magic. When I was through, the index finger of my right hand was glowing red.

“This was my first attempt at gramarye,” I said, looking at it critically before handing it to Sarah.

“A third-grader probably would have done a better job.”

Fire

Ignite till

Roaring bright

Extinguishing night;

“It’s not that bad,” Sarah said. When I looked crestfallen, she hastily added, “I’ve seen worse.

Spelling out fire with the first letter of every line was clever. But why a triangle?”

“That’s the structure of the spell. It’s pretty simple, really—just a thrice-crossed knot.” It was my turn to study my work. “Funny thing is, the triangle was a symbol many alchemists used for fire.”

“A thrice-crossed knot?” Sarah looked over the frames of her glasses. “You’re having one of your Yoda moments.” This was her way of letting the air out of my vocabulary.

“I’m making it as plain as I can, Sarah. It would be easier to show you what I mean if my cords weren’t inside my hands.” I held them up and waggled my fingers at her. Sarah murmured something, and the ball of twine rolled across the table. “Will ordinary string do, Yoda?”

I stopped the ball by saying my own spell to arrest its motion. It was heavy with the power of earth and had a thicket of thrice-crossed knots surrounding it. Sarah twitched in surprise.

“Of course,” I said, pleased by my aunt’s reaction. After giving the twine a whack with her knife, I picked up a length of string approximately nine inches long. “Every knot has a different number of crossings. You use two of them in your craft—the slipknot and the double slipknot. Those are the two weaver’s knots that all witches know. It’s when we come to the third knot that things get complicated.”

I wasn’t sure if kitchen twine was up to showing what I meant, though. Knots made with my weaver’s cords were three-dimensional, but given that I was working with ordinary string, I decided to work on the flat. Holding one end of the length in my left hand, I made a loop to the right, pulled the string loosely under one side of the loop and over the other, and joined the ends together. The result was a trefoil-shaped knot that resembled a triangle.

“See, three crossings,” I said. “You try.”

When I took my hands off the string, it sprang up into a familiar pyramid with the ends properly fused together into an unbreakable knot. Sarah gasped.

“Cool,” I said. “Plain old string works just fine.”

“You sound just like your father.” Sarah poked at the knot with her finger. “There’s one of those hidden in every spell?”

“At least one. Really complicated spells might have two or three knots, each one tying into the threads you saw last night in the keeping room—the ones that bind the world.” I smiled. “I guess gramarye is a disguising spell of sorts—one that hides magic’s inner workings.”

“And when you say the words, it reveals them,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “Let’s give yours a go.”

Before I could warn her, Sarah read the words of my spell aloud. The paper burst into flame in her hands. She dropped it on the table, and I doused it with a shower of conjured water. “I thought that was a spell for lighting a candle—not setting a house on fire!” she exclaimed, looking at the charred mess.

“Sorry. The spell is still pretty new. It will settle down eventually. Gramarye can’t hold a spell together forever, so its magic weakens over time. It’s why spells stop working,” I explained.

“Really? Then you should be able to figure out the relative ages of spells.” Sarah’s eyes gleamed.

She was a great believer in tradition, and the older a piece of magic was, the more she liked it.

“Maybe,” I said doubtfully, “but there are other reasons that spells fail. Weavers have different abilities, for one thing. And if words were left out or changed when later witches copied them, that will compromise the magic, too.”

But Sarah was already in front of her spell book, leafing through the pages.

“Here, look at this one.” She beckoned me toward her. “I always suspected this was the oldest spell in the Bishop grimoire.”

“‘An exceeding great charm for drawing clean air into any place,’” I read aloud, “‘one handed down from old Maude Bishop and proven by me, Charity Bishop in the year 1705.’”

In the margins were notes made by other witches, including my grandmother, who had later mastered the spell. A caustic annotation by Sarah proclaimed, “utterly worthless.”

“Well?” Sarah demanded.

“It’s dated 1705,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but its genealogy goes back beyond that. Em never could find out who Maude Bishop was—a relative of Bridget’s from England, perhaps?” This unfinished genealogical research project provided Sarah her first opportunity to mention Em’s name without sorrow. Vivian was right. Sarah needed me in her stillroom just as much as I needed to be there.

“Perhaps,” I said again, trying not to raise unrealistic hopes.

“Do that thing you did with the jars. Read with your fingers,” Sarah said, pushing the pulpit toward me. I ran my fingertips lightly over the words of the spell. My skin tingled in recognition as they encountered the ingredients woven into it: the air blowing around my ring finger, the sensation of liquid coursing under the nail of my middle finger, and the explosion of scents that clung to my little finger.

“Hyssop, marjoram, and lots of salt,” I said thoughtfully. These were common ingredients found in every witch’s house and garden.

“So why won’t it work?” Sarah was staring at my upraised right hand as though it were an oracle.

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “And you know I could repeat it a thousand times and it will never work for me.” Sarah and her friends in the coven were going to have to figure out what was wrong with Maude Bishop’s spell themselves. That, or buy a can of air freshener.

“Maybe you can stitch it back together, or weave a patch, or whatever it is that witches like you do.”

Witches like you. Sarah didn’t mean to do it, but her words left me feeling uneasy and isolated.

Staring down at the page from the grimoire, I wondered if an inability to perform magic on command was one reason that weavers had been targeted by their communities.

“It doesn’t work that way.” I folded my hands atop the open book and pressed my lips together, withdrawing like a crab into its shell.

“You said weaving started with a question. Ask the spell what’s wrong,” Sarah suggested.

I wished I’d never seen Maude Bishop’s cleansing spell. Even more, I wished Sarah had never seen it.

“What are you doing?” Sarah pointed to the Bishop grimoire in horror.

Underneath my hands the writing was unspooling from its neat curlicues. Leftover splatters of ink marred the otherwise blank page. Within moments there was no trace of Maude Bishop’s spell except for a small, tight blue-and-yellow knot. I stared at it in fascination and had the sudden urge to— “Don’t touch it!” Sarah cried, waking Corra from her slumber. I jumped away from the book, and Sarah swooped down on it, trapping the knot under a mason jar. We both peered at the UMO—unfamiliar magical object.

“Now what do we do?” I always thought of spells as living, breathing creations. It seemed unkind to keep it contained.

“I’m not sure there’s much we can do.” Sarah took my left hand and flipped it over, revealing a black-stained thumb.

“I got ink on it,” I said.

Sarah shook her head. “That’s not ink. That’s the color of death. You killed the spell.”

“What do you mean, killed it?” I snatched my hand away, holding it behind me like a child caught raiding the cookie jar.

“Don’t panic,” Sarah said. “Rebecca learned to control it. You can, too.”

“My mother?” I thought of the long look that Sarah and Vivian had exchanged last night. “You knew something like this might happen.”

“Only after I saw your left hand. It bears all the colors of the higher magics, like exorcism and auguries, just as your right hand shows the colors of the craft.” Sarah paused. “It bears the colors of the darker magics, too.”

“Good thing I’m right-handed.” It was an attempt at humor, but the tremor in my voice gave me away.

“You’re not right-handed. You’re ambidextrous. You only favor your right hand because that horrible first-grade teacher said left-handed children were demonic.” Sarah had seen to it that the woman was formally censured. After experiencing her first Halloween in Madison, Miss Somerton had resigned her position.

I wanted to say I wasn’t interested in the higher magics either, but nothing came out.

Sarah looked at me sadly. “You can’t lie to another witch, Diana. Especially not a whopper like that.”

“No dark magic.” Emily had died trying to summon and bind a spirit—probably my mother. Peter Knox was interested in the darker aspects of the craft, too. And dark magic was bound up in Ashmole 782 as well—not to mention more than one thumb’s worth of death.

“Dark doesn’t have to mean evil,” Sarah said. “Is the new moon evil?”

I shook my head. “The dark of the moon is a time for new beginnings.”

“Owls? Spiders? Bats? Dragons?” Sarah was using her teacher voice.

“No,” I admitted.

“No. They are not. Humans made up those stories about the moon and nocturnal creatures because they represent the unknown. It’s no coincidence that they also symbolize wisdom. There is nothing more powerful than knowledge. That’s why we’re so careful when we teach someone dark magic.” Sarah took my hand. “Black is the color of the goddess as crone, plus the color of concealment, bad omens, and death.”

“And these?” I wiggled the three other fingers.

“Here we have the color of the goddess as maiden and huntress,” she said, folding in my silver middle finger. Now I knew why the goddess’s voice sounded as it did. “And here is the color of worldly power.” She folded in my golden ring finger. “As for your pinkie, white is the color of divination and prophecy. It’s also used to break curses and banish unwanted spirits.”

“Except for the death, that doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“Like I said, dark doesn’t necessarily mean evil,” Sarah said. “Think about worldly power. In beneficent hands it’s a force for good. But if someone abuses it for personal gain or to harm others, it can be terribly destructive. The darkness depends on the witch.”

“You said Emily wasn’t very good at the higher magics. What about Mom?”

“Rebecca excelled at them. She went straight from bell, book, and candle to calling down the moon,” Sarah said wistfully.

Some of what I’d witnessed my mother do when I was a child made sense now, like the night she’d conjured wraiths out of a bowl of water. So, too, did Peter Knox’s preoccupation with her. “Rebecca seemed to lose interest in higher magics once she met your father, though. The only subjects that appealed to her then were anthropology and Stephen. And you, of course,” Sarah said. “I don’t think she worked much higher magic after you were born.”

Not where anybody but Dad or I could see, I thought. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I said aloud.

“You didn’t want anything to do with magic, remember?” Sarah’s hazel gaze held mine. “I saved some of Rebecca’s things, just in case you ever showed any ability. The house took the rest.”

Sarah murmured a spell—an opening spell, based on the threads that suddenly illuminated the room with shades of red, yellow, and green. A cabinet and drawers appeared to the left of the old fireplace, built into the ancient masonry. The room filled with the scent of lily of the valley and something heavy and exotic that stirred sharp, uncomfortable feelings within me: emptiness and yearning, familiarity and dread. Sarah opened a drawer and took out a chunk of something red and resinous.

“Dragon’s blood. I can’t smell it without thinking of Rebecca.” Sarah sniffed it. “The stuff you can get now isn’t as good as this, and it costs an absolute fortune. I wanted to sell this and use the proceeds to fix the roof when it collapsed in the blizzard of ’93, but Em wouldn’t let me.”

“What did Mom use it for?” I said around the lump in my throat.

“Rebecca made ink from it. When she used that ink to copy out a charm, the force of it could suck the power out of half the town. There were lots of blackouts in Madison during your mother’s teen years.” Sarah chuckled. “Her spell book should be here somewhere—unless the house ate it while I was gone. That will tell you more.”

“Spell book?” I frowned. “What was wrong with the Bishop grimoire?”

“Most witches who practice the higher, darker magics keep their own grimoire. It’s tradition,”

Sarah said, rummaging around in the cupboard. “Nope. It doesn’t seem to be here.”

Despite the pang of disappointment that accompanied Sarah’s announcement, I was relieved. I already had one mysterious book in my life. I wasn’t sure I wanted another—even if it might shed light on why Emily had been trying to summon my mother’s spirit at Sept-Tours.

“Oh, no.” Sarah backed away from the cupboard, a look of horror on her face.

“Is there a rat?” My experiences in London had conditioned me to believe that they lurked in every dusty corner. I peered into the cupboard’s depths but saw only a collection of grimy jars containing herbs and roots and an ancient clock radio. Its brown cord hung down from the shelf like Corra’s tail, waving gently in the breeze. I sneezed.

As if on cue, a strange metallic clinking and rolling started in the walls, like coins being fed into a jukebox. The musical grinding that followed, reminiscent of an old record player set to 33 rpm instead of 45 rpm, soon gave way to a recognizable song.

I cocked my head. “Is that . . . Fleetwood Mac?”

“No. Not again!” Sarah looked as if she’d seen a ghost. I glanced around, but the only invisible presence in the room was Stevie Nicks and a Welsh witch named Rhiannon. In the seventies the song had been a coming-out anthem for scores of witches and wizards.

“I guess the house is waking up.” Maybe that was what was upsetting Sarah.

Sarah darted to the door and lifted the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. She banged on the wooden panels. The music got louder.

“This isn’t my favorite Stevie Nicks tune either,” I said, trying to calm her, “but it won’t last forever. Maybe you’ll like the next song better.”

“The next song is ‘Over My Head.’ I know the whole damn album by heart. Your mother listened to it all through her pregnancy. It went on for months. Just when Rebecca seemed to get over her obsession, Fleetwood Mac’s next album came out. It was hell.” Sarah tore at her hair.

“Really?” I was always hungry for details about my parents. “Fleetwood Mac seems more like Dad’s kind of band.”

“We have to stop the music.” Sarah went to the window, but the sash wouldn’t move. She thumped on the frame in frustration. “Let me try.” The harder I pushed, the louder the music got. There was a momentary pause after Stevie Nicks stopped warbling about Rhiannon. A few seconds later, Christine McVie informed us how nice it was to be in over your head. The window remained closed.

“This is a nightmare!” Sarah exploded. She jammed her hands over her ears to block the sound, then raced to the grimoire and flipped through the pages. “Prudence Willard’s dog-bite cure. Patience Severance’s method for sweetening sour milk.” She flipped some more. “Clara Bishop’s spell for stopping up a drafty chimney! That might work.”

“But it’s music, not smoke,” I said, peering over Sarah’s shoulder at the lines of text.

“Both are carried on the air.” Sarah rolled up her sleeves. “If it doesn’t do the trick, we’ll try something else. Maybe thunder. I’m good with thunder. That might interrupt the energy and drive the sound away.”

I started to hum along to the song. It was catchy, in a 1970s kind of way.

“Don’t you start.” Sarah’s eyes were wild. She turned back to the grimoire. “Get me some eyebright, please. And plug in the coffeemaker.”

I dutifully went to the ancient outlet strip and shoved the coffeemaker’s cord into it. Electricity leaped from the socket in orange and blue arcs. I jumped back.

“You need a surge protector—preferably one bought in the last decade—or you’re going to burn the whole house down,” I told Sarah.

She kept muttering as she put a paper filter into the swing-out basket in the coffeemaker, followed by an extensive selection of herbs.

Since we were trapped inside the stillroom and Sarah didn’t seem to want my help, I might as well work on the words to accompany my anti-nightmare spell for the children. I went to my mother’s cabinet and found some black ink, a quill pen, and a slip of paper.

Matthew knocked on the windowpane. “Are you two all right? I smelled something burning.”

“A minor electrical problem!” I shouted, waving my quill pen in the air. Then I remembered that Matthew was a vampire and could hear me perfectly well through stone, brick, wood, and yes, single panes of glass. I lowered my voice. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Over My Head” screeched to a halt, and “You Make Loving Fun” began. Nice choice, I thought, smiling at Matthew. Who needed a deejay when you had magical radio?

“Oh, God. The house has moved on to their second album,” Sarah groaned. “I hate Rumours.”

“Where is that music coming from?” Matthew frowned.

“Mom’s old clock radio.” I pointed with the feather. “She liked Fleetwood Mac.” I glanced at my aunt, who was reciting the words to Clara Bishop’s spell with her hands clapped over her ears. “Sarah doesn’t.”

“Ah.” Matthew’s brow cleared. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He pressed his hand against the glass in a silent gesture of farewell.

My heart filled. Loving Matthew wasn’t all I wanted to do, but he was definitely the only one for me. I wished there wasn’t a pane of glass between us so I that could tell him so.

Glass is only sand and fire. One puff of smoke later, a pile of sand lay on the windowsill. I reached through the empty square in the window frame and clasped his hand.

“Thanks for checking on us. It’s been an interesting afternoon. I have a lot to tell you.”

Matthew blinked at our twined hands.

“You make me very happy, you know.”

“I try,” he said with a shy grin.

“You succeed. Do you think Fernando could rescue Sarah?” I lowered my voice. “The house has jammed the stillroom doors and windows shut, and she’s about to blow. She’s going to need a cigarette when she gets out, and a stiff drink.”

“Fernando hasn’t rescued a woman in distress for some time, but I’m sure he remembers how,”

Matthew assured me. “Will the house let him?”

“Give it five minutes or until the music stops, whichever comes first.” I pulled free and blew him a kiss. It had rather more fire and water than usual, and enough air behind it to land with a decided smack on his cheek.

I returned to the worktable and dipped my mother’s quill pen into the ink. It smelled of blackberries and walnuts. Thanks to my experience with Elizabethan writing implements, I was able to write out the charm for Sarah’s dream pillows without a single splotch.

Mirror

Shimmers

Monsters Shake

Banish Nightmares

Until We Wake;

I blew on it gently to set the ink. Very respectable, I decided. It was much better than my spell for conjuring fire, and easy enough for children to remember. When the pods were dry and the papery covering rubbed off, I’d write the charm in tiny letters right on their silvery surface.

Eager to show my work to Sarah, I slid down from the stool. One look at her face convinced me to put it off until my aunt had had her whiskey and a smoke. She’d been hoping for decades that I’d show an interest in magic. I could wait another twenty minutes for my grade in Sleeping Charms 101.

A slight tingle behind me alerted me to a ghostly presence a moment before a hug as soft as down settled around my shoulders.

“Nice job, peanut,” whispered a familiar voice. “Excellent taste in music, too.”

When I turned my head, there was nothing except a faint smudge of green, but I didn’t need to see my father to know that he was there. “Thanks, Dad,” I said softly.

11

Matthew took the news about my mother’s proficiency with higher magic better than expected. He had long suspected that something existed between the homely work of the craft and the bright spectacles of elemental magic. He was not at all surprised that I, in another mark of in-betweenness, could practice such a magic. What shocked him was that this talent came through my mother’s blood.

“I’ll have to take a closer look at your mtDNA workup after all,” he said, giving one of my mother’s inks a sniff.

“Sounds good.” It was the first time Matthew had shown any desire to return to his genetic research. Days had gone by without any mention of Oxford, Baldwin, the Book of Life, or blood rage.

And while he might have forgotten that there was genetic information bound up in Ashmole 782, I had not. Once we had the manuscript back in our hands, we were going to need his scientific skills to decipher it.

“You’re right. There’s definitely blood in it, as well as resin and acacia.” Matthew swirled the ink around. Acacia, I’d learned this morning, was the source of gum arabic, which made the ink less runny.

“I thought as much. The inks used in Ashmole 782 had blood in it, too. It must be a more common practice than I thought,” I said.

“There’s some frankincense in it, too.” Matthew said, ignoring my mention of the Book of Life.

“Ah. That’s what gives it that exotic scent.” I rummaged through the remaining bottles, hoping to find something else to catch his biochemical curiosity.

“That and the blood, of course,” Matthew said drily.

“If it’s my mother’s blood, that could shed even more light on my DNA,” I remarked. “My talent for higher magic, too.”

“Hmm,” Matthew said noncommittally.

“What about this one?” I drew the stopper out of a bottle of blue-green liquid, and the scent of a summer garden filled the air.

“That’s made from iris,” Matthew said. “Remember your search for green ink in London?”

“So this is what Master Platt’s fantastically expensive ink looked like!” I laughed.

“Made from roots imported from Florence. Or so he said.” Matthew surveyed the table and its blue, red, black, green, purple, and magenta pots of liquid. “It looks like you have enough ink to keep you going for some time.”

He was right: I had enough to get me through the next few weeks. And that was as far as I was willing to project, even if my left pinkie was throbbing in anticipation of the future.

“This should be plenty, even with all the jobs Sarah has for me,” I agreed. Each of the open jars on the table had a small slip of paper underneath with a note in her sprawling handwriting. “Mosquito bites,” read one. “Better cell-phone reception,” read another. Her requests made me feel like a server at a fast-food restaurant. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime,” Matthew said, kissing me good-bye.

Over the next few days, the routines of daily life began to anchor us to the Bishop house and to each other—even without the steadying presence of Em, who had always been the house’s center of gravity.

Fernando was a domestic tyrant—far worse than Em ever was—and his changes to Sarah’s diet and exercise plan were radical and inflexible. He signed my aunt up for a CSA program that delivered a box of exotic vegetables like kale and chard every week, and he walked the property’s fence line with her whenever she tried to sneak a cigarette. Fernando cooked and cleaned and even plumped cushions—all of which had me wondering about his life with Hugh.

“When we didn’t have servants—and that was often the case—I kept the house,” he explained, hanging up clothes on the line. “If I’d waited for Hugh to do it, we’d have lived in squalor. He didn’t pay attention to such mundane matters as clean sheets or whether we had run out of wine. Hugh was either writing poetry or planning a three-month siege. There was no time in his day for domestic chores.”

“And Gallowglass?” I asked, handing him a clothespin.

“Gallowglass is worse. Not even the furniture—or lack of it—matters to him. We came home one night to find our house robbed and Gallowglass sleeping on the table like a Viking warrior ready to be sent out to sea.” Fernando shook his head. “Besides, I enjoy the work. Keeping house is like preparing weapons for battle. It’s repetitive and very soothing.” His confession made me feel less guilty about letting him do all the cooking.

Fernando’s other domain, aside from the kitchen, was the toolshed. He’d cleared out what was broken, cleaned and sharpened what remained, and bought items he felt were missing, like a scythe. The edges on the rose secateurs were now so keen you could slice a tomato with them. I was reminded of all the wars that had been fought using common household implements and wondered if Fernando were quietly arming us for combat.

Sarah, for her part, grumbled at the new regime but went along with it. When she got cranky— which was often—she took it out on the house. It was still not fully awake, but periodic rumblings of activity reminded us that its self-imposed hibernation was drawing to a close. Most of its energy was directed at Sarah. One morning we woke to find that all the liquor in the house had been dumped down the sink and a makeshift mobile of empty bottles and silverware was attached to the kitchen light fixture.

Matthew and I laughed, but as far as Sarah was concerned, this was war. From that moment my aunt and the house were in an all-out battle for supremacy.

The house was winning, thanks to its chief weapon: Fleetwood Mac. Sarah had bashed Mom’s old radio to bits two days after we found it during a never-ending concert of “The Chain.” The house retaliated by removing all the toilet-paper rolls from the bathroom cabinets and replacing them with a variety of electronic gadgets capable of playing music. It made for a rousing morning alarm.

Nothing deterred the house from playing selections from the band’s first two albums—not even Sarah’s defenestration of three record players, an eight-track tape machine, and an ancient Dictaphone.

The house simply diverted the music through the furnace, the bass notes reverberating in the ductwork while the treble wafted from the heating vents.

With all her ire directed at the house, Sarah was surprisingly patient and gentle with me. We had turned the stillroom inside out looking for Mom’s spell book, going so far as to remove all the drawers and shelves from the cabinet. We’d found some surprisingly graphic love letters from the 1820s hidden beneath one drawer’s false bottom and a macabre collection of rodent skulls tacked in orderly rows behind a sliding panel at the back of the shelving, but no spell book. The house would present it when it was ready.

When the music and memories of Emily and my parents became too overwhelming, Sarah and I escaped to the garden or the woods. Today my aunt had offered to show me where baneful plants could be found. The moon would be full dark tonight, the beginning of a new cycle of growth. It would be a propitious time for gathering up the materials for higher magic. Matthew followed us like a shadow as we wended our way through the vegetable patch and the teaching garden. When we reached her witch’s garden, Sarah kept walking. A giant moonflower vine marked the boundary between the garden and the woods. It sprawled in every direction, obscuring the fence and the gate underneath.

“Allow me, Sarah.” Matthew stepped forward to spring the latch. Until now he’d been sauntering behind us, seemingly interested in the flowers. But I knew that bringing up the rear placed him in the perfect defensive position. He stepped through the gate, made sure nothing dangerous lurked there, and pulled the vine away so Sarah and I could pass through into another world.

There were many magical places on the Bishop homestead—oak groves dedicated to the goddess, long avenues between yew trees that were once old roads and still showed the deep ruts of wagons laden with wood and produce for the markets, even the old Bishop graveyard. But this little grove between the garden and the forest was my favorite.

Dappled sunlight broke through its center, moving through the cypress that surrounded the place. In ages past, it might have been called a fairy ring, because the ground was thick with toadstools and mushrooms. As a child I’d been forbidden to pick anything that grew there. Now I understood why:

Every plant here was either baneful or associated with the darker aspects of the craft. Two paths intersected in the middle of the grove.

“A crossroads.” I froze.

“The crossroads have been here longer than the house. Some say these pathways were made by the Oneida before the English settled here.” Sarah beckoned me forward. “Come and look at this plant. Is it deadly nightshade or black nightshade?”

Instead of listening, I was completely mesmerized by the X in the middle of the grove.

There was power there. Knowledge, too. I felt the familiar push and pull of desire and fear as I saw the clearing through the eyes of those who had walked these paths before.

“What is it?” Matthew asked, his instincts warning him that something was wrong.

But other voices, though faint, had captured my attention: my mother and Emily, my father and my grandmother, and others unknown to me. Wolfsbane, the voices whispered. Skullcap. Devil’s bit. Adder’s tongue. Witch’s broom. Their chant was punctuated with warnings and suggestions, and their litany of spells included plants that featured in fairy tales.

Gather cinquefoil when the moon is full to extend the reach of your power.

Hellebore makes any disguising spell more effective.

Mistletoe will bring you love and many children.

To see the future more clearly, use black henbane.

“Diana?” Sarah straightened, hands on hips.

“Coming,” I murmured, dragging my attention away from the faint voices and going obediently to my aunt’s side. Sarah gave me all sorts of instructions about the plants in the grove. Her words went in one ear and out the other, flowing through me in a way that would have made my father proud. My aunt could recite all the common and botanical names for every wildflower, weed, root, and herb as well as their uses, both benign and baneful. But her mastery was born of reading and study. Sarah had no instinctive feel for what grew here. I had learned the limits of book-based knowledge in Mary Sidney’s alchemical laboratory, when I was confronted for the first time with the challenges of doing what I’d spent years reading and writing about as a scholar. There I had discovered that being able to cite alchemical texts was nothing when weighed against experience. But my mother and Emily were no longer here to help me. If I was going to walk the dark paths of higher magic, I was going to have to do it alone.

The prospect terrified me.

Just before moonrise Sarah invited me to go back out with her to gather the plants she would need for this month’s work.

I begged off, claiming I was too tired to go along. But it was the insistent call of the voices at the crossroads that made me refuse.

“Does your reluctance to go to the woods tonight have something to do with your trip there this afternoon?” Matthew asked.

“Perhaps,” I said, staring out the window. “Sarah and Fernando are back.”

My aunt was carrying a basket full of greenery. The kitchen screen slammed shut behind her, and then the stillroom door creaked open. A few minutes later, she and Fernando climbed the stairs. Sarah was wheezing less than she had last week. Fernando’s health regime was working.

“Come to bed,” Matthew said, turning back the covers.

The night was dark, illuminated only by the stars. Soon it would be midnight, the moment between night and day. The voices at the crossroads grew louder.

“I have to go.” I pushed past Matthew and headed downstairs.

“We have to go,” he said firmly. “I won’t stop you or interfere. But you are not going to the woods by yourself.”

“There’s power there, Matthew. Dark power. I could feel it. And it’s been calling to me since the sun set!”

He took me by the elbow and propelled me out the front door. He didn’t want anyone to hear the rest of this conversation.

“Then answer its call,” he snapped. “Say yes or say no, but don’t expect me to sit here and wait quietly for you to return.”

“And if I say yes?” I demanded.

“We’ll face it. Together.”

“I don’t believe you. You told me before that you don’t want me meddling with life and death.

That’s the kind of power that’s waiting for me where the paths cross in the woods. And I want it!” I wrested my elbow from his grip and jabbed a finger in his chest. “I hate myself for wanting it, but I do!”

I turned from the revulsion that I knew would be in his eyes. Matthew turned my face back toward him.

“I’ve known that the darkness was in you since I found you in the Bodleian, hiding from the other witches on Mabon.”

My breath caught. His eyes held mine.

“I felt its allure, and the darkness in me responded to it. Should I loathe myself, then?” Matthew’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Should you?”

“But you said—”

“I said I didn’t want you to meddle with life and death, not that you couldn’t do so.” Matthew took my hands in his. “I’ve been covered in blood, held a man’s future in my hands, decided if a woman’s heart would beat again. Something in your own soul dies each time you make the choice for another. I saw what Juliette’s death did to you, and Champier’s, too.”

“I didn’t have a choice in those cases. Not really.” Champier would have taken all my memories and hurt the people who were trying to help me. Juliette had been trying to kill Matthew—and would have succeeded had I not called on the goddess.

“Yes you did.” Matthew pressed a kiss on my knuckles. “You chose death for them, just as you chose life for me, life for Louisa and Kit even though they tried to harm you, life for Jack when you brought him to our house in the Blackfriars instead of leaving him on the street to starve, life for baby Grace when you rescued her from the fire. Whether you realize it or not, you paid a price every time.”

I knew the price I’d paid for Matthew’s survival, though he did not: My life belonged to the goddess for as long as she saw fit.

“Philippe was the only other creature I’ve ever known who made life-or-death decisions as quickly and instinctively as you. The price that Philippe paid was terrible loneliness, one that grew over time.

Not even Ysabeau could banish it.” Matthew rested his forehead against mine. “I don’t want that to be your fate.”

But my fate was not my own. It was time to tell Matthew so.

“The night I saved you. Do you remember it?” I asked.

Matthew nodded. He didn’t like to talk about the night we’d both almost lost our lives.

“The maiden and the crone were there—two aspects of the goddess.” My heart was hammering.

“We called Ysabeau after you fixed me up, and I told her I’d seen them.” I searched his face for signs of understanding, but he still looked bewildered. “I didn’t save you, Matthew. The goddess did. I asked her to do it.”

His fingers dug into my arm. “Tell me you didn’t strike a bargain with her in exchange.”

“You were dying, and I didn’t have enough power to heal you.” I gripped his shirt, afraid of how he would react to my next revelation. “My blood wouldn’t have been enough. But the goddess drew the life out of that ancient oak tree so I could feed it to you through my veins.”

“And in return?” Matthew’s hands tightened, lifting me until my feet were barely touching the ground. “Your gods and goddesses don’t grant boons without getting something back. Philippe taught me that.”

“I told her to take anyone, anything, so long as she saved you.”

Matthew let go abruptly. “Emily?”

“No.” I shook my head. “The goddess wanted a life for a life—not a death for a life. She chose mine.” My eyes filled with tears at the look of betrayal I saw on his face. “I didn’t know her decision until I wove my first spell. I saw her then. The goddess said she still had work for me to do.”

“We’re going to fix this.” Matthew practically dragged me in the direction of the garden gate.

Under the dark sky, the moonflowers that covered it were the only signposts to illuminate our way. We reached the crossroads quickly. Matthew pushed me to the center.

“We can’t,” I protested.

“If you can weave the tenth knot, you can dissolve whatever promise you made to the goddess,” he said roughly.

“No!” My stomach clenched, and my chest started to burn. “This is the goddess. I can’t just wave my hand and make our agreement disappear.”

The dead branches of an ancient oak, the one the goddess had sacrificed so that Matthew would live, were barely visible. Under my feet the earth seemed to shift. I looked down and saw that I was straddling the center of the crossroads. The burning sensation in my heart extended down my arms and into my fingers.

“You will not bind your future to some capricious deity. Not for my sake,” Matthew said, his voice shaking with fury.

“Don’t speak ill of the goddess here,” I warned. “I didn’t go to your church and mock your god.”

“If you won’t break your promise to the goddess, then use your magic to summon her.” Matthew joined me where the paths converged.

“Get out of the crossroads, Matthew.” The wind was swirling around my feet in a magical storm.

Corra shrieked through the night sky, trailing fire like a comet. She circled above us, crying out in warning.

“Not until you call her.” Matthew’s feet remained where they were. “You won’t pay for my life with your own.”

“It was my choice.” My hair crackling around my face, fiery tendrils writhing against my neck. “I chose you.”

“I won’t let you.”

“It’s already done.” My heart thudded, and his heart echoed it. “If the goddess wants me to fulfill some purpose of hers, I’ll do it—gladly. Because you’re mine, and I’m not done with you yet.”

My final words were almost identical to those the goddess had once said to me. They rang with power, quieting the wind and silencing Corra’s cries. The fire in my veins subsided, the burning sensation becoming a smoldering heat as the connection between Matthew and me tightened, the links that bound us shining and strong.

“You cannot make me regret what I asked the goddess for, or any price I’ve paid because of it,” I said. “Nor will I break my promise to her. Have you thought about what would happen if I did?”

Matthew remained silent, listening.

“Without you I would never have known Philippe or received his blood vow. I wouldn’t be carrying your children. I wouldn’t have seen my father or known I was a weaver. Don’t you understand?” My hands rose to cradle his face. “In saving your life, I saved mine, too.”

“What does she want you to do?” Matthew’s voice was rough with emotion.

“I don’t know. But there’s one thing I’m sure of: The goddess needs me alive to do it.”

Matthew’s hand came to rest on the space between my hips where our children slept.

I felt a soft flutter. Another. I looked at him in alarm.

His hand flexed over my skin, pressing slightly, and there was a stronger flicker of movement in my belly.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Not at all. The babies. They’ve quickened.” Matthew’s expression was awed as well as relieved.

We waited together for the next flurry of activity within me. When it came, Matthew and I both laughed, caught up in the unexpected joy. I tilted back my head. The stars seemed brighter, keeping the darkness of the new moon in balance with the light.

The crossroads was silent, and the sharp need I had felt to be out under the dark moon had passed.

It was not death that had brought me here, but life. Hand in hand, Matthew and I went back to the house.

When I turned on the kitchen light, something unexpected was waiting for me.

“It’s a bit soon for someone to leave me a birthday present,” I said, eyeing the strangely wrapped parcel. When Matthew moved forward to examine it more closely, I put out a hand and stopped him.

“Don’t touch it.”

He looked at me in confusion.

“It’s got enough magical wards on it to repel an army,” I explained.

The package was thin and rectangular. An odd assortment of wrapping paper had been patched together to cover it: pink paper with storks, paper covered with primary-colored inchworms forming the shape of the number four, garish Christmas-tree wrapping paper, and silver foil with embossed wedding bells. A bouquet of bright bows covered its surface.

“Where did it come from?” Matthew asked.

“The house, I think.” I poked it with my finger. “I recognize some of the wrapping paper from birthdays past.”

“Are you sure it’s for you?” He looked dubious.

I nodded. The package was definitely for me. Gingerly I picked it up. The bows, all of which had been used before and therefore lacked adhesive, slipped off and rained down on the kitchen island.

“Shall I get Sarah?” Matthew asked.

“No. I’ve got it covered.” My hands were tingling, and every rainbow stripe was in evidence as I removed the wrapping paper. Inside was a composition book—the kind with a black-and-white cover and pages sewn together with thick string. Someone had glued a magenta daisy over the white box for your name, and WIDE RULE had been edited to read WITCHES RULE.

“‘Rebecca Bishop’s Book of Shadows,’” I said, reading aloud from the words written in thick black ink on the daisy. “This is my mother’s missing spell book—the one she used for the higher magics.”

I cracked open the cover. After all our problems with Ashmole 782, I was braced for anything from mysterious illustrations to encoded script. Instead I found my mother’s round, childish handwriting.

“To summon a spirit recently dead and question it” was the first spell in the book.

“Mom certainly believed in starting with a bang,” I said, showing Matthew the words on the page.

The notes beneath the spell recorded the dates when she and Emily had tried to work the magic, as well as the results. Their first three attempts had failed. On the fourth try, they succeeded.

Both of them were thirteen at the time.

“Christ,” Matthew said. “They were babes. What business did they have with the dead?”

“Apparently they wanted to know if Bobby Woodruff liked Mary Bassett,” I said, peering at the cramped script.

“Why didn’t they just ask Bobby Woodruff?” Matthew wondered.

I flipped through the pages. Binding spells, banishing spells, protection spells, charms to summon the elemental powers—they were all in there, along with love magic and other coercive enchantments.

My fingers stopped. Matthew sniffed.

Something thin and almost transparent was pressed onto one of the pages in the back of the book.

Scrawled above it in a more mature version of the same round hand were the words:

Diana:

Happy Birthday! I kept this for you.

It was our first indication that you were going to be a great witch.

Maybe you’ll need it one day.

Lots of love, Mom

“It’s my caul.” I looked up at Matthew. “Do you think it’s meaningful that I got it back on the same day the babies quickened?”

“No,” Matthew said. “It’s far more likely that the house gave it back to you tonight because you finally stopped running from what your mother and father knew since the very beginning.”

“What’s that?” I frowned.

“That you were going to possess an extraordinary combination of your parents’ very different magical abilities,” he replied.

The tenth knot burned on my wrist. I turned over my hand and looked at its writhing shape.

“That’s why I can tie the tenth knot,” I said, understanding for the first time where the power came from. “I can create because my father was a weaver, and I can destroy because my mother had the talent for higher, darker magics.”

“A union of opposites,” Matthew said. “Your parents were an alchemical wedding, too. One that produced a marvelous child.”

I closed the spell book carefully. It would take me months—years, perhaps—to learn from my mother’s mistakes and create spells of my own that would achieve the same ends. With one hand pressing my mother’s spell book to my sternum and the other pressed against my abdomen, I leaned back and listened to the slow beating of Matthew’s heart.

“‘Do not refuse me because I am dark and shadowed,’” I whispered, remembering a line from an alchemical text I’d studied in Matthew’s library. “That line from the Aurora Consurgens used to remind me of you, but now it makes me think of my parents, as well as my own magic and how hard I resisted it.” Matthew’s thumb stroked my wrist, bringing the tenth knot to brilliant, colorful life.

“This reminds me of another part of the Aurora Consurgens,” he murmured. “‘As I am the end, so

my lover is the beginning. I encompass the whole work of creation, and all knowledge is hidden in me.’”

“What do you think it means?” I turned my head so I could see his expression.

He smiled, and his arms circled my waist, one hand now resting on the babies. They moved as if recognizing their father’s touch. “That I am a very lucky man,” Matthew replied.

12

I woke up to Matthew’s cool hands sliding under my pajama top, his lips soothing against my damp neck.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

“My own private air conditioner,” I said, snuggling against him. A vampire husband brought welcome relief in tropical conditions. “What a thoughtful present.”

“There are more,” he said, giving me a slow, wicked kiss.

“Fernando and Sarah?” I was almost past caring who might hear our lovemaking, but not quite.

“Outside. In the garden hammock. With the paper.”

“We’ll have to be quick, then.” The local papers were short on news and long on advertisements.

They took ten minutes to read—fifteen if you were shopping the back-to-school sales or wanted to know which of the three grocery chains had the best deal on bleach.

“I went out for the New York Times this morning,” he said.

“Always prepared, aren’t you?” I reached down and touched him. Matthew swore. In French.

“You’re just like Verin. Such a Boy Scout.”

“Not always,” he said, closing his eyes. “Not now, certainly.”

“Awfully sure of yourself, too.” My mouth slid along his in a teasing kiss. “The New York Times.

What if I were tired? Cranky? Or hormonal? The Albany paper would have been more than enough to keep them busy then.”

“I was relying on my presents to sweeten you up.”

“Well, I don’t know.” A sinuous twist of my hand elicited another French curse. “Why don’t I finish unwrapping this one? Then you can show me what else you’ve got.”

By eleven o’clock on my birthday morning, the mercury had already climbed above ninety degrees. The August heat wave showed no signs of breaking.

Worried about Sarah’s garden, I spliced together four hoses using a new binding spell and some duct tape so that I could reach all the flower beds. My headphones were jammed into my ears, and I was listening to Fleetwood Mac. The house had fallen eerily silent, as if it were waiting for something to happen, and I found myself missing the beat of my parents’ favorite band.

While dragging the hose across the lawn, my attention was momentarily caught by the large iron weather vane sprouting from the top of the hop barn. It hadn’t been there yesterday. I wondered why the house was tinkering with the outbuildings. While I considered the question, two more weather vanes popped out of the ridgepole. They quivered for a moment like newly emerged plants, then whirled madly. When the motion stopped, they all pointed north. Hopefully, their position was an indication that rain was on the way. Until then, the hose was going to have to suffice.

I was giving the plants a good soaking when someone engulfed me in an embrace.

“Thank God! I’ve been so worried about you.” The deep voice was muted by the sound of guitars and drums, but I recognized it nonetheless. I ripped the headphones from my ears and turned to face my best friend. His deep brown eyes were full of concern.

“Chris!” I flung my arms around his broad shoulders. “What are you doing here?” I searched his features for changes but found none. Still the same close-cropped curly hair, still the same walnut skin, still the same high cheekbones angled under straight brows, still the same wide mouth.

“I’m looking for you!” Chris replied. “What the hell is going on? You totally disappeared last November. You don’t answer your phone or your e-mail. Then I see the fall teaching schedule and you’re not on it! I had to get the chair of the history department drunk before he spilled that you were on medical leave. I thought you were dying—not pregnant.” Well, that was one less thing I’d have to tell him.

“I’m sorry, Chris. There was no cell-phone reception where I was. Or Internet.”

“You could have called me from here,” he said, not yet ready to let me off the hook. “I’ve left messages for your aunts, sent letters. Nobody responded.”

I could feel Matthew’s gaze, cold and demanding. I felt Fernando’s attention, too.

“Who is this, Diana?” Matthew asked quietly, coming to my side.

“Chris Roberts. Who the hell are you?” Chris demanded.

“This is Matthew Clairmont, fellow of All Souls College, Oxford University.” I hesitated. “My husband.”

Chris’s mouth dropped open.

“Chris!” Sarah waved from the back porch. “Come here and give me a hug!”

“Hi, Sarah!” Chris’s hand rose in greeting. He turned and gave me an accusatory look. “You got married?”

“You’re here for the weekend, right?” Sarah called.

“That depends, Sarah.” Chris’s shrewd glance moved from me to Matthew and back.

“On?” Matthew’s brow rose in aristocratic disdain.

“On how long it takes me to figure out why Diana married somebody like you, Clairmont, and whether you deserve her. And don’t waste your lord-of-the-manor act on me. I come from a long line of field hands. I am not impressed.” Chris said, stalking toward the house. “Where’s Em?”

Sarah froze, her face white. Fernando leaped up the porch steps to join her.

“Why don’t we go inside?” he murmured, trying to steer her away from Chris.

“Can I have a word?” Matthew asked, putting his hand on Chris’s arm.

“It’s all right, Matthew. I had to tell Diana. I can tell Chris, too.” Sarah’s throat worked. “Emily had a heart attack. She died in May.”

“God, Sarah. I’m so sorry.” Chris enveloped her in a less bone-crushing version of the hug he’d given me. He rocked slightly on his feet, his eyes screwed tightly shut. Sarah moved with him, her body relaxed and open rather than tight and full of grief. My aunt had not yet gotten over Emily’s death—like Fernando, she might never get over that fundamental loss—but there were small signs that she was beginning the slow process of learning to live again.

Chris’s dark eyes opened and sought me out over Sarah’s shoulder. They held anger and hurt, as well as sorrow and unanswered questions. Why didn’t you tell me? Where have you been? Why didn’t you let me help?

“I’d like to talk to Chris,” I said softly. “Alone.”

“You’ll be most comfortable in the keeping room.” Sarah drew away from Chris and wiped her eyes. The nod she gave me encouraged me to tell him our family’s secret. Based on the tightness of his jaw, Matthew was not feeling as generous.

“I’ll be right here if you need me.” Matthew raised my hand to his lips. There was a warning squeeze, a tiny nip on the knuckle of my ring finger as if to remind me—and him—that we were husband and wife. Matthew reluctantly released me.

Chris and I passed through the house to the keeping room. Once we were inside, I slid the doors shut.

“You’re married to Matthew Clairmont?” Chris exploded. “Since when?”

“About ten months. It all happened very quickly,” I said apologetically.

“I’ll say!” Chris lowered his voice. “I warned you about his reputation with women. Clairmont may be a great scientist, but he’s also a notorious asshole! Besides, he’s too old for you.”

“He’s only thirty-seven, Chris.” Give or take fifteen hundred years. “And I should warn you, Matthew and Fernando are listening to every word we say.” With vampires around, a closed door was no guarantee of privacy.

“How? Did your boyfriend—husband—bug the house?” Chris’s tone was sharp.

“No. He’s a vampire. They have exceptional hearing.” Sometimes honesty really was the best policy.

A heavy pot crashed in the kitchen.

“A vampire.” Chris’s look suggested I had lost my mind. “Like on TV?”

“Not exactly,” I said, proceeding with caution. Telling humans how the world really worked tended to unsettle them. I’d done it only once before—and it had been a huge mistake. My freshman roommate, Melanie, had passed out.

“A vampire,” Chris repeated slowly, as if he were thinking it all through.

“You’d better sit down.” I gestured toward the sofa. If he fell, I didn’t want him to hit his head.

Ignoring my suggestion, Chris plopped himself in the wing chair instead. It was more comfortable, to be sure, but had been known to forcibly eject visitors it didn’t like. I eyed it warily.

“Are you a vampire, too?” Chris demanded.

“No.” I perched gingerly on the edge of my grandmother’s rocking chair.

“Are you absolutely sure that Clairmont is? That’s his child you’re carrying, right?” Chris sat forward, as though a great deal depended on the answer.

“Children.” I held two fingers in the air. “Twins.”

Chris threw his hands in the air. “Well, no vampire ever knocked up a girl on Buffy. Not even Spike.

And God knows he never practiced safe sex.”

Bewitched had provided my mother’s generation with their supernatural primer. For mine it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Whichever creatures had introduced Joss Whedon to our world had a lot to answer for. I sighed.

“I’m absolutely positive that Matthew is the father.”

Chris’s attention drifted to my neck.

“That’s not where he bites me.”

His eyes widened. “Where . . . ?” He shook his head. “No, don’t tell me.”

It was, I thought, a strange place to draw the line. Chris wasn’t normally squeamish—or prudish. Still, he hadn’t passed out. That was encouraging.

“You’re taking this very well,” I said, grateful for his equanimity.

“I’m a scientist. I’m trained to suspend disbelief and remain open-minded until something is disproved.” Chris was now staring at the Blasted Tree. “Why is there a tree in the fireplace?”

“Good question. We don’t really know. Maybe you have other questions I could answer, though.” It was an awkward invitation, but I was still worried he might faint.

“A few.” Once again Chris fixed his dark eyes on mine. He wasn’t a witch, but it had been very difficult to lie to him for all these years. “You say Clairmont’s a vampire, but you’re not. What are you,

Diana? I’ve known for some time that you aren’t like other people.”

I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone you love that you’ve failed to mention a defining characteristic of yourself?

“I’m your best friend—or I was until Clairmont came along. Surely you trust me enough to come out to me,” Chris said. “No matter what it is, it won’t change anything between us.”

Beyond Chris’s shoulder a green smudge trailed off toward the Blasted Tree. The green smudge became the indistinct form of Bridget Bishop, with her embroidered bodice and full skirts.

Be canny, daughter. The wind blows from the north, a sign of a battle to come. Who will stand with you, and who will stand against you?

I had plenty of enemies. I couldn’t afford to lose a single friend.

“Maybe you don’t trust me enough,” Chris said softly when I didn’t immediately respond.

“I’m a witch.” My words were barely audible.

“Okay.” Chris waited. “And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it? That’s what you’ve been afraid to tell me?”

“I’m not talking neo-Pagan, Chris—though I am Pagan, of course. I’m talking an abracadabra, spell-casting, potion-making witch.” In this case Chris’s love of prime-time TV might actually prove useful.

“Do you have a wand?”

“No. But I do have a firedrake. That’s a kind of dragon.”

“Cool.” Chris grinned. “Very, very cool. Is that why you’ve stayed out of New Haven? Were you taking it to dragon obedience class or something?”

“Matthew and I had to get out of town quickly, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Where were you?”

“In 1590.”

“Did you get any research done?” Chris looked thoughtful. “I suppose that would cause all kinds of citation problems. What would you put in your footnotes? ‘Personal conversation with William Shakespeare’?” He laughed.

“I never met Shakespeare. Matthew’s friends didn’t approve of him.” I paused. “I did meet the queen.”

“Even better,” Chris said, nodding. “Equally impossible to footnote, however.”

“You’re supposed to be shocked!” This was not at all what I’d expected. “Don’t you want proof?”

“I haven’t been shocked by anything since the MacArthur Foundation called me. If that can happen, anything is possible.” Chris shook his head. “Vampires and witches. Wow.”

“There are daemons, too. But their eyes don’t glow and they’re not evil. Well, no more so than any other species.”

“Other species?” Chris’s tone sharpened with interest. “Are there werewolves?”

“Absolutely not!” Matthew shouted in the distance.

“Touchy subject.” I gave Chris a tentative smile. “So you’re really fine with this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? The government spends millions searching for aliens in outer space, and it turns out you’re right here. Think of all the grant money this could free up.” Chris was always looking for a way to diminish the importance of the physics department. “You can’t tell anybody,” I said hastily. “Not many humans know about us, and we need to keep it that way.”

“We’re bound to find out eventually,” Chris said. “Besides, most people would be thrilled.”

“You think? The dean of Yale College would be thrilled to know that they’d tenured a witch?” I raised my eyebrows. “My students’ parents would be happy to discover that their beloved children are learning about the Scientific Revolution scientific revolution from a witch?”

“Well, maybe not the dean.” Chris’s voice dropped. “Matthew isn’t going to bite me to keep me quiet?”

“No,” I assured him.

Fernando inserted his foot between the keeping-room doors and nudged them open.

“I’d be happy to bite you instead, but only if you ask very nicely.” Fernando put a tray on the table.

“Sarah thought you might like coffee. Or something stronger. Call me if you need anything else. No need to shout.” He gave Chris the kind of dazzling smile he’d bestowed on the coven’s female membership at the Lughnasadh potluck.

“Saddling the wrong horse, Fernando,” I warned as he departed.

“He’s a vampire, too?” Chris whispered.

“Yep. Matthew’s brother-in-law.” I held up the whiskey bottle and the coffeepot. “Coffee?

Whiskey?”

“Both,” said Chris, reaching for a mug. He looked at me in alarm. “You haven’t kept this witch business from your aunt, have you?”

“Sarah’s a witch, too. So was Em.” I poured a healthy slug of whiskey in his mug and topped it off with a bit of coffee. “This is the third or fourth pot of the day, so it’s mostly decaf. Otherwise we have to scrape Sarah off the ceiling.”

“Coffee makes her fly?” Chris took a sip, considered a moment, and added more whiskey.

“In a manner of speaking,” I said, uncapping the water and taking a swig. The babies fluttered, and I gave my abdomen a gentle pat.

“I can’t believe you’re pregnant.” For the first time, Chris sounded amazed.

“You’ve just learned that I spent most of last year in the sixteenth century, I have a pet dragon, and that you’re surrounded by daemons, vampires, and witches, but it’s my pregnancy that you find implausible?”

“Trust me, honey,” Chris said, pulling out his best Alabama drawl. “It’s way more implausible.”

13

When the phone rang, it was pitch black outside. I shook myself from sleep, reaching across the bed to jostle Matthew awake. He wasn’t there.

I rolled over and picked up his mobile from the bedside table. The name MIRIAM was displayed, along with the time. Three o’clock Monday morning. My heart thudded in alarm. Only an emergency would have induced her to call at such an hour.

“Miriam?” I said after pushing the answer button.

“Where is he?” Miriam’s voice shook. “I need to speak with Matthew.”

“I’ll find him. He must be downstairs, or outside hunting.” I threw off the covers. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Miriam said abruptly. Then she switched to another language, one I didn’t understand. The cadence was unmistakable, though. Miriam Shephard was praying.

Matthew burst through the door, Fernando behind him.

“Here’s Matthew.” I hit the speaker button and handed him the phone. He was not going to have this conversation in private.

“What is it, Miriam?” Matthew said.

“There was a note. In the mailbox. A Web address was typed on it.” There was a curse, a jagged sob, and Miriam’s prayer resumed.

“Text me the address, Miriam,” Matthew said calmly.

“It’s him, Matthew. It’s Benjamin,” Miriam whispered. “And there was no stamp on the envelope.

He must still be here. In Oxford.”

I leaped out of bed, shivering in the predawn darkness.

“Text me the address,” Matthew repeated.

A light came on in the hallway.

“What’s going on?” Chris joined Fernando at the threshold, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“It’s one of Matthew’s colleagues from Oxford, Miriam Shephard. Something’s happened at the lab,” I told him.

“Oh,” Chris said with a yawn. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and frowned. “Not the Miriam Shephard who wrote the classic article about how inbreeding among zoo animals leads to a loss of heterozygosity?” I’d spent a lot of time around scientists, but it seldom helped me to understand what they were talking about.

“The same,” Matthew murmured.

“I thought she was dead,” Chris said.

“Not quite,” said Miriam in her piercing soprano. “To whom am I speaking?”

“Chris—Christopher Roberts. Yale University,” Chris stammered. He sounded like a graduate student introducing himself at his first conference.

“Oh. I liked your last piece in Science. Your research model is impressive, even though the conclusions are all wrong.” Miriam sounded more like herself now that she was criticizing a fellow researcher. Matthew noticed the positive change, too.

“Keep her talking,” Matthew encouraged Chris before issuing a quiet command to Fernando.

“Is that Miriam?” Sarah asked, shoving her arms through the sleeves of her bathrobe. “Don’t vampires have clocks? It’s three in the morning!”

“What’s wrong with my conclusions?” Chris asked, his expression thunderous.

Fernando was back, and he handed Matthew his laptop. It was already on, the screen’s glow illuminating the room. Sarah reached around the doorframe and flicked the light switch, banishing the remaining darkness. Even so I could feel the shadows pressing down on the house. Matthew perched on the edge of the bed, his laptop on his knee. Fernando tossed him another cell phone, and Matthew tethered it to the computer.

“Have you seen Benjamin’s message?” Miriam sounded calmer than before, but fear kept her voice keen.

“I’m calling it up now,” Matthew said.

“Don’t use Sarah’s Internet connection!” Her agitation was palpable. “He’s monitoring traffic to the site. He might be able to locate you from your IP address.”

“It’s all right, Miriam,” Matthew said, his voice soothing. “I’m using Fernando’s mobile. And Baldwin’s computer people made sure that no one can trace my location from it.”

Now I understood why Baldwin had supplied us with new cell phones when we left Sept-Tours, changed all our phone plans, and canceled Sarah’s Internet service.

An image of an empty room appeared on the screen. It was white-tiled and barren except for an old sink with exposed plumbing and an examination table. There was a drain in the floor. The date and time were in the lower left corner, the numbers on the clock whirring forward as each second passed.

“What’s that lump?” Chris pointed to a pile of rags on the floor. It stirred.

“A woman,” Miriam said. “She’s been lying there since I got on the site ten minutes ago.” As soon as Miriam said it, I could make out her thin arms and legs, the curve of her breast and belly. The scrap of cloth over her wasn’t large enough to protect her from the cold. She shivered and whimpered.

“And Benjamin?” Matthew said, his eyes glued to the screen.

“He walked through the room and said something to her. Then he looked straight at the camera— and smiled.”

“Did he say anything else?” Matthew asked.

“Yes. ‘Hello, Miriam.’”

Chris leaned over Matthew’s shoulder and touched the computer’s trackpad. The image grew larger. “There’s blood on the floor. And she’s chained to the wall.” Chris stared at me. “Who’s Benjamin?”

“My son.” Matthew’s glance flickered to Chris, then returned to the screen.

Chris crossed his arms over his chest and stared, unblinking, at the image.

Soft strains of music came out of the computer speakers. The woman shrank against the wall, her eyes wide.

“No,” she moaned. “Not again. Please. No.” She stared straight at the camera. “Help me.”

My hands flashed with colors, and the knots on my wrists burned. I felt a tingle, dull but unmistakable.

“She’s a witch. That woman is a witch.” I touched the screen. When I drew my finger away, a thin green thread was attached to the tip.

The thread snapped.

“Can she hear us?” I asked Matthew.

“No,” Matthew said grimly. “I don’t believe so. Benjamin wants me to listen to him.”

“No talking to our guests.” There was no sign of Matthew’s son, but I knew that cold voice. The woman instantly subsided, hugging her arms around her body.

Benjamin approached the camera until his face filled most of the screen. The woman was still visible over his shoulder. He’d staged this performance carefully.

“Another visitor has joined us—Matthew, no doubt. How clever of you to mask your location. And dear Miriam is still with us, I see.” Benjamin smiled again. No wonder Miriam was shaken. It was a horrifying sight: those curved lips and the dead eyes I remembered from Prague. Even after more than four centuries, Benjamin was recognizable as the man whom Rabbi Loew had called Herr Fuchs.

“How do you like my laboratory?” Benjamin’s arm swept the room. “Not as well equipped as yours, Matthew, but I don’t need much. Experience is really the best teacher. All I require is a cooperative research subject. And warmbloods are so much more revealing than animals.”

“Christ,” Matthew murmured. “I’d hoped the next time we talked it would be to discuss my latest successful experiment. But things haven’t worked out quite as planned.” Benjamin turned his head, and his voice became menacing.

“Have they?”

The music grew louder, and the woman on the floor moaned and tried to block her ears.

“She used to love Bach,” Benjamin reported with mock sadness. “The St. Matthew Passion in particular. I’m careful to play it whenever I take her. Now the witch becomes unaccountably distressed as soon as she hears the first strains.” He hummed along with the next bars of music.

“Does he mean what I think he means?” Sarah asked uneasily.

“Benjamin is repeatedly raping that woman,” Fernando said with barely controlled fury. It was the first time I’d seen the vampire beneath his easygoing façade.

“Why?” Chris asked. Before anyone could answer, Benjamin resumed.

“As soon as she shows signs of being pregnant, the music stops. It’s the witch’s reward for doing her job and pleasing me. Sometimes nature has other ideas, though.”

The implications of Benjamin’s words sank in. As in long-ago Jerusalem, this witch had to be a weaver. I covered my mouth as the bile rose.

The glint in Benjamin’s eye intensified. He adjusted the angle of the camera and zoomed in on the blood that stained the woman’s legs and the floor.

“Unfortunately, the witch miscarried.” Benjamin’s voice had the detachment of any scientist reporting his research findings. “It was the fourth month—the longest she’s been able to sustain a pregnancy. So far. My son impregnated her last December, but that time she miscarried in the eighth week.”

Matthew and I had conceived our first child in December, too. I’d miscarried early in that pregnancy, around the same time as Benjamin’s witch. I started to shake at this new connection between me and the woman on the floor. Matthew’s arm hooked around my hips, steadying me.

“I was so sure my ability to father a child was linked to the blood rage you gave me—a gift that I’ve shared with many of my own children. After the witch miscarried the first time, my sons and I tried impregnating daemons and humans without success. I concluded there must be some special reproductive affinity between vampires with blood rage and witches. But these failures mean I’ll have to reexamine my hypothesis.” Benjamin pulled a stool up to the camera and sat, oblivious to the growing agitation of the woman behind him. In the background the Bach continued to play.

“And there is another piece of information that I’ll also have to factor into my deliberations: your marriage. Has your new wife replaced Eleanor in your affections? Mad Juliette? Poor Celia? That fascinating witch I met in Prague?” Benjamin snapped his fingers as if trying to remember something.

“What was her name? Diana?”

Fernando hissed. Chris’s skin broke out in raised bumps. He stared at Fernando and stepped away.

“I’m told your new wife is a witch, too. Why don’t you ever share your ideas with me? You must know I’d understand.” Benjamin leaned closer as if sharing a confidence. “We’re both driven by the same things, after all: a lust for power, an unquenchable thirst for blood, a desire for revenge.”

The music reached a crescendo, and the woman began to rock back and forth in an attempt to soothe herself.

“I can’t help wondering how long you’ve known about the power in our blood. The witches surely knew. What other secret could the Book of Life possibly contain?” Benjamin paused as if waiting for an answer. “Not going to tell me, eh? Well, then. I have no choice but to go back to my own experiment.

Don’t worry. I’ll figure out how to breed this witch eventually—or kill her trying. Then I’ll look for a new witch. Maybe yours will suit.”

Benjamin smiled. I drew away from Matthew, not wanting him to sense my fear. But his expression told me that he knew.

“Bye for now.” Benjamin gave a jaunty wave. “Sometimes I let people watch me work, but I’m not in the mood for an audience today. I’ll be sure to let you know if anything interesting develops.

Meanwhile you might want to think about sharing what you know. It might save me from having to ask your wife.”

With that, Benjamin switched off the lens and the sound. It left a black screen, with the clock still ticking down the seconds in the corner.

“What are we going to do?” Miriam asked.

“Rescue that woman,” Matthew said, his fury evident.

“Benjamin wants you to rush into the open and expose yourself,” Fernando warned. “Your attack will have to be well planned and perfectly executed.”

“Fernando’s right,” Miriam said. “You can’t go after Benjamin until you’re sure you can destroy him. Otherwise you put Diana at risk.”

“That witch won’t survive much longer!” Matthew exclaimed.

“If you are hasty and fail to bring Benjamin to heel, he will simply take another and the nightmare will begin again for some other unsuspecting creature,” Fernando said, his hand clasped around Matthew’s arm.

“You’re right.” Matthew dragged his eyes away from the screen. “Can you warn Amira, Miriam?

She needs to know that Benjamin has one witch already and won’t hesitate to take another.”

“Amira isn’t a weaver. She wouldn’t be able to conceive Benjamin’s child,” I observed.

“I don’t think Benjamin knows about weavers. Yet.” Matthew rubbed at his jaw. “And I never considered that blood rage may also play a role in vampire-witch reproduction.”

“What’s a weaver?” Miriam and Chris said at the same moment. I opened my mouth to reply, but the slight shake of Matthew’s head made me close it again.

“I’ll tell you later, Miriam. Will you do what I asked?”

“Sure, Matthew,” Miriam agreed.

“Call me later and check in.” Matthew’s worried glance settled on me.

“Stifle Diana with your excessive attention if you must, but I don’t need a baby-sitter. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” Miriam hung up. A second later Chris delivered a powerful uppercut to Matthew’s jaw. He followed it with a left hook. Matthew intercepted that blow with a raised palm.

“I took one punch, for Diana’s sake.” Matthew closed his fist around Chris’s clenched hand. “My wife does, after all, bring out the protective instincts in people. But don’t press your luck.”

Chris didn’t budge. Fernando sighed.

“Let it go, Roberts. You will not win a physical contest with a vampire.” Fernando put his hand on Chris’s shoulder, prepared to pull him away if necessary.

“If you let that bastard within fifty miles of Diana, you won’t see another sunrise—vampire or no vampire. Are we clear on that?” Chris demanded, his attention locked on Matthew.

“Crystal,” Matthew replied. Chris pulled his arm back, and Matthew released his fist.

“Nobody’s getting any more sleep tonight. Not after this,” Sarah said. “We need to talk. And lots of coffee—and don’t you dare use decaf, Diana. But first I’m going outside to have a cigarette, no matter what Fernando says.” Sarah marched out of the room. “See you in the kitchen,” she shot over her shoulder.

“Keep that site online. When Benjamin is turning on the camera, he might do or say something that will give his location away.” Matthew handed his laptop and the still-attached mobile to Fernando.

There was still nothing but a black screen and that horrible clock marking the passage of time. Matthew angled his head toward the door, and Fernando followed Sarah.

“So let me get this straight. Matthew’s Bad Seed is engaged in some down-home genetics research involving a hereditary condition, a kidnapped witch, and some half-baked ideas about eugenics.” Chris folded his arms over his chest. There were a few details missing, but he had sized up the situation in no time at all. “You left some important plot twists out of the fairy tale you told me yesterday, Diana.”

“She didn’t know about Benjamin’s scientific interests. None of us knew.” Matthew stood.

“You must have known that the Bad Seed was as crazy as a shit-house rat. He is your son.” Chris’s eyes narrowed. “According to him you both share this blood-rage thing. That means you’re both a danger to Diana.”

“I knew he was unstable, yes. And his name is Benjamin.” Matthew chose not to respond to the second half of Chris’s remarks.

“Unstable? The man is a fucking psychopath. He’s trying to engineer a master race of vampire witches. So why isn’t the Bad—Benjamin locked up? That way he couldn’t kidnap and rape his way onto the roster of scientific madmen alongside Sims, Verschuer, Mengele, and Stanley.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen.” I urged them both in the direction of the stairs.

“After you,” Matthew murmured, putting his hand on the small of my back. Relieved by his easy acquiescence, I began my descent.

There was a thud, a muffled curse.

Chris was pinned against the door, Matthew’s hand wrapped around his windpipe.

“Based on the profanity that’s come out of your mouth in the past twenty-four hours, I can only conclude that you think of Diana as one of the guys.” Matthew gave me a warning look when I backed up to intervene. “She’s not. She’s my wife. I would appreciate it if you limited your vulgarity in her presence. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Chris looked at him with loathing.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Matthew was at my side in a flash, his hand once more on the dip in my spine where the shadowy firedrake had appeared. “Watch the stairs, mon coeur,” he murmured.

When we reached the ground floor, I sneaked a backward glance at Chris. He was studying Matthew as though he were a strange new life-form—which I suppose he was. My heart sank. Matthew might have won the first few battles, but the war between my best friend and my husband was far from over.

By the time Sarah joined us in the kitchen, her hair exuded the scents of tobacco and the hop vine that was planted against the porch railings. I waved my hand in front of my nose—cigarette smoke was one of the few things that still triggered nausea this late in my pregnancy—and made coffee. When it was ready, I poured the pot’s steaming contents into mugs for Sarah, Chris, and Fernando. Matthew and I stuck to ordinary water. Chris was the first to break the silence.

“So, Matthew, you and Dr. Shephard have been studying vampire genetics for decades in an effort to understand blood rage.”

“Matthew knew Darwin. He’s been studying creature origins and evolution for more than a few decades.” I wasn’t going to tell Chris how much more, but I didn’t want him to be blindsided by Matthew’s age, as I had been.

“We have. My son has been working with us.” Matthew gave me a quelling look.

“Yes, I saw that,” Chris said, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Not something I’d boast about, myself.”

“Not Benjamin. My other son, Marcus Whitmore.”

“Marcus Whitmore.” Chris made an amused sound. “Covering all the bases, I see. You handle the evolutionary biology and neuroscience, Miriam Shephard is an expert on population genetics, and Marcus Whitmore is known for his study of functional morphology and efforts to debunk phenotypic plasticity. That’s a hell of a research team you’ve assembled, Clairmont.”

“I’m very fortunate,” Matthew said mildly.

“Wait a minute.” Chris looked at Matthew in amazement. “Evolutionary biology. Evolutionary physiology. Population genetics. Figuring out how blood rage is transmitted isn’t your only research objective. You’re trying to diagram evolutionary descent. You’re working on the Tree of Life—and not just the human branches.”

“Is that what the tree in the fireplace is called?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t think so.” Matthew patted her hand.

“Evolution. I’ll be damned.” Chris pushed away from the island. “So have you discovered the common ancestor for humans and you guys?” He waved in our direction. “If by ‘you guys’ you mean creatures—daemons, vampires, and witches—then no.” Matthew’s brow arched.

“Okay. What are the crucial genetic differences separating us?”

“Vampires and witches have an extra chromosome pair,” Matthew explained. “Daemons have a single extra chromosome.”

“You’ve got a genetic map for these creature chromosomes?”

“Yes,” Matthew said.

“Then you’ve probably been working on this little project since before 1990, just to keep up with the humans.”

“That’s right,” Matthew said. “And I’ve been working since 1968 on how blood rage is inherited, if you must know.”

“Of course. You adapted Donahue’s use of family pedigrees to determine gene transmission between generations.” Chris nodded. “Good call. How far along are you with sequencing? Have you located the blood-rage gene?”

Matthew stared at him without replying.

“Well?” Chris demanded.

“I had a teacher like you once,” Matthew said coldly. “He drove me insane.”

“And I have students like you. They don’t last long in my lab.” Chris leaned across the table. “I take it that not every vampire on the planet has your condition. Have you determined exactly how blood rage is inherited, and why some contract it and some don’t?”

“Not entirely,” Matthew admitted. “It’s a bit more complicated with vampires, considering we have three parents.”

“You need to pick up the pace, my friend. Diana is pregnant. With twins.“ Chris looked at me pointedly. “I assume you’ve drawn up full genetic profiles for the two of you and made predictions for inheritance patterns among your offspring, including but not limited to blood rage?”

“I’ve been in the sixteenth century for the best part of a year.” Matthew really disliked being questioned. “I lacked the opportunity.”

“High time we started, then,” Chris remarked blandly.

“Matthew was working on something.” I looked to Matthew for confirmation. “Remember? I found that paper covered with X’s and O’s.”

“X’s and O’s? Lord God Almighty.” This seemed to confirm Chris’s worst fears. “You tell me you have three parents, but you remain married to a Mendelian inheritance model. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re as old as dirt and knew Darwin.”

“I met Mendel once, too,” Matthew said crisply, sounding like an irritated professor himself.

“Besides, blood rage may be a Mendelian trait. We can’t rule that out.”

“Highly unlikely,” Chris said. “And not just because of this three-parent problem—which I’ll have to consider in more detail. It must create havoc in the data.”

“Explain.” Matthew tented his fingers in front of his face.

“I have to give an overview of non-Mendelian inheritance to a fellow of All Souls?” Chris’s eyebrows rose. “Somebody needs to look at the appointment policies at Oxford University.”

“Do you understand a word they’re saying?” Sarah whispered.

“One in three,” I said apologetically.

“I mean gene conversion. Infectious heredity. Genomic imprinting. Mosaicism.” Chris ticked them off on his finger. “Ring any bells, Professor Clairmont, or would you like me to continue with the lecture I give to my undergraduates?”

“Isn’t mosaicism a form of chimerism?” It was the only word I’d recognized.

Chris nodded at me approvingly.

“I’m a chimera—if that helps.”

“Diana,” Matthew growled.

“Chris is my best friend, Matthew,” I said. “And if he’s going to help you determine how blood rage effects vampire-witch reproduction—not to mention find a cure for the disease—he needs to know everything. That includes my genetic test results, by the way.”

“That information can be deadly in the wrong hands,” Matthew said.

“Matthew is right,” Chris agreed.

“I’m so glad you think so.” Matthew’s words dripped acid.

“Don’t patronize me, Clairmont. I know the dangers of human-subject research. I’m a black man from Alabama and grew up in the shadow of Tuskegee.” Chris turned to me. “Don’t hand over your genetic information to anybody outside this room—even if they’re wearing a white coat. Especially if they’re wearing a white coat, come to think of it.”

“Thanks for your input, Christopher,” Matthew said stiffly. “I’ll be sure to pass your ideas on to the rest of my team.”

“So what are we going to do about all this?” Fernando asked. “There may not have been any urgency before, but now . . .” He looked to Matthew for guidance.

“The Bad Seed’s breeding program changes everything,” Chris proclaimed before Matthew could speak. “First we have to figure out if blood rage really is what makes conception possible or if it’s a combination of factors. And we need to know the likelihood of Diana’s children contracting the disease.

We’ll need the witch and the vampire genetic maps for that.”

“You’ll need my DNA, too,” I said quietly. “Not all witches can reproduce.”

“Do you need to be a good witch? A bad witch?” Chris’s silly jokes usually made me smile, but not tonight.

“You need to be a weaver,” I replied. “You’re going to need to sequence my genome in particular and compare it to that of other witches. And you’ll need to do the same for Matthew and vampires who don’t have blood rage. We have to understand blood rage well enough to cure it, or Benjamin and his children will continue to be a threat.”

“Okay, then.” Chris slapped his thighs. “We need a lab. And help. Plenty of data and computer time, too. I can put my people on this.”

“Absolutely not.” Matthew shot to his feet. “I have a lab, too. Miriam has been working on the problems of blood rage and the creature genomes for some time.”

“Then she should come here immediately and bring her work with her. My students are good, Matthew. The best. They’ll see things you and I have been conditioned not to see.”

“Yes. Like vampires. And witches.” Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. Chris looked alarmed at the transformation in his tidy appearance. “I don’t like the idea of more humans knowing about us.”

Matthew’s words reminded me who did need to know about Benjamin’s latest message. “Marcus.

We need to tell Marcus.”

Matthew dialed his number.

“Matthew? Is everything all right?” Marcus said as soon as he picked up the call.

“Not really. We have a situation.” Matthew quickly told him about Benjamin and the witch he was keeping hostage. Then he told Marcus why.

“If I send you the Web address, will you have Nathaniel figure out how to monitor Benjamin’s feed 24/7? And if he could find where the signal is originating from, that would save a lot of time,” Matthew said.

“Consider it done,” Marcus replied.

No sooner had Matthew disconnected than my own cell phone rang.

“Who now?” I said, glancing at the clock. The sun had barely risen. “Hello?”

“Thank God you’re awake” Vivian Harrison said, relieved.

“What’s wrong?” My black thumb prickled.

“We’ve got trouble,” she said grimly.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked. Sarah pressed her ear against the receiver next to mine. I tried to flap her away.

“I received a message from Sidonie von Borcke,” Vivian said. “Who is Sidonie von Borcke?” I’d never heard the name before. “One of the Congregation’s witches,” Vivian and Sarah said in unison.

14

“The coven failed the test.” Vivian flung her satchel-size purse onto the kitchen island and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Is she a witch, too?” Chris asked me in a whisper.

“I am,” Vivian replied instead, noticing Chris for the first time.

“Oh.” He looked at her appraisingly. “Can I take a cheek swab? It’s painless.”

“Maybe later.” Vivian did a double take. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“This is Chris Roberts, Vivian, my colleague from Yale. He’s a molecular biologist.” I passed the sugar and gave Chris a pinch on the arm to keep him quiet. “Can we possibly talk in the family room?

My head is killing me—and my feet are swelling up like balloons.”

“Somebody complained to the Congregation about covenant violations in Madison County,” Vivian told us when we were comfortably ensconced in the sofas and armchairs arranged in front of the TV.

“Do you know who it was?” Sarah asked.

“Cassie and Lydia.” Vivian stared morosely into her coffee.

“The cheerleaders narked us out?” Sarah was dumfounded.

“Figures,” I said. They’d been inseparable since childhood, insufferable since adolescence, and indistinguishable since high school with their softly curling blond hair and blue eyes. Neither Cassie nor Lydia had let her witchy ancestry keep her in the shadows. Together they had co-captained the cheerleading squad and witches credited them with giving Madison its most successful football season in history by inserting victory spells into every chant and routine.

“And what are the charges—exactly?” Matthew had switched into lawyer mode.

“That Diana and Sarah have been consorting with vampires,” Vivian muttered.

“Consorting?” Sarah’s outrage was clear.

Vivian flung her hands up in the air. “I know, I know. It sounds positively lewd, but I assure you those were Sidonie’s exact words. Happily, Sidonie is in Las Vegas and can’t come in person to investigate. The Clark County covens are too heavily invested in real estate, and they’re using spells to try to shore up the housing market.”

“So what happens now?” I asked Vivian.

“I have to respond. In writing.”

“Thank goodness. That means you can lie,” I said, relieved.

“No way, Diana. She’s too smart. I saw Sidonie question the SoHo coven two years ago when they opened up that haunted house on Spring Street, right where the Halloween parade lineup begins. It was masterful.” Vivian shuddered. “She even got them to divulge how they suspended a bubbling cauldron over their parade float for six hours. After Sidonie’s visit the coven was grounded for a full year—no flying, no apparating, and positively no exorcisms. They’re still haven’t recovered.”

“What kind of witch is she?” I asked.

“A powerful one,” Vivian said with a snort. But that’s not what I meant.

“Is her power elemental or based in the craft?”

“She’s got a good grasp of spells, from what I hear,” Sarah said.

“Sidonie can fly, and she’s a respected seer, too,” Vivian added.

Chris raised his hand.

“Yes, Chris?” Sarah sounded like a schoolmarm.

“Smart, powerful, flying—it doesn’t matter. You can’t let her find out about Diana’s children, what with the Bad Seed’s latest research project and this covenant you’re all worried about.”

“Bad Seed?” Vivian stared at Chris blankly.

“Matthew’s son knocked up a witch. It seems that reproductive abilities run in the Clairmont family.” Chris glared at Matthew. “And about this covenant you’ve all agreed to. I take it that witches aren’t supposed to hang out with vampires?”

“Or with daemons. It makes humans uncomfortable,” Matthew said.

“Uncomfortable?” Chris looked dubious. “So did blacks sitting on buses next to white people.

Segregation isn’t the answer.”

“Humans notice creatures if we’re in mixed groups,” I said, hoping to placate Chris.

“We notice you, Diana, even when you’re walking down Temple Street by yourself at ten o’clock in the morning,” Chris said, shattering my last, fragile hope that I appeared to be just like everybody else.

“The Congregation was established to enforce the covenant, to keep us safe from human attention and interference,” I said, sticking to my guns nonetheless. “In exchange we all stay out of human politics and religion.”

“Think what you want, but forced segregation—or the covenant if you want to be fancy about it— is often about concerns for racial purity.” Chris propped his legs on the coffee table. “Your covenant probably came into being because witches were having vampire babies. Making humans more ‘comfortable’ was just a convenient excuse.”

Fernando and Matthew exchanged glances.

“I assumed that Diana’s ability to conceive was unique—that this was the goddess at work, not part of some broader pattern.” Vivian was aghast. “Scores of long-lived creatures with supernatural powers would be terrifying.”

“Not if you want to engineer a super race. Then such a creature would be quite a genetic coup,”

Chris observed. “Do we happen to know of any megalomaniacs with an interest in vampire genetics?

Oh, wait. We know two of them.”

“I prefer to leave such things to God, Christopher.” A dark vein pulsed in Matthew’s forehead. “I have no interest in eugenics.”

“I forgot. You’re obsessed with species evolution—in other words, history and chemistry. Those are Diana’s research interests. What a coincidence.” Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Based on what I’ve overheard, I have two questions, Professor Clairmont. Is it just vampires who are dying out, or are witches and daemons going extinct, too? And which of these so-called species cares the most about racial purity?”

Chris really was a genius. With every insightful question he was delving deeper into the mysteries bound up in the Book of Life, the de Clermont family’s secrets, and the mysteries in my own—and Matthew’s—blood.

“Chris is right,” Matthew said with suspicious speed. “We can’t risk the Congregation discovering Diana’s pregnancy. If you have no objection, mon coeur, I think we should go to Fernando’s house in Seville without delay. Sarah can come with us, of course. Then the coven’s reputation won’t be brought into disrepute.”

“I said you can’t let the Wicked Witch find out about Diana, not that she should run away,” Chris said, disgusted. “Have you forgotten Benjamin?”

“Let’s fight this war on one front at a time, Christopher.” Matthew’s expression must have matched his tone, because Chris immediately subsided.

“Okay. I’ll go to Seville.” I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want the Madison witches to suffer either.

“No, it’s not okay,” Sarah said, her voice rising. “The Congregation wants answers? Well, I want answers, too. You tell Sidonie von Borcke that I have been consorting with vampires since last October, ever since Satu Järvinen kidnapped and tortured my niece while Peter Knox stood by and did nothing. If that means I’ve violated the covenant, that’s too damn bad. Without the de Clermonts, Diana would be dead—or worse.”

“Those are serious allegations,” Vivian said. “You’re sure you want to make them?”

“Yes,” Sarah said stubbornly. “Knox has already been banished from the Congregation. I want Satu’s ass kicked off, too.”

“They’re looking for Knox’s replacement now,” Vivian reported. “It’s rumored that Janet Gowdie is going to come out of retirement to fill the chair.”

“Janet Gowdie is ninety if she’s a day,” Sarah said. “She can’t possibly be up to the job.”

“Knox insists that it be a witch known for her spell-casting abilities, as he was. No one—not even Janet Gowdie—ever bested him when it came to performing spells,” Vivian said.

“Yet,” said Sarah succinctly.

“There’s something else, Sarah—and it might make you pause before you go after the witches of the Congregation.” Vivian hesitated. “Sidonie has asked for a report on Diana. She says it’s standard procedure to check on witches who haven’t developed their magical talents to see if anything manifested later in life.”

“If it’s my power the Congregation is interested in, then Sidonie’s request really has nothing to do with Sarah and me consorting with vampires,” I said.

“Sidonie claims that she has a childhood assessment of Diana that indicated she was not expected to manifest any of the normal powers traditionally associated with witches,” Vivian went on, looking miserable. “Peter Knox conducted it. Rebecca and Stephen agreed to his findings and signed off on it.”

“Tell the Congregation that Rebecca and Stephen’s assessment of their daughter’s magical abilities was absolutely correct, down to the last detail.” Sarah’s eyes glittered with anger. “My niece has no normal powers.”

“Well done, Sarah,” Matthew said, his admiration of her careful truth evident. “That answer was worthy of my brother Godfrey.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” Sarah said with a little nod.

“Knox knows something—or suspects something—about me. He has since I was a child.” I expected Matthew to argue. He didn’t. “I thought we’d discovered what my parents were hiding: that I’m a weaver, like Dad. But now that I know about Mom’s interest in higher magics, I wonder if that doesn’t have to have something to do with Knox’s interest as well.”

“He’s a dedicated practitioner of higher magics,” Vivian mused. “And if you were able to devise new dark spells? I imagine that Knox would be willing to do almost anything to get his hands on them.”

The house moaned, and the sound of a guitar filled the room with a recognizable melody. Of all the songs on my mother’s favorite album, “Landslide” was the one that most tugged at my heart. Whenever I heard it, I remembered her holding me on her lap and humming.

“Mom loved this song,” I said. “She knew that change was coming, and she was afraid of it, just like the woman in the song. But we can’t afford fear anymore.”

“What are you saying, Diana?” Vivian asked.

“The change my mom was expecting? It’s here,” I said simply.

“And even more change is on the way,” Chris said. “You’re not going to be able to keep the existence of creatures secret from humans for much longer. You’re one autopsy, one genetic-counseling session, one home genetic-testing kit away from being outed.”

“Nonsense,” Matthew declared.

“Gospel. You have two choices. Do you want to be in control of the situation when it happens, Matthew, or do you want to get smacked upside the head with it?” Chris waited. “Based on our limited acquaintance, I’m guessing you’d prefer option A.”

Matthew ran his fingers over his scalp and glared at Chris.

“I thought so.” Chris tipped back his chair. “So. Given your predicament, what can Yale University do for you, Professor Clairmont?”

“No.” Matthew shook his head. “You are not using research students and postgraduates to analyze creature DNA.”

“It’s scary as hell, I know,” Chris continued in a gentler tone. “We’d all rather hide somewhere safe and let someone else make the tough decisions. But somebody is going to have to stand up and fight for what’s right. Fernando tells me you’re a pretty impressive warrior.”

Matthew stared at Chris, unblinking.

“I’ll stand with you, if that helps,” Chris added, “provided you meet me halfway.” Matthew was not only an impressive warrior but an experienced one. He knew when he was beaten.

“You win, Chris,” he said quietly.

“Good. Let’s get started, then. I want to see the creature genetic maps. Then I want to sequence and reassemble the three creature genomes so they can be compared to the human genome.” Chris ticked off one item after another. “I want to be sure that you’ve correctly identified the gene responsible for blood rage. And I want the gene that makes it possible for Diana to conceive your child isolated. I don’t believe you’ve even started to look for that yet.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Matthew’s brows rose.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Chris’s chair thudded to the ground. “Tell Miriam Shephard I want her ass in Kline Biology Tower on Monday morning. It’s on Science Hill. You can’t miss it. My lab is on the fifth floor. I’d like her to explain how my conclusions in Science were wrong before she joins us for our first team meeting at eleven.”

“I’ll pass that message along.” Matthew and Fernando glanced at each other, and Fernando shrugged as if to say, His funeral. “Just a reminder, Chris. The research you’ve outlined thus far will take years to complete. We won’t be at Yale for very long. Diana and I will have to be back in Europe by October, if we want the twins born there. Diana shouldn’t travel long distances after that.”

“All the more reason to have as many people as possible working on the project.” Chris stood up and put out his hand. “Deal?”

After a long pause, Matthew took it.

“Smart decision,” Chris said, giving it a shake. “I hope you brought your checkbook, Clairmont.

The Yale Center for Genome Analysis and the DNA Analysis Facility both charge steep fees, but they’re fast and accurate.” He looked at his watch. “My bag is already in the car. How long before you two can hit the road?”

“We’ll be a few hours behind you,” Matthew said. Chris kissed Sarah on the cheek and gave me a hug. Then his finger rose in a gesture of warning.

“Eleven A.M. on Monday, Matthew. Don’t be late.”

On that note he left.

“What have I done?” Matthew muttered when the front door slammed shut. He looked a bit shell shocked.

“It will be fine, Matthew,” Sarah said with surprising optimism. “I have a good feeling about all this.”

A few hours later, we climbed into the car. I waved to Sarah and Fernando from the passenger seat, blinking back the tears. Sarah was smiling, but her arms were wrapped so tightly around herself that the knuckles were white. Fernando exchanged a few words with Matthew and clasped him briefly, elbow to elbow, in the familiar de Clermont fashion.

Matthew slid behind the wheel. “All set?”

I nodded. His finger pressed the switch, and the engine turned over.

Keyboard and drums flooded out of the sound system, accompanied by piercing guitars. Matthew fumbled with the controls, trying to turn the music down. When that failed, he tried to turn it off. But no matter what he did, Fleetwood Mac warned us not to stop thinking about tomorrow. Finally he flung up his hands in defeat.

“The house is sending us off in style, I see.” He shook his head and put the car in drive.

“Don’t worry. It won’t be able to keep the song going once we leave the property.”

We drove down the long driveway toward the road, the bumps all but imperceptible thanks to the Range Rover’s shock absorbers.

I twisted in the seat when Matthew flicked on the turn signal to leave the Bishop farm, but the last words of the song made me face forward again. “Don’t look back,” I whispered.