The Book of Life

23

“Let me in, Miriam, before I break down the fucking door.” Gallowglass wasn’t in the mood for games.

Miriam flung the door open. “Matthew may be gone, but don’t try anything funny. I’m still watching you.”

That was no surprise to Gallowglass. Jason had once told him that learning how to be a vampire under Miriam’s guidance had convinced him that there was indeed an all-knowing, all-seeing, and vengeful deity. Contrary to biblical teachings, however, She was female and sarcastic.

“Did Matthew and the others get off safely?” Diana asked quietly from the top of the stairs. She was ghostly pale, and a small suitcase sat at her feet. Gallowglass cursed and leaped up the steps.

“They did,” he said, grabbing the case before she did something daft and tried to carry it herself.

Gallowglass found it more mysterious with every passing hour that Diana didn’t simply topple over given the burden of the twins.

“Why did you pack a suitcase?” Chris asked. “What’s going on?”

“Auntie is going on a journey.” Gallowglass still thought leaving New Haven was a bad idea, but Diana had informed him that she was going—with him or without him.

“Where?” Chris demanded. Gallowglass shrugged.

“Promise me you’ll keep working on the aDNA samples from Ashmole 782 and the blood-rage problem, Chris,” Diana said as she descended the stairs.

“You know I don’t leave research problems unfinished.” Chris turned on Miriam. “Did you know that Diana was leaving?”

“How could I not? She made enough noise getting her suitcase out of the closet and calling the pilot.” Miriam grabbed Chris’s coffee. She took a sip and grimaced. “Too sweet.”

“Get your coat, Auntie.” Gallowglass didn’t know what Diana had planned—she said she would tell him once they were in the air—but he doubted they were headed for a Caribbean island with swaying palms and warm breezes.

For once Diana didn’t protest at his hovering.

“Lock the door when you leave, Chris. And make sure the coffeepot is unplugged.” She stood on her toes and kissed her friend on the cheek. “Take care of Miriam. Don’t let her walk across New Haven Green at night, even if she is a vampire.”

“Here,” Miriam said, handing over a large manila envelope. “As requested.”

Diana peeked inside. “Are you sure you don’t need them?”

“We have plenty of samples,” she replied.

Chris looked deep into Diana’s eyes. “Call if you need me. No matter why, no matter when, no matter where—I’ll be on the next flight.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, “I’ll be fine. Gallowglass is with me.”

To his surprise, the words brought Gallowglass no joy.

How could they, when they were uttered with such resignation?

The de Clermont jet lifted off from the New Haven airport. Gallowglass stared out the window, tapping his phone against his leg. The plane banked, and he sniffed the air. North by northeast.

Diana was sitting next to him, eyes closed and lips white. One hand was resting lightly on Apple and Bean as though she were comforting them. There was a trace of moisture on her cheeks.

“Don’t cry. I cannot bear it,” Gallowglass said gruffly.

“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to help it.” Diana turned in her seat so that she faced the opposite side of the cabin. Her shoulders trembled.

“Hell, Auntie. Looking the other way does no good.” Gallowglass unclipped his seat belt and crouched by her leather recliner. He patted Diana on the knee. She grasped his hand. The power pulsed under her skin. It had abated somewhat since the astonishing moment when she’d wrapped the sire of the de Clermont family in a briar patch, but it was still all too visible. Gallowglass had even seen it through the disguising spell Diana wore until she boarded the jet.

“How was Marcus with Jack?” she asked, her eyes still closed.

“Marcus greeted him as an uncle should and distracted him with tales of his children and their antics. Lord knows they’re an entertaining bunch,” Gallowglass said under his breath. But this wasn’t what Diana really wanted to know.

“Matthew was bearing up as well as could be expected,” he continued more gently. There had been a moment when it appeared Matthew was going to strangle Hubbard, but Gallowglass wasn’t going to worry about something that was, on the face of it, an excellent notion.

“I’m glad you and Chris called Marcus,” Diana whispered.

“That was Miriam’s idea,” Gallowglass admitted. Miriam had been protecting Matthew for centuries, just as he had been looking after Diana. “As soon as she saw the test results Miriam knew that Matthew would need his son at his side.”

“Poor Phoebe,” Diana said, a note of worry creeping into her voice. “Marcus couldn’t have had time to give her much of an explanation.”

“Don’t fret about Phoebe.” Gallowglass had spent two months with the girl and had taken her measure. “She’s got a strong spine and a stout heart, just like you.”

Gallowglass insisted Diana sleep. The aircraft’s cabin was outfitted with seats that converted to beds. He made sure Diana had drifted off before he marched into the cockpit and demanded to know their destination.

“Europe,” the pilot told him.

“What do you mean ‘Europe’?” That could be anywhere from Amsterdam to the Auvergne to Oxford. “Madame de Clermont hasn’t chosen her final destination. She told me to head to Europe. So I’m headed for Europe.”

“She must be going to Sept-Tours. Go to Gander, then,” Gallowglass instructed.

“That was my plan, sir,” the pilot said drily. “Do you want to fly her?”

“Yes. No.” What Gallowglass wanted was to hit something. “Hell, man. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

There were times Gallowglass wished with all his heart he’d fallen in battle to someone other than Hugh de Clermont.

After landing safely at the airport in Gander, Gallowglass helped Diana down the stairs so that she could do as the doctor had ordered and stretch her legs.

“You’re not dressed for Newfoundland,” he observed, settling a worn leather jacket over her shoulders. “The wind will shred that pitiful excuse for a coat to ribbons.”

“Thank you, Gallowglass,” Diana said, shivering.

“What’s your final destination, Auntie?” he asked after their second lap of the tiny airstrip.

“Does it matter?” Diana’s voice had gone from resigned to weary to something worse.

Hopeless.

“No, Auntie. It’s Nar-SAR-s’wauk—not NUR-sar-squawk,” Gallowglass explained, tucking one of the down-filled blankets around Diana’s shoulder. Narsarsuaq, on the southern tip of Greenland, was colder even than Gander. Diana had insisted on taking a brisk walk anyway.

“How do you know?” she asked peevishly, her lips slightly blue.

“I just know.” Gallowglass motioned to the flight attendant, who brought him a steaming mug of tea. He poured a dollop of whiskey into it.

“No caffeine. Or alcohol,” Diana said, waving the tea away. “My own mam drank whiskey every day of her pregnancy—and look how hale and hearty I turned out,” Gallowglass said, holding the mug in her direction. His voice turned wheedling. “Come on, now. A wee nip won’t do you any harm. Besides, it can’t be as bad for Apple and Bean as frostbite.”

“They’re fine,” Diana said sharply.

“Oh, aye. Finer than frog’s hair.” Gallowglass extended his hand farther and hoped that the tea’s aroma would persuade her to indulge. “It’s Scottish Breakfast tea. One of your favorites.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Diana grumbled, taking the mug. “And your mam couldn’t have been drinking whiskey while she carried you. There’s no evidence of whiskey distillation in Scotland or Ireland before the fifteenth century. You’re older than that.”

Gallowglass smothered a sigh of relief at her historical nitpicking.

Diana drew out a phone.

“Who are you calling, Auntie?” Gallowglass asked warily.

“Hamish.”

When Matthew’s best friend picked up the call, his words were exactly what Gallowglass expected them to be.

“Diana? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I can’t remember where my house is,” she said in lieu of explanation.

“Your house?” Hamish sounded confused.

“My house,” Diana repeated patiently. “The one Matthew gave me in London. You made me sign off on the maintenance bills when we were at Sept-Tours.”

London? Being a vampire was no help at all in his present situation, Gallowglass realized. It would be far better to have been born a witch. Perhaps then he could have divined how this woman’s mind worked.

“It’s in Mayfair, on a little street near the Connaught. Why?”

“I need the key. And the address.” Diana paused for a moment, mulling something over before she spoke. “I’ll need a driver, too, to get around the city. Daemons like the Underground, and vampires own all the major cab companies.”

Of course they owned the cab companies. Who else had the time to memorize the three hundred twenty routes, twenty-five thousand streets, and twenty thousand landmarks within six miles of Charing Cross, that were required in order to get a license?

“A driver?” Hamish sputtered.

“Yes. And does that fancy Coutts account I have come with a bank card—one with a high spending limit?”

Gallowglass swore. She looked at him frostily.

“Yes.” Hamish’s wariness increased.

“Good. I need to buy some books. Everything Athanasius Kircher ever wrote. First or second editions. Do you think you could send out a few inquiries before the weekend?” Diana studiously avoided Gallowglass’s piercing gaze.

“Athanasius who?” Hamish asked. Gallowglass could hear a pen scratching on paper.

“Kircher.” She spelled it out for him, letter by letter. “You’ll have to go to the rare-book dealers.

There must be copies floating around London. I don’t care how much they cost.”

“You sound like Granny,” Gallowglass muttered. That alone was reason for concern.

“If you can’t get me copies by the end of next week, I suppose I’ll have to go to the British Library.

But fall term has started, and the rare-book room is bound to be full of witches. I’m sure it would be better if I stayed at home.”

“Could I talk to Matthew?” Hamish said a trifle breathlessly.

“He’s not here.”

“You’re alone?” He sounded shocked.

“Of course not. Gallowglass is with me,” Diana replied.

“And Gallowglass knows about your plan to sit in the public reading rooms of the British Library and read these books by—what’s his name? Athanasius Kircher? Have you gone completely mad? The whole Congregation is looking for you!” Hamish’s voice rose steadily with each sentence.

“I am aware of the Congregation’s interest, Hamish. That’s why I asked you to buy the books,”

Diana said mildly.

“Where is Matthew?” Hamish demanded.

“I don’t know.” Diana crossed her fingers when she told the lie.

There was a long silence.

“I’ll meet you at the airport. Let me know when you’re an hour away,” Hamish said.

“That’s not necessary,” she said.

“One hour before you land, call me.” Hamish paused. “And, Diana? I don’t know what the hell is going on, but of one thing I’m sure: Matthew loves you. More than his own life.”

“I know,” Diana whispered before she hung up.

Now she’d gone from hopeless to dead-sounding.

The plane turned south and east. The vampire at the controls had overheard the conversation and acted accordingly.

“What is that oaf doing?” Gallowglass growled, shooting to his feet and upsetting the tea tray so that the shortbread biscuits scattered all over the floor. “You cannot head directly for London!” he shouted into the cockpit. “That’s a four-hour flight, and she’s not to be in the air for more than three.”

“Where to, then?” came the pilot’s muffled reply as the plane changed course.

“Put in at Stornoway. It’s a straight shot, and less than three hours. From there it will be an easy jump to London,” Gallowglass replied.

That settled it. Marcus’s ride with Matthew, Jack, Hubbard, and Lobero, no matter how hellish, couldn’t possibly compare to this.

“It’s beautiful.” Diana held her hair away from her face. It was dawn, and the sun was just rising over The Minch. Gallowglass filled his lungs with the familiar air of home and set about remembering a sight he had often dreamed of: Diana Bishop standing here, on the land of his ancestors.

“Aye.” He turned and marched toward the jet. It was waiting on the taxiway, lights on and ready to depart.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Diana scanned the horizon. Autumn had painted the hills with umber and golden strokes among the green. The wind carried the witch’s red hair out in a streak that glowed like embers.

Gallowglass wondered what had captured her attention. There was nothing to see but a misguided gray heron, his long, bright yellow legs too insubstantial to hold up the rest of his body.

“Come, Auntie. You’ll freeze to death out here.” Ever since he’d parted with his leather jacket, Gallowglass had worn nothing more than his habitual uniform of T-shirt and torn jeans. He no longer felt the cold, but he remembered how the early-morning air in this part of the world could cut to the bone.

The heron stared at Diana for a moment. He ducked his head up and down, stretching his wings and crying out. The bird took flight, soaring away toward the sea.

“Diana?”

She turned blue-gold eyes in Gallowglass’s direction. His hackles rose. There was something otherworldly in her gaze that made him recall his childhood, and a dark room where his grandfather cast runes and uttered prophecies.

Even after the plane took to the skies, Diana remained fixed on some unseen, distant view.

Gallowglass stared out the window and prayed for a strong tailwind.

“Will we ever stop running, do you think?” Her voice startled him.

Gallowglass didn’t know the answer and couldn’t bear to lie to her. He remained silent.

Diana buried her face in her hands.

“There, there.” He rocked her against his chest. “You mustn’t think the worst, Auntie. It’s not like you.”

“I’m just so tired, Gallowglass.”

“With good reason. Between past and present, you’ve had a hell of a year.” Gallowglass tucked her head under his chin. She might be Matthew’s lion, but even lions had to close their eyes and rest occasionally.

“Is that Corra?” Diana’s fingers traced the outlines of the firedrake on his forearm. Gallowglass shivered. “Where does her tail go?”

She lifted his sleeve before he could stop her. Her eyes widened.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” Gallowglass said. He released her and tugged the soft fabric back into place.

“Show me.”

“Auntie, I think it’s best—”

“Show me,” Diana repeated. “Please.”

He grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. His tattoos told a complicated tale, but only a few chapters would be of interest to Matthew’s wife. Diana’s hand went to her mouth.

“Oh, Gallowglass.”

A siren sat on a rock above his heart, her arm extended so that her hand reached over to his left bicep. She held a clutch of cords. The cords snaked down his arm, falling and twisting to become Corra’s sinuous tail, which swirled around his elbow until it met with the firedrake’s body.

The siren had Diana’s face.

“You’re a hard woman to find, but you’re an even harder one to forget.” Gallowglass pulled his shirt back over his head.

“How long?” Diana’s eyes were blue with regret and sympathy.

“Four months.” He didn’t tell her that it was the latest in a series of similar images that had been inked over his heart. “That’s not what I meant,” Diana said softly.

“Oh.” Gallowglass stared between his knees at the carpeted floor. “Four hundred years. More or less.”

“I’m so sor—”

“I won’t have you feeling sorry for something you couldn’t prevent,” Gallowglass said, silencing her with a slash of his hand. “I knew you could never be mine. It didn’t matter.”

“Before I was Matthew’s, I was yours,” Diana said simply.

“Only because I was watching you grow into Matthew’s wife,” he said roughly. “Granddad always did have an unholy ability to give us jobs we could neither refuse nor perform without losing some piece of our souls.” Gallowglass took a deep, breath.

“Until I saw the newspaper story about Lady Pembroke’s laboratory book,” he continued, “a small part of me hoped fate might have another surprise up her sleeve. I wondered if you might come back different, or without Matthew, or without loving him as much as he loves you.”

Diana listened without saying a word.

“So I went to Sept-Tours to wait for you, like I promised Granddad I would. Emily and Sarah were always going on about the changes your timewalking might have wrought. Miniatures and telescopes are one thing. But there was only ever one man for you, Diana. And God knows there was only ever one woman for Matthew.”

“It’s strange to hear you say my name,” Diana said softly.

“So long as I call you Auntie, I never forget who really owns your heart,” Gallowglass said gruffly.

“Philippe shouldn’t have expected you to watch over me. It was cruel,” she said.

“No crueler than what Philippe expected from you,” Gallowglass replied. “And far less so than what Granddad demanded of himself.”

Seeing her confusion, Gallowglass continued.

“Philippe always put his own needs last,” Gallowglass said. “Vampires are creatures ruled by their desire, with instincts for self-preservation that are much stronger than any warmblood’s. But Philippe was never like the rest of us. It broke his heart every time Granny got restless and went away. Then I didn’t understand why Ysabeau felt it necessary to leave. Now that I’ve heard her tale, I think Philippe’s love frightened her. It was so deep and selfless that Granny simply couldn’t trust it—not after what her sire put her through. Part of her was always braced for Philippe to turn on her, to demand something for himself that she couldn’t give.”

“Ysabeau said it was Philippe who sent her away.”

“Only once or twice,” Gallowglass said. “Mostly it was Ysabeau’s choice. Whenever I see Matthew struggle to give you the freedom you need—to let you do something without him that you think is minor but that is an agony of worrying and waiting for him—it reminds me of Philippe.”

“What are we going to do now?” She didn’t mean when they got to London, but he pretended she did.

“Now we wait for Matthew,” Gallowglass said flatly. “You wanted him to establish a family. He’s off doing it.”

“I couldn’t let him kill Jack.” Under the surface of her skin, Diana’s magic pulsed again in iridescent agitation. It reminded Gallowglass of long nights watching the aurora borealis from the sandy stretch of coastline beneath the cliffs where his father and grandfather had once lived.

“Matthew won’t be able to stay away for long. It’s one thing to wander in the darkness because you know no different, but it’s quite another to enjoy the light only to have it taken from you,” Gallowglass said.

“You sound so sure,” she whispered.

“I am. Marcus’s children are a handful, but he’ll make them heel.” Gallowglass lowered his voice.

“I assume there’s a good reason you chose London?”

Her glance flickered.

“I thought so. You’re not just looking for the last missing page. You’re going after Ashmole 782. And I’m not talking nonsense,” Gallowglass said, raising his hand when Diana opened her mouth to protest. “You’ll be wanting people around you, then. People you can trust unto death, like Granny and Sarah and Fernando.” He drew out his phone.

“Sarah already knows I’m on my way to Europe. I told her I’d let her know where I was once I was settled.” Diana frowned at the phone. “And Ysabeau is still Gerbert’s prisoner. She’s not in touch with the outside world.”

“Oh, Granny has her ways,” Gallowglass said serenely, his fingers racing across the keys. “I’ll just send her a message and tell her where we’re headed. Then I’ll tell Fernando. You can’t do this alone, Auntie. Not what you’ve got planned.”

“You’re taking this very well, Gallowglass,” Diana said gratefully. “Matthew would be trying to talk me out of it.”

“That’s what you get for falling in love with the wrong man,” he said under his breath, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Ysabeau de Clermont picked up her sleek red phone and looked at the illuminated display. She noted the time—7:37 A.M. Then she read the waiting message. It began with three repetitions of a single word:

Mayday

Mayday

Mayday

She’d been expecting Gallowglass to get in touch ever since Phoebe had notified her that Marcus had departed in the middle of the night, mysteriously and suddenly, to go off and join Matthew. Ysabeau and Gallowglass had decided early on that they needed a way to notify each other when things went “pear-shaped,” to use her grandson’s expression. Their system had changed over the years, from beacons and secret messages written in onion juice to codes and ciphers, then to objects sent through the mail without explanation. Now they used the phone.

At first Ysabeau had been dubious about owning one of these cellular contraptions, but given recent events she was glad to have it restored to her. Gerbert had confiscated it shortly after her arrival in Aurillac, in the vain hope that being without it would make her more malleable.

Gerbert had returned the phone to Ysabeau several weeks ago. She had been taken hostage to satisfy the witches and to make a public show of the Congregation’s power and influence. Gerbert was under no illusion that his prisoner would part with a scrap of information that would help them find Matthew. He was, however, grateful that Ysabeau was willing to play along with the charade. Since arriving at Gerbert’s home, she had been a model prisoner. He claimed that having her phone back was a reward for good behavior, but she knew it was largely due to the fact that Gerbert could not figure out how to silence the many alarms that sounded throughout the day.

Ysabeau liked these reminders of events that had altered her world: just before midday, when Philippe and his men had burst into her prison and she felt the first glimmers of hope; two hours before sunrise, when Philippe had first admitted that he loved her; three in the afternoon, the hour she had found Matthew’s broken body in the half-built church in Saint-Lucien; 1:23 P.M., when Matthew drew the last drops of blood from Philippe’s pain-ravaged body. Other alarms marked the hour of Hugh’s death and Godfrey’s, the hour when Louisa had first exhibited signs of blood rage, the hour when Marcus had demonstrated definitively that the same disease had not touched him. The rest of her daily alarms were reserved for significant historical events, such as the births of kings and queens whom Ysabeau had called friends, wars that she had fought in and won, and battles that she had unaccountably lost in spite of her careful plans.

The alarms rang day and night, each one a different, carefully chosen song. Gerbert had particularly objected to the alarm that blasted “Chant de Guerre pour l’Armée du Rhin” at 5:30 P.M.—the precise moment when the revolutionary mob swept through the gates of the Bastille in 1789. But these tunes served as aide-mémoire, conjuring up faces and places that might otherwise have faded away over time.

Ysabeau read the rest of Gallowglass’s message. To anyone else it would have appeared nothing more than a garbled combination of shipping forecast, aeronautical distress signal, and horoscope, with its references to shadows, the moon, Gemini, Libra, and a series of longitude and latitude coordinates.

Ysabeau reread the message twice: once to make sure she had correctly ascertained its meaning and a second time to memorize Gallowglass’s instructions. Then she typed her reply.

Je Viens

“I am afraid it is time for me to go, Gerbert,” Ysabeau said without a trace of regret. She looked across the faux-Gothic horror of a room to where her jailer sat before a computer at the foot of an ornate carved table. At the opposite end, a heavy Bible rested on a raised stand flanked by thick white candles, as though Gerbert’s work space were an altar. Ysabeau’s lip curled at the pretension, which was matched by the room’s heavy nineteenth-century woodwork, pews converted to settees, and garish green-and blue silk wallpaper ornamented with chivalric shields. The only authentic items in the room were the enormous stone fireplace and the monumental chess set before it.

Gerbert peered at his computer screen and hit a key on the keyboard. He groaned.

“Jean-Luc will come from Saint-Lucien and help if you are still having trouble with your computer,” Ysabeau said.

Gerbert had hired the nice young man to set up a home computer network after Ysabeau had shared two morsels of Sept-Tours gossip gleaned from conversations around the dinner table: Nathaniel Wilson’s belief that future wars would be fought on the Internet and Marcus’s plan to handle a majority of the Knights of Lazarus’s banking through online channels. Baldwin and Hamish had overruled her grandson’s extraordinary idea, but Gerbert didn’t need to know that.

While installing the components of Gerbert’s hastily purchased system, Jean-Luc had needed to call back to the office several times for advice. Marcus’s dear friend Nathaniel had set up the small business in Saint-Lucien to bring the villagers into the modern age, and though he was now in Australia, he was happy to help his former employee whenever his greater experience was required. On this occasion Nathaniel had walked Jean-Luc through the various security configurations that Gerbert requested.

Nathaniel added a few modifications of his own, too.

The end result was that Ysabeau and Nathaniel knew more about Gerbert of Aurillac than she had dreamed was possible, or indeed had ever wanted, to know. It was astonishing how much a person’s online shopping habits revealed about his character and activities.

Ysabeau had made sure Jean-Luc signed Gerbert up for various social-media services to keep the vampire occupied and out of her way. She could not imagine why these companies all chose shades of blue for their logos. Blue had always struck her as such a serene, soothing color, yet all social media offered was endless agitation and posturing. It was worse than the court of Versailles. Come to think of it, Ysabeau reflected, Louis-Dieudonné had quite liked blue as well.

Gerbert’s only complaint about his new virtual existence was that he had been unable to secure “Pontifex Maximus” as a user name. Ysabeau told him that it was probably for the best, since it might constitute a violation of the covenant in the eyes of some creatures.

Sadly for Gerbert—though happily for Ysabeau—an addiction to the Internet and an understanding of how best to use it did not always go hand in hand. Because of the sites he frequented, Gerbert was plagued by computer viruses. He also tended to pick overly complex passwords and lose track of which sites he’d visited and how he had found them. This led to many phone calls with Jean-Luc, who unfailingly bailed Gerbert out of his difficulties and thereby kept up to date on how to access all Gerbert’s online information. With Gerbert thus engaged, Ysabeau was free to wander around his castle, going through his belongings and copying down the surprising entries in the vampire’s many address books.

Life as Gerbert’s hostage had been most illuminating.

“It is time for me to go,” Ysabeau repeated when Gerbert finally tore his eyes away from the screen. “There is no reason to keep me here any longer. The Congregation won. I have just received word from the family that Matthew and Diana are no longer together. I imagine that the strain was too much for her, poor girl. You must be very pleased.”

“I hadn’t heard. And you?” Gerbert’s expression was suspicious. “Are you pleased?”

“Of course. I have always despised witches.” Gerbert had no need to know how completely Ysabeau’s feelings had changed.

“Hmm.” He still looked wary. “Has Matthew’s witch gone to Madison? Surely Diana Bishop will want to be with her aunt if she has left your son.”

“I am sure she longs for home,” Ysabeau said vaguely. “It is typical, after heartbreak, to seek out what is familiar.”

Ysabeau thought it was a promising sign, therefore, that Diana had chosen to return to the place where she and Matthew had enjoyed a life together. As for heartbreak, there were many ways to ease the pain and loneliness that went along with being mated to the sire of a great vampire clan—which Matthew would soon be. Ysabeau looked forward to sharing them with her daughter-in-law, who was made of sterner stuff than most vampires would have expected.

“Do you need to clear my departure with someone? Domenico? Satu, perhaps?” Ysabeau asked solicitously.

“They dance to my tune, Ysabeau,” Gerbert said with a scowl.

It was pathetically easy to manipulate Gerbert if his ego was involved. And it was always involved.

Ysabeau hid her satisfied smile.

“If I release you, you will go back to Sept-Tours and stay there?” Gerbert asked. “Of course,” she said promptly.

“Ysabeau,” he growled.

“I have not left de Clermont territory since shortly after the war,” she said with a touch of impatience. “Unless the Congregation decides to take me prisoner again, I will remain in de Clermont territory. Only Philippe himself could persuade me to do otherwise.”

“Happily, not even Philippe de Clermont is capable of ordering us about from the grave,” Gerbert said, “though I am sure he would dearly love to do so.”

You would be surprised, you toad, Ysabeau thought.

“Very well, then. You are free to go.” Gerbert sighed. “But do try to remember we are at war, Ysabeau. To keep up appearances.”

“Oh, I would never forget we are at war, Gerbert.” Unable to maintain her countenance for another moment, and afraid she might find a creative use for the iron poker that was propped up by the fireplace, Ysabeau went to find Marthe.

Her trusted companion was downstairs in the meticulous kitchen, sitting by the fireplace with a battered copy of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and a steaming cup of mulled wine. Gerbert’s butcher stood at the nearby chopping block, dismembering a rabbit for his master’s breakfast. The Delft tile on the walls provided an oddly cheerful note.

“We are going home, Marthe,” Ysabeau said.

“Finally.” Marthe got to her feet with a groan. “I hate Aurillac. The air here is bad. Adiu siatz, Theo.”

“Adiu siatz, Marthe,” Theo grunted, whacking the unfortunate rabbit.

Gerbert met them at the front door to bid them farewell. He kissed Ysabeau on both cheeks, his actions supervised by a dead boar that Philippe had killed, the head of which had been preserved and mounted on a plaque over the fire. “Shall I have Enzo drive you?”

“I think we will walk.” It would give her and Marthe the opportunity to make plans. After so many weeks conducting espionage under Gerbert’s roof, it was going to be difficult to let go of her excessive caution.

“It’s eighty miles,” Gerbert pointed out.

“We shall stop in Allanche for lunch. A large herd of deer once roamed the woods there.” They would not make it so far, for Ysabeau had already sent Alain a message to meet them outside Murat.

Alain would drive them from there to Clermont-Ferrand, where they would board one of Baldwin’s infernal flying machines and proceed to London. Marthe abhorred air travel, which she believed was unnatural, but they could not allow Diana to arrive at a cold house. Ysabeau slipped Jean-Luc’s card into Gerbert’s hand. “Until next time.”

Arm in arm, Ysabeau and Marthe walked out into the crisp dawn. The towers of Château des Anges Déchus grew smaller and smaller behind them until they disappeared from sight.

“I must set a new alarm, Marthe. Seven thirty-seven A.M. Do not let me forget. ‛Marche Henri IV’ would be most appropriate for it, I think,” Ysabeau whispered as their feet moved quickly north toward the dormant peaks of the ancient volcanoes and onward to their future.

24

“This cannot be my house, Leonard.” The palatial brick mansion’s expansive five-windowed frontage and towering four stories in one of London’s toniest neighborhoods made it inconceivable. I felt a pang of regret, though. The tall windows were trimmed in white to stand out against the warm brick, their old glass winking in the midday sunshine. Inside, I imagined that the house would be flooded with light. It would be warm, too, for there were not the usual two chimneys but three. And there was enough polished brass on the front door to start a marching band. It would be a glorious bit of history to call home.

“This is where I was told to go, Mistress . . . er, Mrs. . . . um, Diana.” Leonard Shoreditch, Jack’s erstwhile friend and another of Hubbard’s disreputable gang of lost boys, had been waiting—with Hamish—in the private arrivals area at London City Airport in the Docklands. Leonard now parked the Mercedes and craned his neck over the seat, awaiting further instructions.

“I promise you it’s your house, Auntie. If you don’t like it, we’ll swap it for a new one. But let’s discuss future real-estate transactions inside, please—not sitting in the street where any creature might see us. Get the luggage, lad.” Gallowglass clambered out of the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind him. He was still angry not to have been the one to drive us to Mayfair. But I’d been ferried around London by Gallowglass before and preferred to take my chances with Leonard.

I gave the mansion another dubious look.

“Don’t worry, Diana. Clairmont House isn’t half so grand inside as it is out. There is the staircase, of course. And some of the plasterwork is ornate,” Hamish said as he opened the car door. “Come to think of it, the whole house is rather grand.”

Leonard rooted around in the car trunk and removed my small suitcase and the large, hand-lettered sign he’d been holding when he met us. Leonard had wanted to do things properly, he said, and the sign bore the name CLAIRMONT in blocky capitals. When Hamish had told him we needed to be discreet, Leonard had drawn a line through the name and scrawled ROYDON underneath it in even darker characters using a felt-tip marker.

“How did you know to call Leonard?” I asked Hamish as he helped me out of the car. When last seen in 1591, Leonard had been in the company of another boy with the strangely fitting name of Amen Corner. As I recalled, Matthew had thrown a dagger at the two simply for delivering a message from Father Hubbard. I couldn’t imagine that my husband had stayed in touch with either young man.

“Gallowglass texted me his number. He said we should keep our affairs in the family as much as possible.” Hamish turned curious eyes on me. “I wasn’t aware Matthew owned a private car-hire business.”

“The company belongs to Matthew’s grandson.” I’d spent most of the journey from the airport staring at the promotional leaflets in the pocket behind the driver’s seat, which advertised the services of Hubbards of Houndsditch, Ltd., “proudly meeting London’s most discriminating transportation needs since 1917.”

Before I could explain further, a small, aged woman with ample hips and a familiar scowl pulled open the arched blue door. I stared in shock.

“You’re looking bonny, Marthe.” Gallowglass stooped and kissed her. Then he turned and frowned down the short flight of stairs that rose from the sidewalk. “Why are you still out on the curb, Auntie?”

“Why is Marthe here?” My throat was dry and the question came out in a croak.

“Is that Diana?” Ysabeau’s bell-like voice cut through the quiet murmur of city sounds. “Marthe and I are here to help, of course.”

Gallowglass whistled. “Being held against your will agreed with you, Granny. You haven’t looked so lively since Victoria was crowned.”

“Flatterer.” Ysabeau patted her grandson on the cheek. Then she looked at me and gasped. “Diana is as white as snow, Marthe. Get her inside, Gallowglass. At once.”

“You heard her, Auntie,” he said, sweeping me off my feet and onto the top step.

Ysabeau and Marthe propelled me through the airy entrance with its gleaming black-and-white marble floor and a curved staircase so splendid it made me gasp. The four flights of stairs were topped with a domed skylight that let in the sunshine and picked out the details in the moldings.

From there I was ushered into a tranquil reception room. Long drapes in gray figured silk hung at the windows, their color a pleasing contrast to the creamy walls. The upholstery pulled in shades of slate blue, terra-cotta, cream, and black to accent the gray, and the faint fragrance of cinnamon and cloves clung to all of it. Matthew’s taste was everywhere, too: in a small orrery, its brass wires gleaming; a piece of Japanese porcelain; the warmly colored rug.

“Hello, Diana. I thought you might need tea.” Phoebe Taylor arrived, accompanied by the scent of lilacs and the gentle clatter of silver and porcelain.

“Why aren’t you at Sept-Tours?” I asked, equally astonished to see her.

“Ysabeau told me I was needed here.” Phoebe’s neat black heels clicked against the polished wood.

She eyed Leonard as she put the tea tray down on a graceful table that was polished to such a high sheen that I could see her reflection in it. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Would you like some tea?”

“Leonard Shoreditch, ma-madam, at your service,” Leonard said, stammering slightly. He bent in a stiff bow. “And thank you. I would dearly love some tea. White. Four sugars.”

Phoebe poured steaming liquid into a cup and put only three cubes of sugar in it before she handed it off to Leonard. Marthe snorted and sat down in a straight-backed chair next to the tea table, obviously intent on supervising Phoebe—and Leonard—like a hawk.

“That will rot your teeth, Leonard,” I said, unable to stop the maternal intervention.

“Vampires don’t worry much about tooth decay Mistress . . . er, Mrs. . . . um, Diana.” Leonard’s hand shook alarmingly, making the tiny cup and saucer with its red Japanese-style decoration clatter.

Phoebe blanched.

“That’s Chelsea porcelain, and quite early, too. Everything in the house should be in display cases at the V&A Museum.” Phoebe handed me an identical cup and saucer with a beautiful silver spoon balanced on the edge. “If anything is broken, I’ll never forgive myself. They’re irreplaceable.”

If Phoebe were going to marry Marcus as she planned, she would have to get used to being surrounded by museum-quality objects.

I took a sip of the scalding hot, sweet, milky tea and sighed with pleasure. Silence fell. I took another sip and looked around the room. Gallowglass was stuffed into a Queen Anne corner chair, his muscular legs splayed wide. Ysabeau was enthroned in the most ornate chair in the room: high-backed, its frame covered in silver leaf, and upholstered in damask. Hamish shared a mahogany settee with Phoebe. Leonard nervously perched on one of the side chairs that flanked the tea table.

They were all waiting. Since Matthew wasn’t present, our friends and family were looking to me for guidance. The burden of responsibility settled on my shoulders. It was uncomfortable, just as Matthew had predicted.

“When did the Congregation set you free, Ysabeau?” I asked, my mouth still dry in spite of the tea.

“Gerbert and I came to an agreement shortly after you arrived in Scotland,” she replied breezily, though her smile told me there was more to the story.

“Does Marcus know you’re here, Phoebe?” Something told me he had no idea.

“My resignation from Sotheby’s takes effect on Monday. He knew I had to clear out my desk.”

Phoebe’s words were carefully chosen, but the underlying response to my question was clearly no.

Marcus was still under the impression that his fiancée was in a heavily fortified castle in France, not an airy town house in London.

“Resignation?” I was surprised.

“If I want to go back to work at Sotheby’s, I’ll have centuries to do so.” Phoebe looked around her. “Though properly cataloging the de Clermont family’s possessions could take me several lifetimes.”

“Then you are still set on becoming a vampire?” I asked.

Phoebe nodded. I should sit down with her and try to talk her out of it. Matthew would have her blood on his hands if anything went wrong. And something always went wrong in this family.

“Who’s gonna make her a vamp?” Leonard whispered to Gallowglass. “Father H?”

“I think Father Hubbard has enough children. Don’t you, Leonard?” Come to think of it, I needed to know that number as soon as possible—and how many were witches and daemons.

“I suppose so, Mistress . . . er, Mrs. . . . er—”

“The proper form of address for Sieur Matthew’s mate is ‘Madame.’ From now on, you will use that title when speaking to Diana,” Ysabeau said briskly. “It simplifies matters.”

Marthe and Gallowglass turned in Ysabeau’s direction, their faces registering surprise.

“Sieur Matthew,” I repeated softly. Until now Matthew had been “Milord” to his family. But Philippe had been called “Sieur” in 1590. “Everyone here calls me either ‘sire’ or ‘Father,’” Philippe had told me when I asked how he should be addressed. At the time I’d thought the title was nothing more than an antiquated French honorific. Now I knew better. To call Matthew “Sieur”—the vampire sire—marked him head of a vampire clan.

As far was Ysabeau was concerned, Matthew’s new scion was a fait accompli.

“Madame what?” Leonard asked, confused.

“Just Madame,” Ysabeau replied serenely. “You may call me Madame Ysabeau. When Phoebe marries Milord Marcus, she will be Madame de Clermont. Until then you may call her Miss Phoebe.”

“Oh.” Leonard’s look of intense concentration indicated he was chewing on these morsels of vampire etiquette.

Silence fell again. Ysabeau stood.

“Marthe put you in the Forest Room, Diana. It is next to Matthew’s bedchamber,” she said. “If you are finished with the tea, I will take you upstairs. You should rest for a few hours before you tell us what you require.”

“Thank you, Ysabeau.” I put the cup and saucer on the small round table at my elbow. I wasn’t finished with my tea, but its heat had quickly dissipated through the fragile porcelain. As for what I required, where to start?

Together Ysabeau and I crossed the foyer, climbed the graceful staircase up to the first floor, and kept going.

“You will have your privacy on the second floor,” Ysabeau explained. “There are only two bedrooms on that level, as well as Matthew’s study and a small sitting room. Now that the house is yours, you may arrange things as you like, of course.”

“Where are the rest of you sleeping?” I asked as Ysabeau turned onto the second-floor landing.

“Phoebe and I have rooms on the floor above you. Marthe prefers to sleep on the lower ground floor, in the housekeeper’s rooms. If you feel crowded, Phoebe and I can move into Marcus’s house. It is near St. James’s Palace, and once belonged to Matthew.”

“I can’t imagine that will be necessary,” I said, thinking of the size of the house.

“We’ll see. Your bedchamber.” Ysabeau pushed open a wide, paneled door with a gleaming brass knob. I gasped.

Everything in the room was in shades of green, silver, pale gray, and white. The walls were papered with hand-painted depictions of branches and leaves against a pale gray background. Silver accents gave the effect of moonlight, the mirrored moon in the center of the ceiling’s plasterwork appearing to be the source of the light. A ghostly female face looked down from the mirror with a serene smile. Four depictions of Nyx, the personification of night, anchored the four quadrants of the room’s ceiling, her veil billowing out in a smoky black drapery that was painted so realistically it looked like actual fabric.

Silver stars were entangled in the veiling, catching the light from the windows and the mirror’s reflection.

“It is extraordinary, I agree,” Ysabeau said, pleased by my reaction. “Matthew wanted to create the effect of being outside in the forest, under a moonlit sky. Once this bedchamber was decorated, he said it was too beautiful to use and moved to the room next door.”

Ysabeau went to the windows and drew the curtains open. The bright light revealed an ancient four-poster, canopied bed set into a recess in the wall, which slightly minimized its considerable size.

The bed hangings were silk and bore the same design as the wallpaper. Another large-scale mirror topped the fireplace, trapping images of trees on the wallpaper and sending them back into the room.

The shining surface reflected the room’s furniture, too: the small dressing table between the large windows, the chaise by the fire, the gleaming flowers and leaves inlaid into the low walnut chest of drawers. The room’s decoration and furnishings must have cost Matthew a fortune.

My eyes fell on a vast canvas of a sorceress sitting on the ground and sketching magical symbols. It hung on the wall opposite the bed, between the tall windows. A veiled woman had interrupted the sorceress’s work, her outstretched hand suggesting that she wanted the witch’s help. It was an odd choice of subject for a vampire’s house.

“Whose room was this, Ysabeau?” The adjoining rooms suggested that Matthew had planned on sharing the house with someone.

“I think Matthew made it for you—only he did not realize it at the time.” Ysabeau twitched open another pair of curtains.

“Has another woman slept here?” There was no way I could rest in a room that Juliette Durand had once occupied.

“Matthew took his lovers elsewhere,” Ysabeau answered, equally blunt. When she saw my expression, she softened her tone. “He has many houses. Most of them mean nothing to him. Some do.

This is one of them. He would not have given you a gift he didn’t value himself.”

“I never believed that being separated from him would be so hard.” My voice was muted.

“Being the consort in a vampire family is never easy,” Ysabeau said with a sad smile. “And sometimes being apart is the only way to stay together. Matthew had no choice but to leave you this time.”

“Did Philippe ever banish you from his side?” I studied my composed mother-in-law with open curiosity.

“Of course. Mostly Philippe sent me away when I was an unwelcome distraction. On other occasions to keep me from being implicated if disaster struck—and in his family it struck more often than not.” She smiled. “My husband always commanded me to go when he knew I would not be able to resist meddling and was worried for my safety.”

“So Matthew learned how to be overprotective from Philippe?” I asked, thinking of all the times he had stepped into harm’s way to keep me from it.

“Matthew had mastered the art of fussing over the woman he loved long before he became a vampire,” Ysabeau replied softly. “You know that.”

“And did you always obey Philippe’s orders?”

“No more than you obey Matthew.” Ysabeau’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “And you will quickly discover that you are never so free to make your own decisions as when Matthew is off being patriarchal with someone else. Like me, you might even come to look forward to these moments apart.”

“I doubt it.” I pressed a fist into the small of my back in an effort to work out the kinks. It was something Matthew usually did. “I should explain what happened in New Haven.”

“You must never explain Matthew’s actions to anyone,” Ysabeau said sharply. “Vampires don’t tell tales for a reason. Knowledge is power in our world.”

“You’re Matthew’s mother. Surely I’m not supposed to keep secrets from you.” I sifted through the events of the past few days. “Matthew discovered the identity of one of Benjamin’s children—and met a great-grandson he didn’t know he had.” Of all the strange twists and turns our lives had taken, meeting up with Jack and his father had to be the most significant, not least because we were now in Father Hubbard’s city. “His name is Jack Blackfriars, and he lived in our household in 1591.”

“So my son knows at last about Andrew Hubbard,” Ysabeau said, her face devoid of emotion. “You knew?” I cried.

“Philippe was concerned about Jack’s blood rage. He wanted me to meet the boy, in case I saw any worrying behavior.” Ysabeau’s smile would have terrified me—once. “And do you still think I deserve your complete honesty, daughter?”

Matthew had warned me that I wasn’t equipped to lead a pack of vampires.

“You are a sire’s consort, Diana. You must learn to tell others only what they need to know, and nothing more,” she instructed.

Here was my first lesson learned, but there were sure to be more.

“Will you teach me what I need to know, Ysabeau?”

“Yes.” Her one-word response was more trustworthy than any lengthy vow. “But you must be careful, Diana. Even though you are Matthew’s mate and his consort, you are a de Clermont and must remain so until this matter is settled. Your status in Philippe’s family will protect Matthew.”

“Matthew said the Congregation will try to kill him—and Jack, too—once they find out,” I whispered.

“They will try. We will not let them. But for now you must rest.” Ysabeau pulled back the bed’s silk coverlet and plumped the pillows.

I circled the enormous bed, wrapping my hand around one of the posts that supported the canopy.

The carving under my fingers felt familiar. I’ve slept in this bed before, I realized. This was not another woman’s bed. It was mine. It had been in our house in the Blackfriars in 1590 and had somehow survived all these centuries to end up in a chamber that Matthew had dedicated to moonlight and enchantment.

I slept for nearly twenty-four hours, and it might have been longer but for a loud car alarm that pulled me out of my dreams and plunged me into an unfamiliar, green-tinged darkness. It was only then that other sounds penetrated my consciousness: the bustle of traffic on the street outside my windows, a door closing somewhere in the house, a quickly hushed conversation in the hallway.

Hoping that a pounding flow of hot water would ease my stiff muscles and clear my head, I explored the warren of small rooms beyond the white door. I found not only a shower but also my suitcase resting on a folding stand designed for much grander pieces of luggage. From it I pulled out the two pages from Ashmole 782 and my laptop. The rest of my packing had left a great deal to be desired.

Except for some underwear, several tank tops, yoga tights that no longer fit me, a pair of mismatched shoes, and black maternity pants, there was nothing else in the bag. Happily, Matthew’s closet held plenty of pressed shirts. I slid one made of gray broadcloth over my arms and shoulders and avoided the closed door that surely led to his bedroom.

I padded downstairs in bare feet, my computer and the large envelope with the pages from the Book of Life in my arms. The grand first-floor rooms were empty—an echoing ballroom with enough crystal and gold paint to renovate Versailles, a smaller music room with a piano and other instruments, a formal salon that looked to have been decorated by Ysabeau, an equally formal dining room with an endless stretch of mahogany table and seating for twenty-four, a library full of eighteenth-century books, and a games room with green-felted card tables that looked as if it had been plucked from a Jane Austen novel.

Longing for a homier atmosphere, I descended to the ground floor. No one was in the sitting room, so I poked around in office spaces, parlors, and morning rooms until I found a more intimate dining room than the one upstairs. It was located at the rear of the house, its bowed window looking out over a small private garden. The walls were painted to resemble brick, lending the space a warm, inviting air.

Another mahogany table—this one round rather than rectangular—was encircled by only eight chairs.

On its surface was an assortment of carefully arranged old books.

Phoebe entered the room and put a tray bearing tea and toast on a small sideboard. “Marthe told me you would be up at any moment. She said that this was what you would need first thing and that if you were still hungry, you could go down to the kitchen for eggs and sausage. We don’t eat up here as a rule. By the time the food makes it up the stairs, it’s stone cold.”

“What is all this?” I gestured at the table. “The books you requested from Hamish,” Phoebe explained, straightening a volume that was slightly off kilter. “We’re still waiting for a few items. You’re a historian, so I put them in chronological order. I hope that’s all right.”

“But I only asked for them on Thursday,” I said, bewildered. It was now Sunday morning. How could she have managed such a feat? One of the sheets of paper bore a title and date—Arca Noë 1675— in a neat, feminine hand, along with a price and the name and address of a book dealer.

“Ysabeau knows every dealer in London.” Phoebe’s mouth lifted into a mischievous smile, changing her face from attractive to beautiful. “And no wonder. The phrase ‘the price isn’t important’ will galvanize any auction house, no matter the lateness of the hour, even on the weekend.”

I picked up another volume—Kircher’s Obeliscus Pamphilius—and opened the cover. Matthew’s sprawling signature was on the flyleaf.

“I had a rummage through the libraries here and at Pickering Place first. There didn’t seem much point in purchasing something that was already in your possession,” Phoebe explained. “Matthew has wide-ranging tastes when it comes to books. There’s a first edition of Paradise Lost at Pickering Place and a first edition of Poor Richard’s Almanack signed by Franklin upstairs.”

“Pickering Place?” Unable to stop myself, I traced the letters of Matthew’s signature with my finger.

“Marcus’s house over by St. James’s Palace. It was a gift from Matthew, I understand. He lived there before he built Clairmont House,” Phoebe said. Her lips pursed. “Marcus may be fascinated by politics, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for the Magna Carta and one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence to remain in private hands. I’m sure you agree.”

My finger rose from the page. Matthew’s likeness hovered for a moment above the blank spot where his signature had been. Phoebe’s eyes widened.

“I’m sorry,” I said, releasing the ink back onto the paper. It swirled back onto the paper, re-forming into my husband’s signature. “I shouldn’t practice magic in front of warmbloods.”

“But you didn’t say any words or write down a charm.” Phoebe looked confused.

“Some witches don’t need to recite spells to make magic.” Remembering Ysabeau’s words, I kept my explanation as brief as possible.

“Oh.” She nodded. “I still have a great deal to learn about creatures.”

“Me, too.” I smiled warmly at her, and Phoebe gave me a tentative smile in return.

“I assume you’re interested in Kircher’s imagery?” Phoebe asked, carefully opening another of the thick tomes. It was his book on magnetism, Magnes sive De Arte Magnetica. The engraved title page showed a tall tree, its wide branches bearing the fruits of knowledge. These were chained together to suggest their common bond. In the center God’s divine eye looked out from the eternal world of archetypes and truth. A ribbon wove among the tree’s branches and fruits. It bore a Latin motto: Omnia

nodis arcanis connexa quiescunt. Translating mottoes was a tricky business, since their meanings were deliberately enigmatic, but most scholars agreed that it referred to the hidden magnetic influences that Kircher believed gave unity to the world:

“All things are at rest, connected by secret knots.”

“‘They all wait silently, connected by secret knots,’” Phoebe murmured. “Who are ‘they’? And what are they waiting for?”

With no detailed knowledge of Kircher’s ideas about magnetism, Phoebe had read an entirely different meaning in the inscription.

“And why are these four disks larger?” she continued, pointing to the center of the page. Three of the disks were arranged in a triangular fashion around one containing an unblinking eye.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed, reading the Latin descriptions that accompanied the images. “The eye represents the world of archetypes.”

“Oh. The origin of all things,” Phoebe looked at the image more closely.

“What did you say?” My third eye opened, suddenly interested in what Phoebe Taylor had to say.

“Archetypes are original patterns. See, here are the sublunar world, the heavens, and man,” she said, tapping in succession each of the three disks surrounding the archetypal eye. “Each one of them is linked to the world of archetypes—their point of origin—as well as to one another. The motto suggests we should see the chains as knots, though. I’m not sure if that’s relevant.”

“Oh, I think it’s relevant,” I said under my breath, more certain than ever that Athanasius Kircher and the Villa Mondragone sale were crucial links in the series of events that led from Edward Kelley in Prague to the final missing page. Somehow, Father Athanasius must have learned about the world of creatures. Either that or he was one himself.

“The Tree of Life is a powerful archetype in its own right, of course,” Phoebe mused, “one that also describes the relationships between parts of the created world. There’s a reason genealogists use family trees to show lines of descent.”

Having an art historian in the family was going to be an unexpected boon—from both a research standpoint and a conversational one. Finally I had someone to talk to about arcane imagery.

“And you already know how important trees of knowledge are in scientific imagery. Not all of them are this representational, though,” Phoebe said with regret. “Most are just simple branching diagrams, like Darwin’s Tree of Life from On the Origin of Species. It was the only image in the whole book. Too bad Darwin didn’t think to hire a proper artist like Kircher did—someone who could produce something truly splendid.”

The knotted threads that had been waiting silently all around me began to chime. There was something I was missing. Some powerful connection that was nearly within my grasp, if only . . .

“Where is everybody?” Hamish poked his head into the room.

“Good morning, Hamish,” Phoebe said with a warm smile. “Leonard has gone to pick up Sarah and Fernando. Everybody else is here somewhere.”

“Hullo, Hamish.” Gallowglass waved from the garden window. “Feeling better after your sleep, Auntie?”

“Much, thank you.” But my attention was fixed on Hamish. “He hasn’t called,” Hamish said gently in response to my silent question.

I wasn’t surprised. Nevertheless, I stared down at my new books to hide my disappointment.

“Good morning, Diana. Hello, Hamish.” Ysabeau sailed into the room and offered her cheek to the daemon. He kissed it obediently. “Has Phoebe located the books you need, Diana, or should she keep looking?”

“Phoebe has done an amazing job—and quickly, too. I’m afraid I still need help, though.”

“Well, that is what we are here for.” Ysabeau beckoned her grandson inside and gave me a steadying look. “Your tea has gone cold. Marthe will bring more, and then you will tell us what must be done.”

After Marthe dutifully appeared (this time with something minty and decaffeinated rather than the strong black brew that Phoebe had poured) and Gallowglass joined us, I brought out the two pages from Ashmole 782. Hamish whistled.

“These are two illuminations removed from the Book of Life in the sixteenth century—the manuscript known today as Ashmole 782. One has yet to be found: an image of a tree. It looks a little like this.” I showed them the frontispiece from Kircher’s book on magnestism. “We have to find it before anyone else does, and that includes Knox, Benjamin, and the Congregation.”

“Why do they all want the Book of Life so badly?” Phoebe’s shrewd, olive-colored eyes were guileless. I wondered how long they would stay that way after she became a de Clermont and a vampire.

“None of us really know,” I admitted. “Is it a grimoire? A story of our origins? A record of some kind? I’ve held it in my hands twice: once in its damaged state at the Bodleian in Oxford and once in Emperor Rudolf’s cabinet of curiosities when it was whole and complete. I’m still not sure why so many creatures are seeking the book. All I can say with certainty is that the Book of Life is full of power— power and secrets.”

“No wonder the witches and vampires are so keen to acquire it,” Hamish said drily.

“The daemons as well, Hamish,” I said. “Just ask Nathaniel’s mother, Agatha Wilson. She wants it, too.”

“Wherever did you find this second page?” He touched the picture of the dragons.

“Someone brought it to New Haven.”

“Who?” Hamish asked.

“Andrew Hubbard.” After Ysabeau’s warnings I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. But Hamish was our lawyer. I couldn’t keep secrets from him. “He’s a vampire.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of who—and what—Andrew Hubbard is. I’m a daemon and work in the City, after all,” Hamish said with a laugh. “But I’m surprised Matthew let him get near. He despises the man.”

I could have explained how much things had changed, and why, but the tale of Jack Blackfriars was Matthew’s to tell.

“What does the missing picture of the tree have to do with Athanasius Kircher?” Phoebe asked, bringing our attention back to the matter at hand.

“While I was in New Haven, my colleague Lucy Meriweather helped me track down what might have happened to the Book of Life. One of Rudolf’s mysterious manuscripts ended up in Kircher’s hands. We thought that the illumination of the tree might have been included with it.” I gestured at the frontispiece to Magnes sive De Arte Magnetica. “I’m more certain than ever that Kircher had at least seen the image, based solely on that illustration.”

“Can’t you just look through Kircher’s books and papers?” Hamish asked.

“I can,” I replied with a smile, “provided the books and papers can still be located. Kircher’s personal collection was sent to an old papal residence for safekeeping—Villa Mondragone in Italy. In the early twentieth century, the Jesuits began to discreetly sell off some of the books to raise revenue.

Lucy and I think they sold the page then.”

“In that case there should be records of the sale,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “Have you contacted the Jesuits?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “They have no records of it—or if they do, they aren’t sharing them. Lucy wrote to the major auction houses, too.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have got very far. Sales information is confidential,” Phoebe said.

“So we were told.” I hesitated just long enough for Phoebe to offer what I was afraid to ask for.

“I’ll e-mail Sylvia today and tell her that I won’t be able to clear out my desk tomorrow as planned,” Phoebe said. “I can’t hold Sotheby’s off indefinitely, but there are other resources I can check and people who might talk to me if approached in the right way.”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. After a momentary pause, it rang again. And again. The fourth time the ringing went on and on as though the visitor had jammed a finger into the button and left it there.

“Diana!” shouted a familiar voice. The ringing was replaced by pounding.

“Sarah!” I cried, rising to my feet.

A fresh October breeze swept into the house, carrying with it the scents of brimstone and saffron. I rushed into the hall. Sarah was there, her face white and her hair floating around her shoulders in a mad tangle of red. Fernando stood behind her, carrying two suitcases as though their collective weight were no more than a first-class letter.

Sarah’s red-rimmed eyes met mine, and she dropped Tabitha’s cat carrier on the marble floor with a thud. She held her arms wide, and I moved into them. Em had always offered me comfort when I felt alone and frightened as a child, but right now Sarah was exactly who I needed.

“It will be all right, honey,” she whispered, holding me tight.

“I just spoke to Father H, and he said I’m to follow your instructions to the letter, Mistress . . .

Madame,” Leonard Shoreditch said cheerfully, pushing past Sarah and me on his way into the house. He gave me a jaunty salute.

“Did Andrew say anything else?” I asked, drawing away from my aunt. Perhaps Hubbard had shared news of Jack—or Matthew.

“Let’s see.” Leonard pulled on the end of his long nose. “Father H said to make sure you know where London begins and ends, and if there’s trouble, go straight to St. Paul’s and help will be along presently.”

Hearty slaps indicated that Fernando and Gallowglass had been reunited.

“No problems?” Gallowglass murmured.

“None, except that I had to persuade Sarah not to disable the smoke detector in the first-class lavatory so she could sneak a cigarette,” Fernando said mildly. “Next time she needs to fly internationally, send a de Clermont plane. We’ll wait.”

“Thank you for getting her here so quickly, Fernando,” I said with a grateful smile. “You must be wishing you’d never met me and Sarah. All the Bishops seem to do is get you more entangled with the de Clermonts and their problems.”

“On the contrary,” he said softly, “you are freeing me from them.” To my astonishment, Fernando dropped the bags and knelt before me.

“Get up. Please.” I tried to lift him.

“The last time I fell to my knees before a woman, I had lost one of Isabella of Castile’s ships. Two of her guards forced me to do so at sword point, so that I might beg for her forgiveness,” Fernando said with a sardonic lift to his mouth. “As I’m doing so voluntarily on this occasion, I will get up when I am through.”

Marthe appeared, taken aback by the sight of Fernando in such an abject position.

“I am without kith or kin. My maker is gone. My mate is gone. I have no children of my own.”

Fernando bit into his wrist and clenched his fist. The blood welled up from the wound, streaming over his arm and splashing onto the black-and-white floor. “I dedicate my blood and body to the service and honor of your family.”

“Blimey,” Leonard breathed. “That’s not how Father H does it.” I had seen Andrew Hubbard induct a creature into his flock, and though the two ceremonies weren’t identical, they were similar in tone and intent. Once again everyone in the house waited for my response. There were probably rules and precedents to follow, but at that moment I neither knew nor cared what they were. I took Fernando’s bloody hand in mine.

“Thank you for putting your trust in Matthew,” I said simply.

“I have always trusted him,” Fernando said, looking up at me with sharp eyes. “Now it is time for Matthew to trust himself.”

25

“I found it.” Phoebe put a printed e-mail before me on the Georgian writing desk’s tooled-leather surface. The fact that she hadn’t first knocked politely on the door to the sitting room told me that something exciting had happened.

“Already?” I regarded her in amazement.

“I told my former supervisor that I was looking for an item for the de Clermont family—a picture of a tree drawn by Athanasius Kircher.” Phoebe glanced around the room, her connoisseur’s eye caught by the black-and-gold chinoiserie chest on a stand, the faux bamboo carvings on a chair, the colorful silk cushions splashed across the chaise longue by the window. She peered at the walls, muttering the name Jean Pillement and words like “impossible” and “priceless” and “museum.”

“But the illustrations in the Book of Life weren’t drawn by Kircher.” Frowning, I picked up the e mail. “And it’s not a picture. It’s a page torn out of a manuscript.”

“Attribution and provenance are crucial to a good sale,” Phoebe explained. “The temptation to link the picture to Kircher would have been irresistible. And if the edges of the parchment were cleaned up and the text was invisible, it would have commanded a higher price as a stand-alone drawing or painting.”

I scanned the message. It began with a tart reference to Phoebe’s resignation and future marital state. But it was the next lines that caught my attention:

I do find record of the sale and purchase of “an allegory of the Tree of Life believed to have once been displayed in the museum of Athanasius Kircher, SJ, in Rome.” Could this be the image the de Clermonts are seeking?

“Who bought it?” I whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

“Sylvia wouldn’t tell me,” Phoebe said, pointing to the final lines of the e-mail. “The sale was recent, and the details are confidential. She revealed the purchase price: sixteen hundred and fifty pounds.”

“That’s all?” I exclaimed. Most of the books Phoebe had purchased for me cost far more than that.

“The possible Kircher provenance wasn’t firm enough to convince potential buyers to spend more,”

she said.

“Is there really no way to discover the buyer’s identity?” I began to imagine how I might use magic to find the out more.

“Sotheby’s can’t afford to tell their clients’ secrets.” Phoebe shook her head. “Imagine how Ysabeau would react if her privacy was violated.”

“Did you call me, Phoebe?” My mother-in-law was standing in the arched doorway before the seed of my plan could put out its first shoots.

“Phoebe’s discovered that a recent sale at Sotheby’s describes a picture very like the one I’m looking for,” I explained to Ysabeau. “They won’t tell us who bought it.”

“I know where the sales records are kept,” Phoebe said. “When I go to Sotheby’s to hand in my keys, I could take a look.”

“No, Phoebe. It’s too risky. If you can tell me exactly where they are, I may be able to figure out a way to get access to them.” Some combination of my magic and Hubbard’s gang of thieves and lost boys could manage it. But my mother-in-law had her own ideas.

“Ysabeau de Clermont calling for Lord Sutton.” The clear voice echoed against the room’s high ceilings.

Phoebe looked shocked. “You can’t just call the director of Sotheby’s and expect him to do your bidding.”

Apparently Ysabeau could—and did.

“Charles. It’s been too long.” Ysabeau draped herself over a chair and let her pearls fall through her fingers. “You’ve been so busy, I’ve had to rely on Matthew for news. And the refinancing he helped you arrange—did it achieve what you had hoped?”

Ysabeau made soft, encouraging sounds of interest and expressions of appreciation at his cleverness. If I had to describe her behavior, I would be tempted to call it kittenish—provided the kitten were a baby Bengal tiger.

“Oh, I am so glad, Charles. Matthew felt sure it would work.” Ysabeau ran a delicate finger over her lips. “I was wondering if you could help with a little situation. Marcus is getting married, you see— to one of your employees. They met when Marcus picked up those miniatures you were so kind as to procure for me in January.”

Lord Sutton’s precise reply was inaudible, but the warm hum of contentment in his voice was unmistakable.

“The art of matchmaking.” Ysabeau’s laugh was crystalline. “How witty you are, Charles. Marcus has his heart set on buying Phoebe a special gift, something he remembers seeing long ago—a picture of a family tree.”

My eyes widened. “Psst!” I waved. “It’s not a family tree. It’s—”

Ysabeau’s hand made a dismissive gesture as the murmurs on the other end of the line turned eager.

“I believe Sylvia was able to track the item down to a recent sale. But of course she is too discreet to tell me who bought it.” Ysabeau nodded through the apologetic response for a few moments. Then the kitten pounced. “You will contact the owner for me, Charles. I cannot bear to see my grandson disappointed at such a happy time.”

Lord Sutton was reduced to utter silence.

“The de Clermonts are fortunate to have such a long and happy relationship with Sotheby’s.

Matthew’s tower would have collapsed under the weight of his books if not for meeting Samuel Baker.”

“Good Lord.” Phoebe’s jaw dropped.

“And you managed to clear out most of Matthew’s house in Amsterdam. I never liked that fellow or his pictures. You know the one I mean. What was his name? The one whose paintings all look unfinished?”

“Frans Hals,” Phoebe whispered, eyes round.

“Frans Hals.” Ysabeau nodded approvingly at her future daughter-in-law. “Now you and I must convince him to let go of the portrait of that gloomy minister he has hanging over the fireplace in the upstairs parlor.”

Phoebe squeaked. I suspected that a trip to Amsterdam would be included in one of her upcoming cataloging adventures.

Lord Sutton made some assurances, but Ysabeau was having none of it.

“I trust you completely, Charles,” she interrupted—though it was clear to everyone, Lord Sutton in particular, that she did not. “We can discuss this over coffee tomorrow.”

It was Lord Sutton’s turn to squeak. A rapid stream of explanations and justifications followed.

“You don’t need to come to France. I’m in London. Quite close to your offices on Bond Street, as a matter of fact.” Ysabeau tapped her cheek with her finger. “Eleven o’clock? Good. Give my regards to Henrietta. Until tomorrow.”

She hung up. “What?” she demanded, looking at Phoebe and me in turn.

“You just manhandled Lord Sutton!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I thought you said diplomacy was required.”

“Diplomacy, yes. Elaborate schemes, no. Simple is often best.” Ysabeau smiled her tiger smile.

“Charles owes Matthew a great deal. In time, Phoebe, you will have many creatures in your debt, too.

Then you will see how easy it is to achieve your desires.” Ysabeau eyed me sharply. “You look pale, Diana. Aren’t you happy that you will soon have all three missing pages from the Book of Life?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then what is the problem?” Ysabeau’s eyebrow lifted.

The problem? Once I had the three missing pages, there would be nothing standing between me and the need to steal a manuscript from the Bodleian Library. I was about to become a book thief.

“Nothing,” I said faintly.

Back at the desk in the aptly named Chinese Room, I looked again at Kircher’s engravings, trying not to think what might happen should Phoebe and Ysabeau find the last missing page. Unable to concentrate on my efforts to locate every engraving of a tree in Kircher’s substantial body of work, I rose and went to the window. The street below was quiet, with only the occasional parent leading a child down the sidewalk or a tourist holding a map.

Matthew could always jostle me out of my worries with a snatch of song, or a joke, or (even better) a kiss. Needing to feel closer to him, I prowled down the vacant second-floor hallway until I reached his study. My hand hovered over the knob. After a moment of indecision, I twisted it and went inside.

The aroma of cinnamon and cloves washed over me. Matthew could not have been here in the past twelve months, yet his absence had made me more sensitive to his scent.

Whichever decorator had designed my opulent bedchamber and the confection of a sitting room where I’d spent the morning had not been allowed in here. This room was masculine and unfussy, its walls lined with bookshelves and windows. Splendid globes—one celestial, the other terrestrial—sat in wooden stands, ready to be consulted should a question of astronomy or geography present itself. Natural curiosities were scattered here and there on small tables. I trod a clockwise path around the room as though weaving a spell to bring Matthew back, stopping occasionally to examine a book or to give the celestial globe a spin. The oddest chair I’d ever seen required a longer pause. Its high, deeply curved back had a leather-covered book stand mounted on it, and the seat was shaped rather like a saddle. The only way to occupy the chair would be to sit astride it, as Gallowglass did whenever he turned a chair at the dining-room table. Someone’s sitting astride the seat and facing the book stand would put the contraption at the perfect height for holding a book or some writing equipment. I tried out the theory by swinging my leg over the padded seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I imagined Matthew sitting here, reading for hours in the ample light from the windows.

I dismounted the chair and turned. What I saw hanging over the fireplace made me gasp: a life-size double portrait of Philippe and Ysabeau.

Matthew’s mother and father wore splendid clothes from the middle of the eighteenth century, that happy period of fashion when women’s gowns did not yet resemble birdcages and men had abandoned the long curls and high heels of the previous century. My fingers itched to touch the surface of the painting, convinced that they would be met with silks and lace rather than canvas.

What was most striking about the portrait was not the vividness of their features (though it would be impossible not to recognize Ysabeau) but the way the artist had captured the relationship between Philippe and his wife.

Philippe de Clermont faced the viewer in a splendid cream-and-blue silk suit, his broad shoulders square to the canvas and his right hand extended toward Ysabeau as if he were about to introduce her. A smile played at his lips, the hint of softness accentuating the stern lines of his face and the long sword that hung from his belt. Philippe’s eyes, however, did not meet mine as his position suggested they should. Instead they were directed in a sidelong glance at Ysabeau. Nothing, it seemed, could drag his attention away from the woman he loved. Ysabeau was painted in three-quarter profile, one hand resting lightly in her husband’s fingers and the other holding up the folds of her cream-and-gold silk dress as though she were stepping forward to be closer to Philippe. Instead of looking up at her husband, however, Ysabeau stared boldly at the viewer, her lips parted as if surprised to be interrupted in such a private moment.

I heard footsteps behind me and felt the tingling touch of a witch’s glance.

“Is that Matthew’s father?” Sarah asked, standing at my shoulder and looking up at the grand canvas.

“Yes. It’s an amazing likeness,” I said with a nod.

“I figured as much, given how perfectly the artist captured Ysabeau.” Sarah’s attention turned to me. “You don’t look well, Diana.”

“That’s not surprising, is it?” I said. “Matthew is out there somewhere, trying to stitch together a family. It may get him killed, and I asked him do it.”

“Not even you could make Matthew do something he didn’t want to do,” Sarah said bluntly.

“You don’t know what happened in New Haven, Sarah. Matthew discovered he had a grandson he didn’t know about—Benjamin’s son—and a great-grandson, too.”

“Fernando told me all about Andrew Hubbard, and Jack, and the blood rage,” Sarah replied. “He told me that Baldwin ordered Matthew to kill the boy, too—but you wouldn’t let him do it.”

I looked up at Philippe, wishing that I understood why he had appointed Matthew the official de Clermont family executioner. “Jack was like a child to us, Sarah. And if Matthew killed Jack, what would stop him from killing the twins if they, too, turn out to have blood rage?”

“Not even Baldwin would ask Matthew to kill his own flesh and blood,” Sarah said.

“Yes,” I said sadly. “He would.”

“Then it sounds as though Matthew is doing what he has to do,” she said firmly. “You need to do your job, too.”

“I am,” I said, sounding defensive. “My job is to find the missing pages from the Book of Life and then put it back together so that we can use it as leverage—with Baldwin, with Benjamin, even the Congregation.”

“You have to take care of the twins, too,” Sarah pointed out. “Mooning around up here on your own isn’t going to do you—or them—any good.”

“Don’t you dare play the baby card with me,” I said, coldly furious. “I’m trying very hard not to hate my own children—not to mention Jack—right now.” It wasn’t fair, nor was it logical, but I was blaming them for our separation, even though I had been the one to insist upon it.

“I hated you for a while.” Sarah’s tone was matter-of-fact. “If not for you, Rebecca would still be alive. Or so I told myself.”

Her words came as no surprise. Children always know what grown-ups are thinking. Em had never made me feel that it was my fault that my parents were dead. Of course, she’d known what they were planning—and why. But Sarah was a different story.

“Then I got over it,” Sarah continued quietly. “You will, too. One day you’ll see the twins and you’ll realize that Matthew is right there, staring out at you from an eight-year-old’s eyes.”

“My life doesn’t make sense without Matthew,” I said. “Losing him isn’t the same as losing a sister.”

“He can’t be your whole world, Diana.”

“He already is,” I whispered. “And if he succeeds in breaking free of the de Clermonts, he’s going to need me to be at his side like Ysabeau was for Philippe. I’ll never be able to fill her shoes.”

“Bullshit.” Sarah jammed her hands onto her hips. “And if you think Matthew wants you to be like his mother, you’re crazy.”

“You have a lot to learn about vampires.” Somehow the line didn’t sound as convincing when a witch delivered it.

“Oh. Now I see the problem.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Em said you’d come back to us different— whole. But you’re still trying to be something you’re not.” She pointed an accusatory finger at me.

“You’ve gone all vampire again.”

“Stop it, Sarah.”

“If Matthew had wanted a vampire bride, he could have his pick. Hell, he could have turned you into a vampire last October in Madison,” she said. “You’d willingly given him most of your blood.”

“Matthew wouldn’t change me,” I said.

“I know. He promised me as much the morning before you left.” Sarah looked daggers at me.

“Matthew doesn’t mind that you’re a witch. Why do you?” When I didn’t reply, she grabbed my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked as my aunt dragged me down the stairs.

“Out.” Sarah stopped in front of the gaggle of vampires standing in the front hall. “Diana needs to remember who she is. You’re coming, too, Gallowglass.”

“Ooo-kaaay,” Gallowglass said uneasily, drawing out the two syllables. “Are we going far?”

“How the hell do I know?” Sarah retorted. “This is my first time in London. We’re going to Diana’s old house—the one she and Matthew shared in 1590.”

“My house is gone—it burned down in the Great Fire,” I said, trying to escape.

“We’re going anyway.”

“Oh, Christ.” Gallowglass threw a set of car keys at Leonard. “Get the car, Lenny. We’re going for a Sunday drive.”

Leonard grinned. “Right.”

“Who is that?” Sarah said, watching as the gangly vampire bolted toward the back of the house.

“He belongs to Andrew,” I explained.

“In other words he belongs to you,” she said with a nod. My jaw dropped. “Oh, yes. I know all about vampires and their crazy ways.” Apparently, Fernando didn’t have the same reluctance as Matthew and Ysabeau did to tell vampire tales.

Leonard pulled up to the front door with a squeal of tires. He was out of the car and had the rear door opened in a blink. “Where to, madame?”

I did a double take. It was the first time Leonard hadn’t stumbled over my name. “Diana’s house, Lenny,” Sarah answered. “Her real house, not this overdecorated dust-bunny sanctuary.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not there anymore, miss,” Leonard said, as though the Great Fire of London had been his fault. Knowing Leonard, this was entirely possible.

“Don’t vampires have any imagination?” Sarah asked tartly. “Take me where the house used to be.”

“Oh.” Leonard looked at Gallowglass, wide-eyed.

Gallowglass shrugged. “You heard the lady,” my nephew said.

We rocketed across London, heading east. When we passed Temple Bar and moved onto Fleet Street, Leonard turned south toward the river.

“This isn’t the way,” I said.

“One-way streets, madame,” he said. “Things have changed a bit since you were last here.” He made a sharp left in front of the Blackfriars Station. I put my hand on the door handle to get out and heard a click as the childproof locks engaged.

“Stay in the car, Auntie,” Gallowglass said.

Leonard jerked the steering wheel to the left once more, and we jostled over pavement and rough road surfaces.

“Blackfriars Lane,” I said reading the sign that zipped past. I jiggled the door handle. “Let me out.”

The car stopped abruptly across the entrance to a loading dock.

“Your house, madame,” Leonard said, sounding like a tour guide and waving at the red-and-cream brick office building that loomed above us. He released the door locks. “It’s safe to walk about. Please mind the uneven pavement. Don’t want to have to explain to Father H how you broke your leg, do I?”

I stepped out onto the stone sidewalk. It was firmer footing than the usual mud and muck of Water Lane, as we’d called the street in 1590. Automatically I headed in the general direction of St. Paul’s Cathedral. I felt a hand on my elbow, holding me back.

“You know how Uncle feels about you wandering around town unaccompanied.” Gallowglass bowed, and for a moment I saw him in doublet and hose. “At your service, Madame Roydon.”

“Where exactly are we?” Sarah asked, scanning the nearby alleys. “This doesn’t look like a residential area.”

“The Blackfriars. Once upon a time, hundreds of people lived here.” It took me only a few steps to reach a narrow cobbled street that used to lead to the inner precincts of the old Blackfriars Priory. I frowned and pointed. “Wasn’t the Cardinal’s Hat in there?” It was one of Kit Marlowe’s watering holes.

“Good memory, Auntie. They call it Playhouse Yard now.”

Our house had backed up to that part of the former monastery. Gallowglass and Sarah followed me into the cul-de-sac. Once it had been filled to bursting with merchants, craftsmen, housewives, apprentices, and children—not to mention carts, dogs, and chickens. Today it was deserted.

“Slow down,” Sarah said peevishly, struggling to keep up.

It didn’t matter how much the old neighborhood had changed. My heart had provided the necessary directions, and my feet followed, swift and sure. In 1591 I would have been surrounded by the ramshackle tenement and entertainment complex that had sprung up within the former priory. Now there were office buildings, a small residence serving well-heeled business executives, more office buildings, and the headquarters of London’s apothecaries. I crossed Playhouse Yard and slipped between two buildings.

“Where is she going now?” Sarah asked Gallowglass, her irritation mounting.

“Unless I miss my guess, Auntie’s looking for the back way to Baynard’s Castle.”

At the foot of a narrow thoroughfare called Church Entry, I stopped to get my bearings. If only I could orient myself properly, I could find my way to Mary’s house. Where had the Fields’ printing shop been? I shut my eyes to avoid the distraction of the incongruous modern buildings.

“Just there,” I pointed. “That’s where the Fields’ shop was. The apothecary lived a few houses along the lane. This way led down to the docks.” I kept turning, my arms, tracing the line of buildings I saw in my mind. “The door to Monsieur Vallin’s silver shop stood here. You could see our back garden from this spot. And here was the old gate that I took to get to Baynard’s Castle.” I stood for a moment, soaking in the familiar feeling of my former home and wishing I could open my eyes and find myself in the Countess of Pembroke’s solar. Mary would have understood my current predicament perfectly and been generous with her expertise on matters dynastic and political.

“Holy shit,” Sarah gasped.

My eyes flew open. A transparent wooden door was a few yards away, set into a crumbling, equally transparent stone wall. Mesmerized, I tried to take a step toward it but was prevented from doing so by the blue and amber threads that swirled tightly around my legs.

“Don’t move!” Sarah sounded panicked.

“Why?” I could see her through a scrim of Elizabethan shop fronts.

“You’ve cast a counterclock. It rewinds images from past times, like a movie,” Sarah said, peering at me through the windows of Master Prior’s pastry shop.

“Magic,” Gallowglass moaned. “Just what we need.”

An elderly woman in a neat navy blue cardigan and a pale blue shirtwaist dress who was very much of the here and now came out of the nearby apartment building.

“You’ll find this part of London can be a bit tricky, magically speaking,” she called out in that authoritative, cheerful tone that only British women of a certain age and social status could produce.

“You’ll want to take some precautions if you plan on doing any more spell casting.”

As the woman approached, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu. She reminded me of one of the witches I’d known in 1591—an earthwitch called Marjorie Cooper, who had helped me to weave my first spell.

“I’m Linda Crosby.” She smiled, and the resemblance to Marjorie became more pronounced.

“Welcome home, Diana Bishop. We’ve been expecting you.”

I stared at her, dumfounded.

“I’m Diana’s aunt,” Sarah said, wading into the silence. “Sarah Bishop.”

“Pleasure,” Linda said warmly, shaking Sarah’s hand. Both witches stared down at my feet. During our brief introductions, time’s blue and amber bindings had loosened somewhat, fading away one by one as they were absorbed back into the fabric of the Blackfriars. Monsieur Vallin’s front door was still all too evident, however.

“I’d give it a few more minutes. You are a timewalker, after all,” Linda said, perching on one of the curved benches that surrounded a circular brick planter. It occupied the same spot as had the wellhead in the Cardinal’s Hat yard.

“Are you one of Hubbard’s family?” Sarah asked, reaching into her pocket. Out came her forbidden cigarettes. She offered one to Linda.

“I’m a witch,” Linda said, taking the cigarette. “And I live in the City of London. So, yes—I am a member of Father Hubbard’s family. Proudly so.”

Gallowglass lit the witches’ cigarettes and then his own. The three puffed away like chimneys, careful to direct the smoke so it didn’t waft toward me.

“I haven’t met Hubbard yet,” Sarah confessed. “Most of the vampires I know don’t think much of him.”

“Really?” Linda asked with interest. “How very odd. Father Hubbard is a beloved figure here. He protects everybody’s interests, be they daemon, vampire, or witch. So many creatures have wanted to move into his territory that it’s led to a housing crisis. He can’t buy property fast enough to satisfy the demand.”

“He’s still a wanker,” Gallowglass muttered.

“Language!” Linda said, shocked.

“How many witches are there in the city?” Sarah asked.

“Three dozen,” Linda responded. “We limit the numbers, of course, or it would be madness in the Square Mile.”

“The Madison coven is the same size,” Sarah said approvingly. “Makes it easier to hold the meetings, that’s for sure.”

“We gather once a month in Father Hubbard’s crypt. He lives in what’s left of the Greyfriars Priory, just over there.” Linda aimed her cigarette at a point north of Playhouse Yard. “These days most of the creatures in the City proper are vampires—financiers and hedge-fund managers and such. They don’t like to hire out their meeting rooms to witches. No offense, sir.”

“None taken,” Gallowglass said mildly.

“The Greyfriars? Has Lady Agnes moved on?” I asked, surprised. The ghost’s antics had been the talk of the town when I lived here.

“Oh, no. Lady Agnes is still there. With Father Hubbard’s help, we were able to broker an agreement between her and Queen Isabella. They seem to be on friendly terms now—which is more than I can say for the ghost of Elizabeth Barton. Ever since that novel about Cromwell came out, she’s been impossible.” Linda eyed my belly speculatively. “At our Mabon tea this year, Elizabeth Barton said you’re having twins.”

“I am.” Even the ghosts of London knew my business.

“It’s so difficult to tell which of Elizabeth’s prophecies are to be taken seriously when every one of them is accompanied by shrieking. It’s all so . . . vulgar.” Linda pursed her lips in disapproval, and Sarah nodded sympathetically.

“Um, I hate to break this up, but I think my spell for the counterclock thingy expired.” Not only could I see my own ankle (provided I lifted my leg up—otherwise the babies were in the way), but Monsieur Vallin’s door had utterly vanished.

“Expired?” Linda laughed. “You make it sound as though your magic has a sell-by date.”

“I certainly didn’t tell it to stop,” I grumbled. Then again, I had never told it to start either.

“It stopped because you didn’t wind it up tight enough,” Sarah said. “If you don’t give a counterclock a good crank, it runs down.”

“And we do recommend that you not stand on top of the counterclock once you cast it,” Linda said, sounding a bit like my middle-school gym teacher. “You want to address the spell without blinking, then step away from it at the last minute.”

“My mistake,” I murmured. “Can I move now?”

Linda surveyed Playhouse Yard with a crinkled brow. “Yes, I do believe it’s perfectly safe now,”

she proclaimed.

I groaned and rubbed at my back. Standing still for so long had made it ache, and my feet felt like they were going to explode. I propped one of them upon the bench where Sarah and Linda were sitting and bent to loosen the ties on my sneakers.

“What’s that?” I said, peering through the bench’s slats. I reached down and retrieved a scroll of paper tied up with a red ribbon. The fingers on my right hand tingled when I touched it, and the pentacle at my wrist swirled with color.

“It’s tradition for people to leave requests for magic in the yard. There’s always been a concentration of power associated with this spot.” Linda’s voice softened. “A great witch lived here once, you see. Legend says she’ll return one day, to remind us of all we once were and could be again.

We haven’t forgotten her and trust that she will not forget us.”

The Blackfriars was haunted by my past self. Part of me had died when we left London. It was the part that had once been able to juggle being Matthew’s wife, Annie and Jack’s mother, Mary Sidney’s alchemical assistant, and a weaver-in-training. And another part of me had joined it in the grave when I walked away from Matthew on the mountain outside New Haven. I buried my head in my hands.

“I’ve made a mess of things,” I whispered.

“No, you dove into the deep end and got in over your head,” Sarah replied. “This is what Em and I worried about when you and Matthew first got involved. You both moved so fast, and we knew that neither of you had thought about what this relationship was going to require.”

“We knew we would face plenty of opposition.”

“Oh, you two had the star-crossed-lovers part down—and I understand how romantic it can be to feel it’s just the two of you against the world.” Sarah chuckled. “Em and I were star-crossed lovers, after all. In upstate New York in the 1970s, nothing was more star-crossed than two women falling in love.”

Her tone grew serious. “But the sun always rises the next morning. Fairy tales don’t tell you much about what happens to star-crossed lovers in the bright light of day, but somehow you have to figure out how to be happy.”

“We were happy here,” I said quietly. “Weren’t we, Gallowglass?”

“Aye, Auntie, you were—even with Matthew’s spymaster breathing down his neck and the whole country on the lookout for witches.” Gallowglass shook his head. “How you managed it, I’ve never understood.”

“You managed it because neither of you were trying to be something you weren’t. Matthew wasn’t trying to be civilized, and you weren’t trying to be human,” Sarah said. “You weren’t trying to be Rebecca’s perfect daughter, or Matthew’s perfect wife, or a tenured professor at Yale either.”

She took my hands in hers, scroll and all, and turned them so the palms faced up. My weaver’s cords stood out bright against the pale flesh.

“You’re a witch, Diana. A weaver. Don’t deny your power. Use it.” Sarah looked pointedly at my left hand. “All of it.”

My phone pinged in the pocket of my jacket. I scrambled for it, hoping against hope it was a kind of message from Matthew. He’d promised to let me know how he was doing. The display indicated there was a text waiting from him. I opened it eagerly.

The message contained no words that the Congregation could use against us, only a picture of Jack.

He was sitting on a porch, his face split into a wide grin as he listened to someone—a man, though his back was to the camera and I could see nothing more than the black hair curling around his collar—tell a story as only a southerner could. Marcus stood behind Jack, one hand draped casually over his shoulder.

Like Jack, he was grinning.

They looked like two ordinary young men enjoying a laugh over the weekend. Jack fit perfectly into Marcus’s family, as though he belonged.

“Who’s that with Marcus?” Sarah said, looking over my shoulder.

“Jack.” I touched his face. “I’m not sure who the other man is.”

“That’s Ransome.” Gallowglass sniffed. “Marcus’s eldest, and he puts Lucifer to shame. Not the best role model for young Jack, but I reckon Matthew knows best.”

“Look at the lad,” Linda said fondly, standing so she could get a look at the picture, too. “I’ve never seen Jack look so happy—except when he was telling stories about Diana, of course.”

St. Paul’s bells rang the hour. I pushed the button on my phone, dimming the display. I would look at the picture again later, in private.

“See, honey. Matthew is doing just fine,” Sarah said, her voice soothing.

But without seeing his eyes, gauging the set of his shoulders, hearing the tone of his voice, I couldn’t be sure.

“Matthew’s doing his job,” I reminded myself, standing up. “I need to get back to mine.”

“Does that mean you’re ready to do whatever it takes to keep your family together like you did in 1591—even if higher magics are involved?” Sarah’s eyebrow shot up in open query.

“Yes.” I sounded more convinced than I felt.

“Higher magics? How deliciously dark.” Linda beamed. “Can I help?”

“No,” I said quickly.

“Possibly,” Sarah said at the same time.

“Well, if you need us, give a ring. Leonard knows how to reach me,” Linda said. “The London coven is at your disposal. And if you were to come to one of our meetings, it would be quite a boost to morale.”

“We’ll see,” I said vaguely, not wanting to make a promise I couldn’t keep. “The situation is complicated, and I wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

“Vampires are always trouble,” Linda said with a primly disapproving look, “holding grudges and going off half-cocked on some vendetta or other. It’s really very trying. Still, we are all one big family, as Father Hubbard reminds us.”

“One big family.” I looked at our old neighborhood. “Maybe Father Hubbard was on the right track all along.”

“Well, we think so. Do consider coming to our next meeting. Doris makes a divine Battenberg cake.”

Sarah and Linda swapped telephone numbers just in case, and Gallowglass went to Apothecaries’ Hall and let out an earsplitting whistle to call Leonard around with the car. I took the opportunity to snap a picture of Playhouse Yard and sent it to Matthew without a comment or a caption.

Magic was nothing more desire made real, after all.

The October breeze came off the Thames and carried my unspoken wishes into the sky, where they wove a spell to bring Matthew back to me.

26

A slice of Battenberg cake with a moist pink-and-yellow checkerboard interior and canary-colored icing sat before me at our secluded table at the Wolseley, along with still more contraband black tea. I lifted the lid on the teapot and drank in its malty aroma, sighing happily. I’d been craving tea and cake ever since our unexpected meeting with Linda Crosby at the Blackfriars.

Hamish, who was a breakfast regular there, had commandeered a large table at the bustling Piccadilly restaurant for the entire morning and proceeded to treat the space—and the staff—as though they were his office. Thus far he’d taken a dozen phone calls, made several lunch engagements (three of them for the same day next week, I noted with alarm), and read every London daily in its entirety. He had also, bless him, wheedled my cake out of the pastry chef hours before it was normally served, citing my condition as justification. The speed with which the request was met was either an additional indication of Hamish’s importance or a sign that the young man who wielded the whisks and rolling pins understood the special relationship between pregnant women and sugar.

“This is taking forever,” Sarah grumbled. She’d bolted down a soft-boiled egg with toast batons, consumed an ocean of black coffee, and had been dividing her attention between her wristwatch and the door ever since.

“When it comes to extortion, Granny doesn’t like to rush.” Gallowglass smiled affably at the ladies at a nearby table, who were casting admiring glances at his muscular, tattooed arms.

“If they don’t arrive soon, I’ll be walking back to Westminster under my own steam thanks to all the caffeine.” Hamish waved down the manager. “Another cappuccino, Adam. Better make it a decaf.”

“Of course, sir. More toast and jam?”

“Please,” Hamish said, handing Adam the empty toast rack. “Strawberry. You know I can’t resist the strawberry.”

“And why is it again that we couldn’t wait for Granny and Phoebe at the house?” Gallowglass shifted nervously on his tiny seat. The chair was not designed for a man of his size, but rather for MPs, socialites, morning-television personalities, and other such insubstantial persons.

“Diana’s neighbors are wealthy and paranoid. There hasn’t been any activity at the house for nearly a year. Suddenly there are people around at all hours and Allens of Mayfair is making daily deliveries.”

Hamish made room on the table for his fresh cappuccino. “We don’t want them thinking you’re an international drug cartel and calling the police. West End Central station is full of witches, especially the CID. And don’t forget: You’re not under Hubbard’s protection outside the City limits.”

“Hmph. You’re not worried about the coppers. You just didn’t want to miss anything.” Gallowglass wagged a finger at him. “I’m onto you, Hamish.”

“Here’s Fernando,” Sarah said in a tone suggesting that deliverance had come at last.

Fernando tried to hold open the door for Ysabeau, but Adam beat him to it. My mother-in-law looked like a youthful film star, and every male head in the room turned as she entered with Phoebe in her wake. Fernando hung back, his dark suit the perfect backdrop for Ysabeau’s off-white and taupe ensemble.

“No wonder Ysabeau prefers to stay at home,” I said. She stood out like a beacon on a foggy day.

“Philippe always said it was easier to withstand a siege than to cross a room at Ysabeau’s side. He had to fend off her admirers with more than a stick, I can tell you.” Gallowglass rose as his grandmother approached. “Hello, Granny. Did they give in to your demands?”

Ysabeau offered her cheek to be kissed. “Of course.”

“In part,” Phoebe said hastily.

“Was there trouble?” Gallowglass asked Fernando.

“None worth mentioning.” Fernando pulled out a chair. Ysabeau slid onto it gracefully, crossing her slim ankles.

“Charles was most accommodating when you consider how many company policies I expected him to violate,” she said, refusing the menu Adam offered her with a little moue of distaste. “Champagne, please.”

“The hideous painting you took off his hands will more than compensate for it,” Fernando said, installing Phoebe into her place at the table. “Whatever made you buy it, Ysabeau?”

“It is not hideous, though abstract expressionism is an acquired taste,” she admitted. “The painting is raw, mysterious—sensual. I will give it to the Louvre and force Parisians to expand their minds. Mark my words: This time next year, Clyfford Still will be at the top of every museum’s wish list.”

“Expect a call from Coutts,” Phoebe murmured to Hamish. “She wouldn’t haggle.”

“There is no need to worry. Both Sotheby’s and Coutts know I am good for it.” Ysabeau extracted a slip of paper from her sleek leather bag and extended it to me. “Voilà.”

“T. J. Weston, Esquire.” I looked up from the slip. “This is who bought the page from Ashmole 782?”

“Possibly.” Phoebe’s reply was terse. “The file contained nothing but a sales slip—he paid cash— and six pieces of misdirected correspondence. Not a single address we have for Weston is valid.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard to locate him. How many T. J. Westons can there be?” I wondered.

“More than three hundred,” Phoebe replied. “I checked the national directory. And don’t assume that T. J. Weston is a man. We don’t know the buyer’s sex or nationality. One of the addresses is in Denmark.”

“Do not be so negative, Phoebe. We will make calls. Use Hamish’s connections. And Leonard is outside. He will drive us where we need to go.” Ysabeau looked unconcerned.

“My connections?” Hamish buried his head in his hands and groaned. “This could take weeks. I might as well live at the Wolseley, given all the coffees I’m going to have with people.”

“It won’t take weeks, and you don’t need to worry about your caffeine intake.” I put the paper in my pocket, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, and hoisted myself to my feet, almost upsetting the table in the process.

“Lord bless us, Auntie. You get bigger by the hour.”

“Thank you for noticing, Gallowglass.” I’d managed to wedge myself between a coatrack, the wall, and my chair. He leaped up to extricate me.

“How can you be so sure?” Sarah asked me, looking as doubtful as Phoebe.

Wordlessly I held up my hands. They were multicolored and shining.

“Ah. Let us get Diana home,” Ysabeau said. “I do not think the proprietor would appreciate having a dragon in his restaurant any more than I did having one in my house.”

“Put your hands in your pockets,” Sarah hissed. They really were rather bright.

I was not yet at the waddling stage of pregnancy, but it was still a challenge to make my way through the close tables, especially with my hands jammed into my raincoat.

“Please clear the way for my daughter-in-law,” Ysabeau said imperiously, taking my elbow and tugging me along. Men stood, pulled their chairs in, and fawned as she passed.

“My husband’s stepmother,” I whispered to one outraged woman who was gripping her fork like a weapon. She was appropriately disturbed by the notion that I had married a boy of twelve and gotten pregnant by him, for Ysabeau was far too young to have children older than that. “Second marriage.

Younger wife. You know how it is.”

“So much for blending in,” Hamish muttered. “Every creature in W1 will know that Ysabeau de Clermont is in town after this. Can’t you control her, Gallowglass?”

“Control Granny?” Gallowglass roared with laughter and slapped Hamish on the back.

“This is a nightmare,” Hamish said as more heads turned. He reached the front door. “See you tomorrow, Adam.”

“Your usual table for one, sir?” Adam asked, offering Hamish his umbrella.

“Yes. Thank God.” Hamish stepped into a waiting car and headed back to his office in the City. Leonard tucked me into the rear of the Mercedes with Phoebe, and Ysabeau and Fernando took the passenger seat.

Gallowglass lit a cigarette and ambled along the sidewalk, emitting more smoke than a Mississippi steamboat. We lost sight of him outside the Coach and Horses, where Gallowglass indicated through a series of silent gestures that he was going in for a drink.

“Coward,” Fernando said, shaking his head.

“Now what?” Sarah asked after we were back at Clairmont House in the cozy morning room. Though the front parlor was comfortable and welcoming, this snug spot was my favorite room in the house. It contained a ragtag assemblage of furniture, including a stool that I was certain had been in our house in the Blackfriars, which made the room feel as if it had been lived in rather than decorated.

“Now we find T. J. Weston, Esquire, whoever she or he may be.” I propped up my feet on the age blackened Elizabethan stool with a groan, letting the warmth from the crackling fire seep into my aching bones.

“It will be like finding a needle in a haystack,” Phoebe said, allowing herself the small discourtesy of a sigh.

“Not if Diana uses her magic it won’t,” Sarah said confidently.

“Magic?” Ysabeau’s head swung around, and her eyes sparkled.

“I thought you didn’t approve of witches?” My mother-in-law had made her feelings on this matter known from the very beginning of my relationship with Matthew.

“Ysabeau might not like witches, but she’s got nothing except admiration for magic,” Fernando said.

“You draw a mighty fine line, Ysabeau,” Sarah said with a grimace.

“What kind of magic?” Gallowglass had returned, unnoticed, and was standing in the hall shaking the moisture off his coat. He rather resembled Lobero after a long run in the emperor’s Stag Moat. “A candle spell can work when you’re searching for a lost object,” Sarah said thoughtfully. She was something of an expert on candle spells, since Em had been famous for leaving her things all around the house—and Madison.

“I remember a witch who used some earth and a knotted piece of linen,” Ysabeau said. Sarah and I turned to her, mouths open in astonishment. She drew herself straight and regarded us with hauteur.

“You need not look so surprised. I have known a great many witches over the years.”

Fernando ignored Ysabeau and spoke to Phoebe instead. “You said one of the addresses for T. J.

Weston was in Denmark. What about the others?”

“All from the UK: four in England and one in Northern Ireland,” Phoebe said. “In England the addresses were all in the south—Devon, Cornwall, Essex, Wiltshire.”

“Do you really need to meddle with magic, Auntie?” Gallowglass looked concerned. “Surely there’s a way for Nathaniel to use his computers and find this person. Did you write the addresses down, Phoebe?”

“Of course.” She produced a crumpled Boots receipt covered with handwriting. Gallowglass looked at it dubiously. “I couldn’t very well take a notebook into the file room. It would have been suspicious.”

“Very clever,” Ysabeau assured her. “I’ll send the addresses on to Nathaniel so he can get to work on them.”

“I still think magic would be faster—so long as I can figure out what spell to use,” I said. “I’ll need something visual. I’m better with visuals than with candles.”

“What about a map?” Gallowglass suggested. “Matthew must have a map or two in his library upstairs. If not, I could go around to Hatchards and see what they’ve got.” He had only just returned, but Gallowglass was clearly eager to be outdoors in the frigid downpour. It was, I supposed, as close to the weather in the middle of the Atlantic as he was likely to find.

“A map might work—if it were big enough,” I said. “We’ll be no better off if the spell is only able to pinpoint that T. J. Weston’s location is in Wiltshire.” I wondered if it would be possible for Leonard to drive me around the county with a box of candles.

“There’s a lovely map shop just by Shoreditch,” Leonard said proudly, as though he were personally responsible for its location. “They make big maps what hang on walls. I’ll give them a ring.”

“What will you need besides the map?” Sarah asked. “A compass?”

“It’s too bad I don’t have the mathematical instrument Emperor Rudolf gave me,” I said. “It was always whirring around as though it were trying to find something.” At first I’d thought its movements indicated that somebody was searching for Matthew and me. Over time I’d wondered if the compendium swung into action whenever someone was searching for the Book of Life.

Phoebe and Ysabeau exchanged a look.

“Excuse me.” Phoebe slipped out of the room.

“That brass gadget that Annie and Jack called a witch’s clock?” Gallowglass chuckled. “I doubt that would be much help, Auntie. It couldn’t even keep proper time, and Master Habermel’s latitude charts were a bit . . . er, fanciful.” Habermel had been utterly defeated by my request to include a reference to the New World and had simply picked a coordinate that for all I knew would have put me in Tierra del Fuego.

“Divination is the way to go,” Sarah said. “We’ll put candles on the four cardinal points of north, east, south, and west, then sit you in the center with a bowl of water and see what develops.”

“If I’m going to divine by water, I’ll need more space than this.” The breakfast room would fill up with witchwater at an alarming speed.

“We could use the garden,” Ysabeau suggested. “Or the ballroom upstairs. I never did think the Trojan War was a suitable subject for the frescoes, so it would be no great loss if they were damaged.”

“We might want to tune up your third eye before you start, too,” Sarah said, looking critically at my forehead as though it were a radio.

Phoebe returned with a small box. She handed it to Ysabeau. “Perhaps we should see if this can help first.” Ysabeau drew Master Habermel’s compendium from the cardboard container. “Alain packed up some of your things from Sept-Tours. He thought they would make you feel more at home here.”

The compendium was a beautiful instrument, expertly fashioned from brass, gilded and silvered to make it shine, and loaded with everything from a storage slot for paper and pencil to a compass, latitude tables, and a small clock. At the moment the instrument appeared to be going haywire, for the dials on the face of the compendium were spinning around. We could hear the steady whir of the gears.

Sarah peered at the instrument. “Definitely enchanted.”

“It’s going to wear itself out.” Gallowglass extended a thick finger, ready to give the hands on the clock a poke to slow them down.

“No touching,” Sarah said sharply. “You can never anticipate how a bewitched object will respond to unwanted interference.”

“Did you ever put it near the picture of the chemical wedding, Auntie?” Gallowglass asked. “If you’re right, and Master Habermel’s toy acts up when someone is looking for the Book of Life, then maybe seeing the page will quiet it.”

“Good idea. The picture of the chemical wedding is in the Chinese Room along with the picture of the dragons.” I lumbered to my feet. “I left them on the card table.”

Ysabeau was gone before I could straighten up. She was back quickly, holding the two pages as though they were glass and might shatter at any moment. The moment I laid them on the table, the hand on the compendium dial began to swing slowly from left to right instead of revolving around its central pin. When I picked the pages up, the compendium began to spin again—though slower than it had before.

“I do not think the compendium registers when someone is looking for the Book of Life,” Fernando said. “The instrument itself seems to be searching for the book. Now that it senses some of the pages are nearby, it is narrowing its focus.”

“How strange.” I put the pages back on the table and watched in fascination as the hand slowed and resumed its pendulum swing.

“Can you use it to find the last missing page?” Ysabeau said, staring at the compendium with equal fascination.

“Only if I drive all over England, Wales, and Scotland with it.” I wondered how long it would take me to damage the delicate, priceless instrument, holding it on my lap while Gallowglass or Leonard sped up the M40.

“Or you could devise a locator spell. With a map and that contraption, you might be able to triangulate the missing page’s position,” Sarah said thoughtfully, tapping her lips with her finger.

“What kind of locator spell do you have in mind?” This went well beyond bell, book, and candle or writing a charm on a moonwort pod.

“We’d have to try a few and see—test them to figure out which is best,” Sarah mused. “Then you’d need to perform it under the right conditions, with plenty of magical support so the spell doesn’t get bent out of shape.”

“Where are you going to find magical support in Mayfair?” Fernando asked.

“Linda Crosby,” my aunt and I said at the same time.

Sarah and I spent more than a week testing and retesting spells in the basement of the house in Mayfair as well as the tiny kitchen of Linda’s flat in the Blackfriars. After nearly drowning Tabitha and having the fire brigade show up twice in Playhouse Yard, I had finally managed to cobble together some knots and a handful of magically significant items into a locator spell that might—just might—work.

The London coven met in a portion of the medieval Greyfriars crypt that had survived a series of disasters over its long history, from the dissolution of the monasteries to the Blitz. Atop the crypt stood Andrew Hubbard’s house: the church’s former bell tower. It was twelve stories tall and had only one large room on each of its floors. Outside the tower he had planted a pleasant garden in the one corner of the old churchyard that had resisted urban renewal.

“What a strange house,” Ysabeau murmured.

“Andrew is a very strange vampire,” I replied with a shiver.

“Father H likes lofty spaces, that’s all. He says they make him feel closer to God.” Leonard rapped on the door again.

“I just felt a ghost go by,” Sarah said, drawing her coat more closely around her. There was no mistaking the cold sensation.

“I don’t feel anything,” Leonard said with a vampire’s cavalier disregard for something as corporeal as warmth. His rapping turned to pounding. “Come on, sunshine!”

“Patience, Leonard. We are not all twenty-year-old vampires!” Linda Crosby said crossly once she’d wrestled the door open. “There are a prodigious number of stairs to climb.”

Happily, we had only to descend one floor from the main entrance level to reach the room that Hubbard had set aside for the use of the City of London’s official coven.

“Welcome to our gathering!” Linda said as she led us down the staircase.

Halfway down, I stopped with a gasp.

“Is that . . . you?” Sarah stared at the walls in amazement.

The walls were covered with images of me—weaving my first spell, calling forth a rowan tree, watching Corra as she flew along the Thames, standing beside the witches who had taken me under their wing when I was first learning about my magic. There was Goody Alsop, the coven’s elder, with her fine features and stooped shoulders; the midwife Susanna Norman; and the three remaining witches Catherine Streeter, Elizabeth Jackson, and Marjorie Cooper.

As for the artist, that was clear without a signature. Jack had painted these images, smearing the walls with wet plaster and adding the lines and color so that they became a permanent part of the building. Smoke-stained, mottled with damp, and cracked with age, they had somehow retained their beauty. “We are fortunate to have such a room to work in,” Linda said, beaming “Your journey has long been a source of inspiration for London’s witches. Come and meet your sisters.”

The three witches waiting at the bottom of the stairs studied me with interest, their glances snapping and crackling against my skin. They might not have the power of the Garlickhythe gathering in 1591, but these witches were not devoid of talent.

“Here is our Diana Bishop, come back to us once more,” Linda said. “She has brought her aunt with her, Sarah Bishop, and her mother-in-law, who I trust needs no introduction.”

“None at all,” said the most elderly of the four witches. “We’ve all heard cautionary tales about Mélisande de Clermont.”

Linda had warned me the coven had some doubts about tonight’s proceedings. She had handpicked the witches who would help us: firewitch Sybil Bonewits, waterwitch Tamsin Soothtell, and windwitch Cassandra Kyteler. Linda’s powers relied heavily on the element of earth. So, too, did Sarah’s.

“Times change,” Ysabeau said crisply. “If you would like me to leave . . .”

“Nonsense.” Linda shot a warning glance at her fellow witch. “Diana asked for you to be here when she cast her spell. We will all muddle through somehow. Won’t we, Cassandra?”

The elderly witch gave a curt nod.

“Make way for the maps if you please, ladies!” Leonard said, his arms full of tubes. He dumped them on a rickety table encrusted with wax and beat a fast retreat up the stairs. “Call me if you need anything.” The door to the crypt slammed shut behind him.

Linda directed the placement of the maps, for after much fiddling we had found that the best results came from using a huge map of the British Isles surrounded by individual county maps. The map of Great Britain alone took up a section of floor that was around six feet by four feet.

“This looks like a bad elementary-school geography project,” Sarah muttered as she straightened a map of Dorset.

“It may not be pretty, but it works,” I replied, drawing Master Habermel’s compendium from my bag. Fernando had devised a protective sleeve for it using one of Gallowglass’s clean socks. It was miraculously undamaged. I got out my phone, too, and took a few shots of the murals on the wall. They made me feel closer to Jack—and to Matthew.

“Where should I put the pages from the Book of Life?” Ysabeau had been given custody of the precious sheets of vellum.

“Give the picture of the chemical wedding to Sarah. You hold on to the one with the two dragons,”

I said.

“Me?” Ysabeau’s eyes widened. It had been a controversial decision, but I had prevailed against Sarah and Linda in the end.

“I hope you don’t mind. The chemical-wedding picture came to me from my parents. The dragons belonged to Andrew Hubbard. I thought we could balance the spell by keeping them in witch and vampire hands.” All my instincts told me this was the right decision.

“Of c-course.” Ysabeau’s tongue slipped on the familiar words.

“It will be all right. I promise.” I gave her arm a squeeze. “Sarah will be standing opposite, and Linda and Tamsin will be on either side.”

“You should be worrying about the spell. Ysabeau can take care of herself.” Sarah handed me a pot of red ink and a quill pen made from a white feather with striking brown and gray markings.

“It’s time, ladies,” Linda said with a brisk clap. She distributed brown candles to the other members of the London coven. Brown was a propitious color for finding lost objects. It had the added benefit of grounding the spell—which I was sorely in need of, given my inexperience. Each witch took her place outside the ring of county maps, and they all lit their candles with whispered spells. The flames were unnaturally large and bright—true witch’s candles.

Linda escorted Ysabeau to her place just below the south coast of England. Sarah stood across from her, as promised, above the north coast of Scotland. Linda walked clockwise three times around the carefully arranged witches, maps, and vampire, sprinkling salt to cast a protective circle. Once everyone was in her proper place, I took the stopper out of the bottle of red ink. The distinctive scent of dragon’s-blood resin filled the air. There were other ingredients in the ink, too, including more than a few drops of my own blood. Ysabeau’s nostrils flared at the coppery tang. I dipped the quill pen into the ink and pressed the chiseled silver nib onto a narrow slip of parchment. It had taken me two days to find someone willing to make me a pen using a feather from a barn owl—far longer than it would have in Elizabethan London.

Letter by letter, working from the outside of the parchment to the center, I wrote the name of the person I sought.

T, N, J, O, W, T, E, S T J WESTON

I folded the parchment carefully to hide the name. Now it was my turn to walk outside the sacred circle and work another binding. After slipping Master Habermel’s compendium into the pocket of my sweater along with the parchment rectangle, I began a circular perambulation from the place between the firewitch and the waterwitch. I passed by Tamsin and Ysabeau, Linda and Cassandra, Sarah and Sybil.

When I arrived back at the place where I began, a shimmering line ran outside the salt, illuminating the witches’ astonished faces. I turned my left hand palm up. For a moment there was a flicker of color on my index finger, but it was gone before I could determine what it had been. Even without the missing hue, my hand gleamed with gold, silver, black, and white lines of power that pulsed under the skin. The streaks twisted and twined into the orobouros-shaped tenth knot that surrounded the prominent blue veins at my wrist.

I stepped through a narrow gap in the shimmering line and drew the circle closed. The power roared through it, keening and crying out for release. Corra wanted out, too. She was restless, shifting and stretching inside me.

“Patience, Corra,” I said, stepping carefully over the salt and onto the map of England. Each step took me closer to the spot that represented London. At last my feet rested on the City. Corra released her wings with a snap of skin and bone and a cry of frustration.

“Fly, Corra!” I commanded.

Free at last, Corra shot around the room, sparks streaming from her wings and tongues of flame escaping from her mouth. As she gained altitude and found air currents that would help to carry her where she wanted to go, the beating of her wings slowed. Corra caught sight of her portrait and cooed in approval, reaching out to pat the wall with her tail.

I pulled the compendium from my pocket and held it in my right hand. The folded slip of parchment went into my left. My arms stretched wide, and I waited while the threads that bound the world and filled the Greyfriars crypt snaked and slithered over me, seeking out the cords that had been absorbed into my hands. When they met, the cords lengthened and expanded, filling my whole body with power. They knotted around my joints, created a protective web around my womb and heart, and traveled along veins and the pathways forged by nerves and sinews.

I recited my spell:

Missing pages

Lost and found

Where is Weston

On this ground?

Then I blew on the slip of parchment, and Weston’s name caught light, the red ink bursting into flame. I cupped the fiery words in my palm where they continued to burn bright. Overhead, Corra circled above the map watchfully, her keen eyes alert. The compendium’s gears whirred, and the hands on the main dial moved. A roaring filled my ears as a bright thread of gold shot out from the compendium. It spun outward until it met up with the two pages from the Book of Life. Another thread came from the compendium’s gilded dial. It lit a spot on the map of England, then slithered off to a map at Linda’s feet.

Corra swept down and pounced on the spot, crying out with triumph as though she had caught some unsuspecting prey. A town’s name illuminated, a bright burst of flame leaving the charred outlines of letters.

The spell complete, the roaring diminished. Power receded from my body, loosening the knotted cords. But they did not recoil back into my hands. They stayed where they were, running through me as if they had formed a new bodily system.

When the power had retreated, I swayed slightly. Ysabeau started forward.

“No!” Sarah cried. “Don’t break the circle, Ysabeau.”

My mother-in-law clearly thought this was madness. Without Matthew here she was prepared to be overprotective in his stead. But Sarah was right: Nobody could break the circle but me. Feet dragging, I returned to the same spot where I’d started weaving my spell. Sybil and Tamsin smiled encouragingly as the fingers on my left hand flicked and furled, releasing the circle’s hold. All that remained to do then was to trudge around the circle counterclockwise, unmaking the magic.

Linda was much quicker, briskly walking her own path in reverse. The moment she was through, both Ysabeau and Sarah rushed to my side. The London witches raced to the map that revealed Weston’s location.

“Dieu, I have not seen magic like that for centuries. Matthew told me true when he said you were a formidable witch,” Ysabeau said with admiration.

“Very nice spell casting, honey.” Sarah was proud of me. “Not a single wobble of doubt or moment of hesitation.”

“Did it work?” I certainly hoped so. Another spell of that magnitude would require weeks of rest first. I joined the witches at the map. “Oxfordshire?”

“Yes,” Linda said doubtfully. “But I fear we may not have asked a specific enough question.”

There, on the map, was the blackened outline of a very English-sounding village called Chipping Weston.

“The initials were on the paper, but I forgot to include them in the words of the spell.” My heart sank.

“It is far too soon to admit defeat.” Ysabeau already had her phone out and was dialing. “Phoebe?

Does a T. J. Weston live in Chipping Weston?”

The possibility that T. J. Weston could live in a town called Weston had not occurred to any of us.

We waited for Phoebe’s reply.

Ysabeau’s face relaxed in sudden relief. “Thank you. We will be home soon. Tell Marthe that Diana will need a compress for her head and cold cloths for her feet.”

Both were aching, and my legs were more swollen with each passing minute. I looked at Ysabeau gratefully.

“Phoebe tells me there is a T. J. Weston in Chipping Weston,” Ysabeau reported. “He lives in the Manor House.”

“Oh, well done. Well done, Diana.” Linda beamed at me. The other London witches clapped, as though I had just performed a particularly difficult piano solo without flubbing a note.

“This is not a night we will soon forget,” Tamsin said, her voice shaking with emotion, “for tonight a weaver came back to London, bringing the past and future together so that old worlds might die and new be born.”

“That’s Mother Shipton’s prophecy,” I said, recognizing the words.

“Ursula Shipton was born Ursula Soothtell. Her aunt, Alice Soothtell, was my ancestor,” Tamsin said. “She was a weaver, like you.”

“You are related to Ursula Shipton!” Sarah exclaimed. “I am,” Tamsin replied. “The women in my family have kept the knowledge of weavers alive, even though we have had only one other weaver born into the family in more than five hundred years. But Ursula prophesied that the power was not lost forever. She foresaw the years of darkness, when witches would forget weavers and all they represent: hope, rebirth, change. Ursula saw this night, too.”

“How so?” I thought of the few lines of Mother Shipton’s prophecy that I knew. None of them seemed relevant to tonight’s events.

“‘And those that live will ever fear

The dragon’s tail for many year,

But time erases memory.

You think it strange. But it will be,’” Tamsin recited.

She nodded, and the other witches joined in, speaking in one voice.

And before the race is built anew, A silver serpent comes to view And spews out men of like unknown To mingle with the earth now grown Cold from its heat, and these men can Enlighten the minds of future man.

“The dragon and the serpent?” I shivered.

“They foretell the advent of a new golden age for creatures,” Linda said. “It has been too long in coming, but we all are pleased to have lived to see it.”

It was too much responsibility. First the twins, then Matthew’s scion, and now the future of the species? My hand covered the bump where our children grew. I felt pulled in too many directions, the parts of me that were witch battling with the parts that were scholar, wife, and now mother.

I looked at the walls. In 1591 every part of me had fit together. In 1591 I had been myself.

“Do not worry,” Sybil said gently. “You will be whole once more. Your vampire will help you.”

“We will all help you,” Cassandra said.

27

“Stop here,” Gallowglass ordered. Leonard stepped on the Mercedes’ brakes, and they engaged immediately and silently in front of the Old Lodge’s gatehouse. Since no one was prepared to wait in London for news of the third page except for Hamish, who was busy saving the euro from collapse, my full entourage had come along, Fernando following in one of Matthew’s inexhaustible supply of Range Rovers.

“No. Not here. Go on to the house,” I told Leonard. The gatehouse would remind me too much of Matthew. As we passed down the drive, the Old Lodge’s familiar outlines emerged from the Oxfordshire fog. It was strange to see it again without the surrounding fields filled with sheep and piles of hay, and only one chimney sending a thin plume of smoke into the sky. I rested my forehead against the car’s cold window and let the black-and-white half-timbering and the diamond-shaped panes of glass remind me of other, happier times.

I sat back in the deep leather seat and reached for my phone There was no new message from Matthew. I consoled myself with looking once more at the two pictures he’d already sent: Jack with Marcus and Jack sitting on his own with a sketch pad propped on his knee, utterly absorbed in what he was doing. This last picture had arrived after I sent Matthew my shot of the Greyfriars frescoes. Thanks to the magic of photography, I had captured the ghost of Queen Isabella as well, her face arranged in a look of haughty disdain.

Sarah’s glance fell on me. She and Gallowglass had insisted we rest for a few hours here before traveling on to Chipping Weston. I had protested. Weaving spells always left me feeling hollow afterward, and I’d assured them that my paleness and lack of appetite were due entirely to magic. Sarah and Gallowglass had ignored me.

“Here, madame?” Leonard slowed in front of the clipped yew hedge that stood between the gravel driveway and the moat. In 1590 we’d simply ridden right into the house’s central courtyard, but now neither automobile could make it over the narrow stone bridge.

Instead, we traveled around to the small courtyard at the rear of the house that had been used for deliveries and tradesmen when I lived here in 1590. A small Fiat was parked there, along with a battered lorry that was clearly used for chores around the estate. Amira Chavan, Matthew’s friend and tenant, was waiting for us.

“It is good to see you again, Diana,” Amira said, her tingling glance familiar. “Where is Matthew?”

“Away on business,” I said shortly, climbing out of the car. Amira gasped and hurried forward.

“You’re pregnant,” she said in the tone one would use to announce the discovery of life on Mars.

“Seven months,” I said, arching my back. “I could use one of your yoga classes.” Amira led extraordinary classes here at the Old Lodge—classes that catered to a mixed clientele of daemons, witches, and vampires.

“No tying yourself into a pretzel.” Gallowglass took my elbow gently. “Come inside, Auntie, and rest a spell. You can put your feet up on the table while Fernando makes us all something to eat.”

“I’m not lifting a pan—not with Amira here.” Fernando kissed Amira on the cheek. “No incidents that I should worry about, shona?”

“I haven’t seen or sensed anything.” Amira smiled at Fernando with fondness. “It has been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

“Make Diana some akuri on toast and I will forgive you,” Fernando said with an answering grin.

“The scent alone will transport me to heaven.”

After a round of introductions, I found myself in the tiny room where we had taken our family meals in 1590. There was no map on the wall, but a fire burned cheerily, dispelling some of the dampness. Amira put plates of scrambled eggs and toast before us, along with bowls of rice and lentils.

Everything was fragrant with chilies, mustard seed, lime, and coriander. Fernando hovered over the dishes, inhaling the aromatic steam.

“Your kanda poha reminds me of that little stall we visited on our way to Gharapuri to see the caves, the one that had the chai made with coconut milk.” He inhaled deeply.

“It should,” Amira said, sticking a spoon in the lentils. “He was using my grandmother’s recipe.

And I ground the rice the traditional way, in an iron mortar and pestle, so it is very good for Diana’s pregnancy.”

In spite of my insistence that I was not hungry, there was something downright alchemical in the effect that cumin and lime had on my appetite. Soon I was looking down at an empty plate.

“That’s more like it,” Gallowglass said with satisfaction. “Now, why don’t you lie on the settle and close your eyes. If you’re not comfortable there, you can always rest on the bed in Pierre’s old office, or your own bed, come to think of it.”

The settle was oaken, heavily carved, and designed to discourage loafing. It had been in the formal parlor during my previous life in the house and had simply drifted a few rooms to provide a seat underneath the window. The stack of papers on the end of it suggested that this was where Amira sat in the mornings to catch up on the news.

I was beginning to understand how Matthew treated his houses. He lived in them, left them, and returned decades or centuries later without touching the contents other than to slightly rearrange the furniture. It meant he owned a series of museums, rather than proper homes. I thought of what awaited me upstairs—the great hall where I’d met George Chapman and Widow Beaton, the formal parlor where Walter Raleigh had discussed our predicament under the watchful eyes of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I, and the bedchamber where Matthew and I had first set foot in the sixteenth century.

“The settle will be fine,” I said hastily. If Gallowglass would surrender his leather jacket and Fernando his long woolen coat, the carved roses on the backrest wouldn’t jab into my side too sharply. To make my desire real, the pile of coats by the fireplace arranged themselves into a makeshift mattress.

Surrounded by scents of bitter orange, sea spray, lilac, tobacco, and narcissus, I felt my eyes grow heavy and I drifted into sleep.

“No one has caught so much as a glimpse of him,” Amira said, her low voice waking me from my nap.

“Still, you shouldn’t be teaching classes so long as Benjamin poses a risk to your safety.” Fernando sounded uncharacteristically firm. “What if he were to walk through the front door?”

“Benjamin would find himself facing two dozen furious daemons, vampires, and witches, that’s what,” Amira replied. “Matthew told me to stop, Fernando, but the work that I’m doing seems more important now than ever.”

“It is.” I swung my legs off the settle and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. According to the clock, forty-five minutes had passed. It was impossible to gauge the passage of time from the changing light, since we were still entombed in fog.

“You look less pale.” Sarah called to Marthe, who brought tea. It was mint and rose hips, with none of the caffeine that would have made me more alert, but it was blessedly hot. I’d forgotten how cold sixteenth-century homes could be.

Gallowglass made a spot for me close to the fire. It saddened me to think of all that concern directed at me. He was so worthy of being loved; I didn’t want him to be alone. Something in my expression must have revealed what I was thinking.

“No pity, Auntie. The winds do not always blow as the ship desires,” he murmured, tucking me into my chair.

“The winds do what I tell them to do.”

“And I steer my own ship. If you don’t stop clucking over me, I’ll tell Matthew what you’re up to and you can deal with two royally pissed-off vampires instead of one.”

It was a prudent time to change the subject. “Matthew is establishing his own family, Amira,” I said, turning to our host. “It will have all kinds of creatures in it. Who knows, we might even let in humans. We’ll need all the yoga we can get if he succeeds.” I paused as my right hand began to tingle and pulse with color. I studied it for a moment in silence, then came to a decision. I wished the stiff leather portfolio that Phoebe had bought to protect the pages from the Book of Life was here at the table and not across the room. Despite the nap, I was still exhausted.

The portfolio appeared on a nearby table.

“Abracadabra,” Fernando murmured.

“Since we’re here and you live at Matthew’s house, it only seems right to explain to Amira why we’ve all descended on her,” I said. “You’ve probably heard stories about the witches’ first grimoire?”

Amira nodded. I handed her the two pages we’d already gathered.

“These come from that book—the same book the vampires call the Book of Life. We think another page is in the possession of someone named T. J. Weston, living in Chipping Weston. Now that we’re all fed and watered, Phoebe and I are going see if he or she is amenable to selling it.”

Ysabeau and Phoebe appeared right on cue. Phoebe was as white as a sheet. Ysabeau looked mildly bored.

“What’s wrong, Phoebe?” I asked.

“There’s a Holbein. In the bathroom.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “A small oil painting of Thomas More’s daughter, Margaret. It shouldn’t be hung over a toilet!”

I was beginning to understand why Matthew found my constant objections to the way his family treated their library books tiresome.

“Stop being so prudish,” Ysabeau said with mild irritation. “Margaret was not the kind of woman to be bothered by a bit of exposed flesh.”

“You think— That is—” Phoebe sputtered. “It’s not the decorum of the situation that troubles me, but the fact that Margaret More might tumble into the loo at any moment!”

“I understand, Phoebe.” I tried to sound sympathetic. “Would it help to know that there are other, far larger and more important works by Holbein in the parlor?”

“And upstairs. The whole sainted family is in one of the attics.” Ysabeau pointed heavenward.

“Thomas More was an arrogant young man, and he did not grow more humble with age. Matthew did not seem to mind, but Thomas and Philippe nearly came to blows on several occasions. If his daughter drowns in the lavatory, it will serve him right.”

Amira began to giggle. After a shocked look, Fernando joined in. Soon we were all laughing, even Phoebe.

“What is all this noise? What has happened now?” Marthe eyed us suspiciously from the door.

“Phoebe is adjusting to being a de Clermont,” I said, wiping at my eyes.

“Bonne chance,” Marthe said. This only made us laugh harder.

It was a welcome reminder that, different though we might be, we were a family of sorts—no stranger or more idiosyncratic than thousands that had come before us.

“And these pages you’ve brought—are they from Matthew’s collections as well?” Amira said, picking up the conversation where we’d abandoned it.

“No. One of them was given to my parents, and the other was in the hands of Matthew’s grandson, Andrew Hubbard.”

“Hmm. So much fear.” Amira’s eyes lost focus. She was a witch with significant insight and empathic powers.

“Amira?” I looked at her closely.

“Blood and fear.” She shuddered, not seeming to hear me. “It’s in the parchment itself, not just the words.”

“Should I stop her?” I asked Sarah. In most situations it was best to let a witch’s second sight play itself out, but Amira had slipped too quickly into her vision of another time and place. A witch might wander so far into a thicket of images and feelings that she couldn’t find her way out of them. “Absolutely not,” Sarah said. “There are two of us to help her if she gets lost.”

“A young woman—a mother. She was killed in front of her children,” Amira murmured. My stomach flipped. “Their father was already dead. When the witches brought her husband’s body to her, they dropped it at her feet and made her look at what they had done to him. It was she who first cursed the book. So much knowledge, lost forever.” Amira’s eyes drifted closed. When they opened again, they were shining with unshed tears. “This parchment was made from the skin that stretched over her ribs.”

I knew that the Book of Life had dead creatures in it, but I never imagined I would know anything more about them than whatever their DNA was capable of revealing. I bolted for the door, stomach heaving. Corra flapped her wings in agitation, turning this way and that to stabilize her position, but there was little room for her to maneuver thanks to the growing presence of the twins.

“Shh. That will not be your fate. I promise you,” Ysabeau said, catching me in her arms. She was cool and solid, her strength evident in spite of her graceful build.

“Am I doing the right thing to try to mend this broken book?” I asked once the roiling in my guts had stopped. “And to do it without Matthew?”

“Right or wrong, it must be done.” Ysabeau smoothed back my hair, which had tumbled forward, obscuring my face. “Call him, Diana. He would not want you to suffer like this.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Matthew has his job to do. I have mine.”

“Let us finish it then,” Ysabeau said.

Chipping Weston was the type of picturesque English village where novelists liked to set murder mysteries. It looked like a postcard or a film set, but it was home to several hundred people who lived in thatched houses spread out over a handful of narrow lanes. The village green still boasted stocks for punishing its citizens found guilty of some wrongdoing, and there were two pubs so that even if you had a falling-out with half your neighbors, you’d still have a place to go where you could have your evening pint. The Manor House was not difficult to find.

“The gates are open.” Gallowglass cracked his knuckles.

“What is your plan, Gallowglass? Running at the front door and battering it down with your bare hands?” I climbed out of Leonard’s car. “Come on, Phoebe. Let’s go ring the bell.”

Gallowglass was behind us as we walked straight through the open front gates and skirted the round stone planter that I suspected had been a fountain before it was filled in with soil. Standing in the middle were two box trees clipped to resemble dachshunds.

“How extraordinary,” Phoebe murmured, eyeing the green sculptures.

The door to the manor was set in the middle of a bank of low windows. There was no bell, but an iron knocker—also shaped like a dachshund—had been inexpertly affixed to the stout Elizabethan panels. Before Phoebe could give me a lecture about the preservation of old houses, I lifted the dog and rapped sharply.

Silence.

I rapped again, putting a bit more weight into it.

“We are standing in plain view of the road,” Gallowglass growled. “That’s the sorriest excuse for a wall I’ve ever seen. A child could step over it.”

“Not everybody can have a moat,” I said. “I hardly think Benjamin has ever heard of Chipping Weston, never mind followed us here.”

Gallowglass was unconvinced and continued to look around like an anxious owl.

I was about to rap again when the door was flung open. A man wearing goggles and carrying a parachute stood in the entrance. Dogs swarmed around his feet, wriggling and barking.

“Whenever have you been?” The stranger engulfed me in a hug while I tried to sort out what his strange question meant. The dogs leaped and frolicked, excited to meet me now that their master had signaled his approval. He let me go and lifted his goggles, his nudging stare feeling like a buss of welcome. “You’re a daemon,” I said unnecessarily.

“And you’re a witch.” With one green eye and one blue, he studied Gallowglass. “And he’s a vampire. Not the same one you had with you before, but still big enough to replace the lightbulbs.”

“I don’t do lightbulbs,” Gallowglass said.

“Wait. I know you,” I said, sifting through the faces in my memory. This was one of the daemons I’d seen in the Bodleian last year when I’d first encountered Ashmole 782. He liked lattes and taking apart microfilm readers. He always wore earbuds, even when they weren’t attached to anything.

“Timothy?”

“The same.” Timothy turned his eyes to me and cocked his fingers and thumbs so they looked like six-shooters. He was, I noticed, still wearing mismatched cowboy boots, but this time one was green and the other blue—to match his eyes, one presumed. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Told you, babe: You’re the one.”

“Are you T. J. Weston?” Phoebe asked, trying to make her voice heard above the din of yelping, wriggling dogs.

Timothy stuffed his fingers in his ears and mouthed, “I can’t hear you.”

“Oy!” Gallowglass shouted. “Shut your gobs, little yappers.”

The barking stopped instantly. The dogs sat, jaws open and tongues lolling, and looked at Gallowglass adoringly. Timothy removed a finger from one of his ears.

“Nice,” the daemon said with a low whistle of appreciation. The dogs immediately started barking again.

Gallowglass bundled us all inside, muttering darkly about sight lines and defensive positions and possible hearing damage to Apple and Bean. Peace was achieved once he got down on the floor in front of the fireplace and let the dogs scramble all over him, licking and burrowing as if their pack’s alpha had been returned to them after a long absence.

“What are their names?” Phoebe inquired, trying to count the number of tails in the squirming mound.

“Hansel and Gretel, obviously.” Timothy looked at Phoebe as though she were hopeless.

“And the other four?” Phoebe asked.

“Oscar. Molly. Rusty. And Puddles.” Timothy pointed to each dog in turn.

“He likes to play outside in the rain?”

“No,” Timothy replied. “She likes to piddle on the floor. Her name was Penelope, but everybody in the village calls her Puddles now.”

A graceful segue from this subject to the Book of Life was impossible, so I plunged forward. “Did you buy a page from an illuminated manuscript that has a tree on it?”

“Yep.” Timothy blinked.

“Would you be willing to sell it to me?” There was no point in being coy.

“Nope.”

“We’re prepared to pay handsomely for it.” Phoebe might not like the de Clermonts’ casual indifference to where pictures were hung, but she was beginning to see the benefits of their purchasing power.

“It’s not for sale.” Timothy ruffled the ears of one of the dogs who then returned to Gallowglass and began to gnaw on the toe of his boot.

“Can I see it?” Perhaps Timothy would let me borrow it, I thought.

“Sure.” Timothy divested himself of the parachute, which he had been wearing like a cape, and strode out of the room. We scrambled to keep up.

He led us through several rooms that had clearly been designed for different purposes from the ones they were now used for. A dining room had a battered drum kit set up in the center with DEREK AND THE DERANGERS painted on the bass-drum head, and another room looked like an electronics graveyard except for the chintz sofas and beribboned wallpaper.

“It’s in there. Somewhere,” Timothy said, gesturing at the next room. “Holy Mother of God,” Gallowglass said, astonished.

“There” was the old library. “Somewhere” covered a multitude of possible hiding places, including unopened shipping crates and mail, cardboard cartons full of sheet music going back to the 1920s, and stacks and stacks of old newspapers. There was a large collection of clock faces of all sizes, descriptions, and vintages, too.

And there were manuscripts. Thousands of manuscripts.

“I think it’s in a blue folder,” Timothy said, scratching his chin. He had obviously started shaving at some point earlier in the day but only partially completed the task, leaving two grizzled patches.

“How long have you been buying old books?” I asked, picking up the first one that came to hand. It was an eighteenth-century student science notebook, German, and of no particular value except to a scholar of Enlightenment education.

“Since I was thirteen. That’s when my gran died and left me this place. My mom left when I was five, and my dad, Derek, died of an accidental overdose when I turned nine, so it was just me and Gran after that.” Timothy looked around the room fondly. “I’ve been restoring it ever since. Do you want to see my paint chips for the gallery upstairs?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Okay.” His face fell.

“Why do manuscripts interest you?” When trying to get answers from daemons and undergraduates, it was best to ask genuinely open-ended questions.

“They’re like the house—they remind me of something I shouldn’t forget,” Timothy said, as though that explained everything.

“With any luck one of them will remind him where he put the page from your book,” Gallowglass said under his breath. “If not, it’s going to take us weeks to go through all this rubbish.”

We didn’t have weeks. I wanted Ashmole 782 out of the Bodleian and stitched back together so that Matthew could come home. Without the Book of Life, we were vulnerable to the Congregation, Benjamin, and whatever private ambitions Knox harbored. Once it was safely in our possession, they would all have to deal with us on our terms—scion or no scion. I pushed up my sleeves.

“Would it be all right with you, Timothy, if I used magic in your library?” It seemed polite to ask.

“Will it be loud?” Timothy asked. “The dogs don’t like noise.”

“No,” I said, considering my options. “I think it will be completely silent.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay, then,” he said, relieved. He put his goggles back on for additional security.

“More magic, Auntie?” Gallowglass’s eyebrows lowered. “You’ve been using an awful lot of it lately.”

“Wait until tomorrow,” I murmured. If I got all three missing pages, I was going to the Bodleian.

Then it was gloves-off time.

A flurry of papers rose from the floor.

“You’ve started already?” Gallowglass said, alarmed.

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s causing the ruckus?” Gallowglass moved toward the agitated pile.

A tail wagged from between a leather-bound folio and a box of pens.

“Puddles!” Timothy said.

The dog emerged, tail first, pulling a blue folder.

“Good doggy,” Gallowglass crooned. He crouched down and held out his hand. “Bring it to me.”

Puddles stood with the missing page from Ashmole 782 gripped in her teeth, looking very pleased with herself. She did not, however, take it to Gallowglass.

“She wants you to chase her,” Timothy explained.

Gallowglass scowled. “I’m not chasing that dog.”

In the end we all chased her. Puddles was the fastest, cleverest dachshund who’d ever lived, darting under furniture and feinting left and then right before dashing away again. Gallowglass was speedy, but he was not small. Puddles slipped through his fingers again and again, her glee evident. Finally Puddles’ need to pant meant that she had to drop the now slightly moist blue folder in front of her paws. Gallowglass took the opportunity to reach in and secure it.

“What a good girl!” Timothy picked up the squirming dog. “You’re going to win the Great Dachshund Games this summer. No question.” A slip of paper was attached to one of Puddles’ claws.

“Hey. There’s my council tax bill.”

Gallowglass handed me the folder.

“Phoebe should do the honors,” I said. “If not for her, we wouldn’t be here.” I passed the folder on to her.

Phoebe cracked it open. The image inside was so vivid that it might have been painted yesterday, and its striking colors and the details of trunk and leaf only increased the sense of vibrancy that came from the page. There was power in it. That much was unmistakable.

“It’s beautiful.” Phoebe lifted her eyes. “Is this the page you’ve been looking for?”

“Aye,” Gallowglass said. “That’s it, all right.”

Phoebe placed the page in my waiting hands. As soon as the parchment touched them, they brightened, shooting little sparks of color into the room. Filaments of power erupted from my fingertips, connecting to the parchment with an almost audible snap of electricity.

“There’s a lot of energy on that page. Not all of it good,” Timothy said, backing away. “It needs to go back into that book you discovered in the Bodleian.”

“I know you don’t want to sell the page,” I said, “but could I borrow it? Just for a day?” I could go straight to the Bodleian, recall Ashmole 782, and have the page back tomorrow afternoon—provided the Book of Life let me remove it again, once I’d returned it to the binding.

“Nope.” Timothy shook his head.

“You won’t let me buy it. You won’t let me borrow it,” I said, exasperation mounting. “Do you have some sentimental attachment to it?”

“Of course I do. I mean, he’s my ancestor, isn’t he?” Every eye in the room went to the illustration of the tree in my hands. Even Puddles looked at it with renewed interest, sniffing the air with her long, delicate nose.

“How do you know that?” I whispered.

“I see things—microchips, crossword puzzles, you, the guy whose skin made that parchment. I knew who you were from the moment you walked into Duke Humfrey’s.” Timothy looked sad. “I told you as much. But you didn’t listen to me and left with the big vampire. You’re the one.”

“The one for what?” My throat closed. Daemon visions were bizarre and surreal, but they could be shockingly accurate.

“The one who will learn how it all began—the blood, the death, the fear. And the one who can put a stop to it, once and for all.” Timothy sighed. “You can’t buy my grandfather, and you can’t borrow him.

But if I give him to you, for safekeeping, you’ll make his death mean something?”

“I can’t promise you that, Timothy.” There was no way I could swear to something so enormous and imprecise. “We don’t know what the book will reveal. And I certainly can’t guarantee that anything will change.”

“Can you make sure his name won’t be forgotten, once you learn what it is?” Timothy asked.

“Names are important, you know.”

A sense of the uncanny washed over me. Ysabeau had told me the same thing shortly after I met her. I saw Edward Kelley in my mind’s eye. “You will find your name in it, too,” he had cried when Emperor Rudolf made him hand over the Book of Life. The hackles on my neck rose.

“I won’t forget his name,” I promised. “Sometimes that’s enough,” Timothy said.

28

It was several hours past midnight, and any hope I had of sleep was gone. The fog had lifted slightly, and the brightness of the full moon pierced through the gray wisps that still clung to the trunks of trees and the low places in the park where the deer slept. One or two members of the herd were still out, picking over the grass in search of the last remaining fodder. A hard frost was coming; I could sense it. I was attuned to the rhythms of the earth and sky in ways that I had not been before I lived in a time when the day was organized around the height of the sun instead of the dial of a clock, and the season of the year determined everything from what you ate to the physic that you took.

I was in our bedchamber again, the one where Matthew and I had spent our first night in the sixteenth century. Only a few things had changed: the electricity that powered the lamps, the Victorian bellpull that hung by the fire to call the servants to tend the fire or bring tea (though why this was necessary in a vampire household, I could not fathom), the closet that had been carved out of an adjoining room.

Our return to the Old Lodge after meeting Timothy Weston had been unexpectedly tense.

Gallowglass had flatly refused to take me to Oxford after we located the final page of the Book of Life, though it was not yet the supper hour and Duke Humfrey’s was open until seven o’clock during term time. When Leonard offered to drive, Gallowglass threatened to kill him in disturbingly detailed and graphic terms. Fernando and Gallowglass had departed, ostensibly to talk, and Gallowglass had returned with a rapidly healing split lip, a slightly bruised eye, and a mumbled apology to Leonard.

“You aren’t going,” Fernando said when I headed for the door. “I’ll take you tomorrow, but not tonight. Gallowglass is right: You look like death.”

“Stop coddling me,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands still shooting out intermittent sparks.

“I’ll coddle you until your mate returns,” Fernando said. “The only person on this earth who could make me take you to Oxford is Matthew. Feel free to call him.” He held out his phone.

That had been the end of the discussion. I’d accepted Fernando’s ultimatum with poor grace, though my head was pounding and I’d worked more magic in the past week than I had my whole life previous.

“So long as you have these three pages, no other creature can possess the book,” Amira said, trying to comfort me. But it seemed like a poor consolation when the book was so close.

Not even the sight of the three pages, lined up on the long table in the great hall, had improved my mood. I’d been anticipating and dreading this moment since we left Madison, but now that it was here, it felt strangely anticlimactic.

Phoebe had arranged the images carefully, making sure they didn’t touch. We’d learned the hard way that they seemed to have a magnetic affinity. When I’d arrived home and bundled them together in preparation for going to the Bodleian, a soft keening had come from the pages, followed by a chattering that everybody heard—even Phoebe.

“You can’t just march into the Bodleian with these three pages and stuff them back into an enchanted book,” Sarah said. “It’s crazy. There are bound to be witches in the room. They’ll come running.”

“And who knows how the Book of Life will respond?” Ysabeau poked at the illustration of the tree with her finger. “What if it shrieks? Ghosts might be released. Or Diana might set off a rain of fire.”

After her experiences in London, Ysabeau had been doing some reading. She was now prepared to discuss a wide variety of topics, including spectral apparitions and the number of occult phenomena that had been observed in the British Isles over the past two years.

“You’re going to have to steal it,” Sarah said.

“I’m a tenured professor at Yale, Sarah! I can’t! My life as a scholar—”

“Is probably over,” Sarah said, finishing my sentence.

“Come now, Sarah,” Fernando chided. “That is a bit extreme, even for you. Surely there is a way for Diana to check out Ashmole 782 and return it at some future date.”

I tried to explain that you didn’t borrow books from the Bodleian, but to no avail. With Ysabeau and Sarah in charge of logistics and Fernando and Gallowglass in charge of security, I was relegated to a position where I could only advise, counsel, and warn. They were more high-handed than Matthew.

And so here I was at four o’clock in the morning, staring out the window and waiting for the sun to rise.

“What should I do?” I murmured, my forehead pressed against the cold, diamond-shaped panes.

As soon as I asked the question, my skin flared with awareness, as though I’d stuck a finger into an electrical socket. A shimmering figure dressed in white came from the forest, accompanied by a white deer. The otherworldly animal walked sedately at the woman’s side, unafraid of the huntress who held a bow and a quiver of arrows in her hand. The goddess.

She stopped and looked up at my window. “Why so sad, daughter?” her silvery voice whispered.

“Have you lost what you most desire?”

I had learned not to answer her questions. She smiled at my reluctance.

“Dare to join me under this full moon. Perhaps you will find it once more.” The goddess rested her fingers on the deer’s antlers and waited.

I slipped outside undetected. My feet crunched across the gravel paths of the knot gardens, then left dark impressions in the frost-touched grass. Soon, I stood in front of the goddess.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“To help you.” The goddess’s eyes were silver and black in the moonlight. “You will have to give something up if you want to possess the Book of Life—something precious to you.”

“I’ve given enough.” My voice trembled. “My parents, then my first child, then my aunt. Not even my life is my own anymore. It belongs to you.”

“And I do not abandon those who serve me.” The goddess withdrew an arrow from her quiver. It was long and silver, with owl-feather fletches. She offered it to me. “Take it.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not without knowing the price.”

“No one refuses me.” The goddess put the arrow shaft into her bow, aimed. It was then I noticed that her weapon lacked its pointed tip. Her hand drew back, the silver string pulled taut.

There was no time to react before the goddess released the shaft. It shot straight toward my breast. I felt a searing pain, a yank of the chain around my neck, and a tingling feeling of warmth between my left shoulder blade and my spine. The golden links that had held Philippe’s arrowhead slithered down my body and landed at my feet. I felt the fabric that covered my chest for the telltale wetness of blood, but there was nothing except a small hole to indicate where the shaft had passed through.

“You cannot outrun my arrow. No creature can. It is part of you now, waiting until you have need of it,” she said. “Even those born to strength should carry weapons.”

I searched the ground around my feet, looking for Philippe’s jewel. When I straightened, I could feel its point pressing into my ribs. I stared at the goddess in astonishment.

“My arrow never misses its target,” the goddess said. “Do not hesitate. And aim true.”

“They’ve been moved where?” This could not be happening. Not when we were so close to finding answers.

“The Radcliffe Science Library.” Sean was apologetic, but his patience was wearing thin. “It’s not the end of the world, Diana.”

“But . . . that is . . .” I trailed off, the completed call slip for Ashmole 782 dangling from my fingers.

“Don’t you read your e-mails? We’ve been sending out notices about the move for months,” Sean said. “I’m happy to take the request and put it in the system, since you’ve been away and apparently out of reach of the Internet. But none of the Ashmole manuscripts are here, and you can’t call them up to this reading room unless you have a bona fide intellectual reason that’s related to the manuscripts and maps that are still here.”

Of all the exigencies we had planned for this morning—and they were many and varied—the Bodleian Library’s decision to move rare books and manuscripts from Duke Humfrey’s to the Radcliffe Science Library had not been among them. We’d left Sarah and Amira at home with Leonard in case we needed magical backup. Gallowglass and Fernando were both outside, loafing around the statue of Mary Herbert’s son William and being photographed by female visitors. Ysabeau had gained entrance to the library after enticing the head of development with a gift to rival the annual budget of Liechtenstein. She was now on a private tour of the facility. Phoebe, who had attended Christ Church and was therefore the only member of my book posse in possession of a library card, had accompanied me into Duke Humfrey’s and was now waiting patiently in a seat overlooking Exeter College’s gardens.

“How aggravating.” No matter how many rare books and precious manuscripts they’d relocated, I was absolutely sure Ashmole 782 was still here. My father had not bound the Book of Life to its call number after all, but to the library. In 1850 the Radcliffe Science Library didn’t exist.

I looked at my watch. It was only ten-thirty. A swarm of children on a school trip were released into the quadrangle, their high-pitched voices echoing against the stone walls. How long would it take me to manufacture an excuse that would satisfy Sean? Phoebe and I needed to regroup. I tried to reach the spot on my lower back where the tip of the goddess’s arrow was lodged. The shaft kept my posture ramrod straight, and if I slouched the slightest bit, I felt a warning prickle.

“And don’t think it’s going to be easy to come up with a good rationale for looking at your manuscript here,” Sean warned, reading my mind. Humans never failed to activate their usually dormant sixth senses at the most inopportune moments. “Your friend has been sending requests of all sorts for weeks, and no matter how many times he asks to see manuscripts here, the requests keep getting redirected to Parks Road.”

“Tweed jacket? Corduroy pants?” If Peter Knox was in Duke Humfrey’s, I was going to throttle him.

“No. The guy who sits by the card catalogs.” Sean jerked his thumb in the direction of the Selden End.

I backed carefully out of Sean’s office across from the old call desk and felt the numbing sensation of a vampire’s stare. Gerbert?

“Mistress Roydon.”

Not Gerbert.

Benjamin’s arm was draped over Phoebe’s shoulders, and there were spots of red on the collar of her white blouse. For the first time since I’d met her, Phoebe looked terrified.

“Herr Fuchs.” I spoke slightly louder than usual. Hopefully, Ysabeau or Gallowglass would hear his name over the din that the children were causing. I forced my feet to move toward him at an even pace.

“What a surprise to see you here—and looking so . . . fertile.” Benjamin’s eyes drifted slowly over my breasts to where the twins lay curled in my belly. One of them was kicking furiously, as though to make a break for freedom. Corra, too, twisted and snarled inside me.

No fire or flame. The oath I’d taken when I got my first reader’s card floated through my mind.

“I expected Matthew. Instead I get his mate. And my brother’s, too.” Benjamin’s nose went to the pulse under Phoebe’s ear. His teeth grazed her flesh. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. “What a good boy Marcus is, always standing by his father. I wonder if he’ll stand by you, pet, once I’ve made you mine.”

“Let her go, Benjamin.” Once the words were out of my mouth, the logical part of my brain registered their pointlessness. There was no chance that Benjamin was going to let Phoebe go.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be left out.” His fingers stroked the place on Phoebe’s neck where her pulse hammered. “I’ve got big plans for you, too, Mistress Roydon. You’re a good breeder. I can see that.”

Where was Ysabeau?

The arrow burned against my spine, inviting me to use its power. But how could I target Benjamin without running the risk of harming Phoebe? He had placed Phoebe slightly in front of him, like a shield.

“This one dreams of being a vampire.” Benjamin’s mouth lowered, brushed against Phoebe’s neck.

She whimpered. “I could make those dreams come true. With any luck I could send you back to Marcus with blood so strong you could bring him to his knees.”

Philippe’s voice rang in my mind: Think—and stay alive. That was the job he had given me. But my thoughts ran in disorganized circles. Snatches of spells and half-remembered warnings from Goody Alsop chased Benjamin’s threats. I needed to concentrate.

Phoebe’s eyes begged me to do something.

“Use your pitiful power, witch. I may not know what’s in the Book of Life—yet—but I’ve learned that witches are no match for vampires.”

I hesitated. Benjamin smiled. I stood at the crossroads between the life I’d always thought I wanted—scholarly, intellectual, free from the complicated messiness of magic—and the life I now had.

If I worked magic here, in the Bodleian Library, there would be no turning back.

“Something wrong?” he drawled.

My back continued to burn, the pain spreading into my shoulder. I lifted my hands and separated them as though they held a bow, then aimed my left index finger at Benjamin to create a line of sight.

My hand was no longer colorless. A blaze of purple, thick and vivid, ran all the way down to the palm. I groaned inwardly. Of course my magic would decide to change now. Think. What was the magical significance of purple?

I felt the sensation of a rough string scraping against my cheek. I twisted my lips and directed a puff of air toward it. No distractions. Think. Stay alive.

When my focus returned to my hands, there was a bow in them—a real, tangible, bow made of wood ornamented with silver and gold. I felt a strange tingle from the wood, one I recognized. Rowan.

And there was an arrow between my fingers, too: silver-shafted and tipped with Philippe’s golden arrowhead. Would it find its target as the goddess had promised? Benjamin twisted Phoebe so that she was directly in front of him.

“Take your best shot, witch. You’ll kill Marcus’s warmblood, but I’ll still have everything I came for.”

The image of Juliette’s fiery death came to mind. I closed my eyes.

I hesitated, unable to shoot. The bow and arrow dissolved between my fingers. I’d done exactly what the goddess had instructed me not to do.

I heard the pages of the books lying open on nearby desks ruffle in a sudden breeze. The hair on the back of my neck rose. Witchwind.

There must be another witch in the library. I opened my eyes to see who it was.

It was a vampire.

Ysabeau stood before Benjamin, one hand wrapped around his throat and the other pushing Phoebe in my direction.

“Ysabeau.” Benjamin looked at her sourly.

“Expecting someone else? Matthew, perhaps?” Blood welled from a small puncture wound on him that was filled with Ysabeau’s finger. That pressure was enough to keep Benjamin where he was. Nausea swept over me in a wave. “He is otherwise engaged. Phoebe, dearest, you must take Diana down to Gallowglass and Fernando. At once.” Without looking away from her prey, Ysabeau pointed in my direction with her free hand.

“Let’s go,” Phoebe murmured, pulling at my arm.

Ysabeau removed her finger from Benjamin’s neck with an audible pop. His hand clamped over the spot.

“We’re not finished, Ysabeau. Tell Matthew I’ll be in touch. Soon.”

“Oh, I will.” Ysabeau gave him a terrifyingly toothy smile. She took two steps backward, took my other elbow, and jerked me around to face the exit.

“Diana?” Benjamin called.

I stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I hope your children are both girls.”

“Nobody speaks until we’re in the car.” Gallowglass let out a piercing whistle. “Disguising spell, Auntie.”

I could feel that it had slipped out of shape but couldn’t muster the energy to do much about it. The nausea I’d felt upstairs was getting worse.

Leonard squealed up to the gates of Hertford College.

“I hesitated. Just like with Juliette.” Then it had almost cost Matthew his life. Today it was Phoebe who had nearly paid for my fear.

“Mind your head,” Gallowglass said, inserting me into the passenger seat.

“Thank God we used Matthew’s bloody great car,” Leonard muttered to Fernando as he slid in the front. “Back home?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” Ysabeau said at the same moment, appearing on the other side of the car. “To the airport. We are going to Sept-Tours. Call Baldwin, Gallowglass.”

“I am not going to Sept-Tours,” I said. Live under Baldwin’s thumb? Never.

“What about Sarah?” Fernando asked from the front seat.

“Tell Amira to drive Sarah to London and meet us there.” Ysabeau tapped Leonard on the shoulder.

“If you do not put your foot on the gas pedal immediately, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.”

“We’re all in. Go!” Gallowglass closed the door of the cargo space just as Leonard squealed into reverse, narrowly missing a distinguished don on a bicycle. “Bloody hell. I’ve not got the temperament for crime,” Gallowglass said, huffing slightly. “Show us the book, Auntie.”

“Diana does not have the book.” Ysabeau’s words caused Fernando to stop mid-conversation and look back at us.

“Then what is the rush?” Gallowglass demanded.

“We met Matthew’s son.” Phoebe sat forward and began to speak loudly in the direction of Fernando’s cell phone. “Benjamin knows that Diana is pregnant, Sarah. You are not safe, nor is Amira.

Leave. At once.”

“Benjamin?” Sarah’s voice was unmistakably horrified.

A large hand jerked Phoebe back. It twisted her head to the side.

“He bit you.” Gallowglass’s face whitened. He grabbed me and inspected every inch of my face and neck. “Christ. Why didn’t you call for help?”

Thanks to Leonard’s complete disregard for traffic restrictions or speed limits, we were nearly to the A40.

“He had Phoebe.” I shrank into the seat, trying to stabilize my roiling stomach by clamping both arms over the twins.

“Where was Granny?” Gallowglass asked.

“Granny was listening to a horrible woman in a magenta blouse tell me about the library’s building works while sixty children screamed in the quadrangle.” Ysabeau glared at Gallowglass. “Where were you?”

“Both of you stop it. We were all exactly where we planned to be.” As usual, Phoebe’s voice was the only reasonable one. “And we all got out alive. Let’s not lose sight of the big picture.”

Leonard sped onto the M40, headed for Heathrow.

I held a cold hand to my forehead. “I’m so sorry, Phoebe.” I pressed my lips together as the car swayed. “I couldn’t think.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Phoebe said briskly. “May I please speak to Miriam?”

“Miriam?” Fernando asked.

“Yes. I know that I am not infected with blood rage, because I didn’t ingest any of Benjamin’s blood. But he did bite me, and she may wish to have a sample of my blood to see if his saliva has affected me.”

We all stared at her, openmouthed.

“Later,” Gallowglass said curtly. “We’ll worry about science and that godforsaken manuscript later.”

The countryside rushed by in a blur. I rested my forehead against the glass and wished with all my heart that Matthew was with me, that the day had ended differently, that Benjamin didn’t know I was pregnant with twins.

His final words—and the prospect of the future they painted—taunted me as we drew closer to the airport.

I hope your children are both girls.

“Diana!” Ysabeau’s voice interrupted my troubled sleep. “Matthew or Baldwin. Choose.” Her tone was fierce. “One of them has to be told.”

“Not Matthew.” I winced and sat straighter. That damned arrow was still jabbing my shoulder.

“He’ll come running, and there’s no reason for it. Phoebe is right. We’re all alive.”

Ysabeau swore like a sailor and pulled out her red phone. Before anyone could stop her, she was speaking to Baldwin in rapid French. I caught only half of it, but based on her awed response, Phoebe obviously understood more.

“Oh, Christ.” Gallowglass shook his shaggy head.

“Baldwin wishes to speak with you.” Ysabeau extended the phone in my direction.

“I understand you’ve seen Benjamin.” Baldwin was as cool and composed as Phoebe. “I did.”

“He threatened the twins?”

“He did.”

“I’m your brother, Diana, not your enemy,” Baldwin said. “Ysabeau was right to call me.”

“If you say so,” I said. “Sieur.”

“Do you know where Matthew is?” he demanded.

“No.” I didn’t know—not exactly. “Do you?”

“I presume he is off somewhere burying Jack Blackfriars.”

The silence that followed Baldwin’s words was lengthy.

“You are an utter bastard, Baldwin de Clermont.” My voice shook.

“Jack was a necessary casualty of a dangerous and deadly war—one that you started, by the way.”

Baldwin sighed. “Come home, sister. That’s an order. Lick your wounds and wait for him. It’s what we’ve all learned to do when Matthew goes off to assuage his guilty conscience.”

He hung up on me before I could manage a reply.

“I. Hate. Him.” I spit out each word.

“So do I,” Ysabeau said, taking back her phone.

“Baldwin is jealous of Matthew, that’s all,” Phoebe said. This time her reasonableness was irritating, and I felt the power rush through my body.

“I don’t feel right.” My anxiety spiked. “Is something wrong? Is someone following us?”

Gallowglass forced my head around. “You look hectic. How far are we from London?”

“London?” Leonard exclaimed. “You said Heathrow.” He wrenched the wheel to head in a different direction off the roundabout.

My stomach proceeded on our previous route. I retched, trying hold down the vomit. But it wasn’t possible.

“Diana?” Ysabeau said, holding back my hair and wiping at my mouth with her silk scarf. “What is it?”

“I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me,” I said, suppressing another urge to vomit.

“I’ve felt funny for the last few days.”

“Funny how?” Gallowglass’s voice was urgent. “Do you have a headache, Diana? Are you having trouble breathing? Does your shoulder pain you?”

I nodded, the bile rising.

“You said she was anxious, Phoebe?”

“Of course Diana was anxious,” Ysabeau retorted. She dumped the contents of her purse onto the seat and held it under my chin. I couldn’t imagine throwing up into a Chanel bag, but at this point anything was possible. “She was preparing to do battle with Benjamin!”

“Anxiety is a symptom of some condition I can’t pronounce. Diana had leaflets about it in New Haven. You hold on, Auntie!” Gallowglass sounded frantic.

I wondered dimly why he sounded so alarmed before I vomited again, right into Ysabeau’s purse. “Hamish? We need a doctor. A vampire doctor. Something’s wrong with Diana.”