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“A spy?” I repeated numbly.
“We prefer to be called intelligencers,” Kit said tartly.
“Shut it, Marlowe,” Hancock growled, “or I’ll stop that mouth for you.” “Spare us, Hancock. No one takes you seriously when you sputter like that.” Marlowe’s chin jutted into the room. “And if you don’t keep a civil tongue with me, there will soon be an end to all these Welsh kings and soldiers on the stage. I’ll make you all traitors and servants with low cunning.”
“What is a vampire?” George asked, reaching for his notebook with one hand and a piece of gingerbread with the other. As usual, no one was paying much attention to him.
“So you’re some kind of Elizabethan James Bond? But . . .” I looked at Marlowe, horrified. He would be murdered in a knife fight in Deptford before he reached the age of thirty, and the crime would be linked to his life as a spy.
“The London hatmaker near St. Dunstan’s who turns such a neat brim? That James Bond?” George chuckled. “Whyever would you think Matthew was a hatmaker, Mistress Roydon?”
“No, George, not that James Bond.” Matthew remained crouched before me, watching my reactions. “You were better off not knowing about this.” “Bullshit.” I neither knew nor cared if this was an appropriately Elizabethan oath. “I deserve the truth.”
“Perhaps, Mistress Roydon, but if you truly love him, it is pointless to insist upon it,” Marlowe said. “Matthew can no longer distinguish between what is true and what is not. This is why he is invaluable to Her Majesty.” “We’re here to find you a teacher,” Matthew insisted, his eyes locked on me. “The fact that I am both a member of the Congregation and the queen’s agent will keep you from harm. Nothing happens in the country without my being aware of it.”
“For someone who claims to know everything, you were blissfully unaware that I’ve thought for days that something was going on in this house. There is too much mail. And you and Walter have been arguing.” “You see what I want you to see. Nothing more.” Even though Matthew’s tendency toward imperiousness had grown exponentially since we
came to the Old Lodge, my jaw dropped at his tone.
“How dare you,” I said slowly. Matthew knew I’d spent my whole life surrounded by secrets. I’d paid a high price for it, too. I stood.
“Sit down,” he grated out. “Please.” He caught my hand.
Matthew’s best friend, Hamish Osborne, had warned me that he wouldn’t be the same man here. How could he be, when the world was such a different place? Women were expected to accept without question what a man told them. Among his friends it was all too easy for Matthew to slip back into old behaviors and patterns of thinking.
“Only if you answer me. I want the name of the person you report to and how you got embroiled in this business.” I glanced over at his nephew and his friends, worried that these were state secrets.
“They already know about Kit and me,” Matthew said, following my eyes. He struggled to find the words. “It all started with Francis Walsingham.
“I’d left England late in Henry’s reign. I spent time in Constantinople, went to Cyprus, wandered through Spain, fought at Lepanto—even set up
a printing business in Antwerp,” Matthew explained. “It’s the usual path for a wearh. We search for a tragedy, an opportunity to slip into someone else’s life. But nothing suited me, so I returned home. France was on the verge of religious and civil war. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn the signs. A Huguenot schoolmaster was happy to take my money and go to Geneva, where he could raise his daughters in safety. I took the identity of his long-dead cousin, moved into his house in Paris, and started over as Matthew de la Forêt.”
“‘Matthew of the Forest’?” My eyebrows lifted at the irony. “That was the schoolmaster’s name,” he said wryly. “Paris was dangerous, and Walsingham, as English ambassador, was a magnet for every disenchanted rebel in the country. Late in the summer of 1572, all the simmering anger in France came to a boil. I helped Walsingham escape, along with the English Protestants he was sheltering.”
“The massacre on St. Bartholomew’s Day.” I shivered, thinking of the blood-soaked wedding between a French Catholic princess and her Protestant husband.
“I became the queen’s agent later, when she sent Walsingham back to Paris. He was supposed to be brokering Her Majesty’s marriage to one of the Valois princes.” Matthew snorted. “It was clear the queen had no real interest in the match. It was during that visit that I learned of Walsingham’s network of intelligencers.”
My husband met my eyes briefly, then looked away. He was still keeping something from me. I reviewed the story, detected the fault lines in his account, and followed them to a single, inescapable conclusion: Matthew was French, Catholic, and he could not possibly have been aligned politically with Elizabeth Tudor in 1572—or in 1590. If he was working for the English Crown, it was for some larger purpose. But the Congregation had vowed to stay out of human politics. Philippe de Clermont and his Knights of Lazarus had not.
“You’re working for your father. And you’re not only a vampire but a Catholic in a Protestant country.”
The fact that Matthew was working for the Knights of Lazarus, not just Elizabeth, exponentially increased the danger. It wasn’t just witches who were hunted down and executed in Elizabethan England—so were traitors, creatures with unusual powers, and people of different faiths. “The Congregation is of no help if you get involved with human politics. How could your own family ask you to do something so risky?”
Hancock grinned. “That’s why there’s always a de Clermont on the Congregation—to make sure lofty ideals don’t get in the way of good business.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve worked for Philippe, nor will it be the last. You’re good at uncovering secrets. I’m good at keeping them,” Matthew said simply.
Scientist. Vampire. Warrior. Spy. Another piece of Matthew fell into place, and with it I better understood his ingrained habit of never sharing anything—major or minor—unless he was forced to do so.
“I don’t care how much experience you have! Your safety depends on Walsingham—and you’re deceiving him.” His words had only made me angrier.
“Walsingham is dead. I report to William Cecil now.”
“The canniest man alive,” Gallowglass said quietly. “Except for Philippe, of course.”
“And Kit? Does he work for Cecil or for you?”
“Tell her nothing, Matthew,” Kit said. “The witch cannot be trusted.”
“Why, you sly, wee boggart,” Hancock said softly. “It’s you who’s been stirring up the villagers.”
Kit’s cheeks burned red in twin pronouncements of guilt.
“Christ, Kit. What have you done?” Matthew asked, astonished.
“Nothing,” said Marlowe sullenly.
“You’ve been telling tales again.” Hancock waggled his finger in admonishment. “I’ve warned you before that we won’t stand for that, Master Marlowe.”
“Woodstock was already buzzing with news of Matthew’s wife,” Kit protested. “The rumors were bound to bring the Congregation down upon us. How was I supposed to know that the Congregation was already here?”
“Surely you’ll let me kill him now, de Clermont. I’ve wanted to do so for ages,” Hancock said, cracking his knuckles.
“No. You can’t kill him.” Matthew rubbed a hand over his tired face.
“There would be too many questions, and I don’t have the patience to come up with convincing answers at present. It’s just village gossip. I’ll handle it.”
“This gossip comes at a bad time,” Gallowglass reported quietly. “It’s not just Berwick. You know how anxious people were about witches in Chester. When we went north into Scotland, the situation was worse.”
“If this business spreads south into England, she’ll be the death of us,” Marlowe promised, pointing at me.
“This trouble will stay confined to Scotland,” Matthew retorted. “And there will be no more visits to the village, Kit.”
“She appeared on All Hallows’ Eve, just when the arrival of a fearsome witch was predicted. Don’t you see? Your new wife raised the storms against King James, and now she has turned her attention to England. Cecil must be told. She poses a danger to the queen.”
“Quiet, Kit,” Henry cautioned, pulling at his arm.
“You cannot silence me. Telling the queen is my duty. Once you would have agreed with me, Henry. But since the witch came, everything’s changed! She has enchanted everyone in the house.” Kit’s eyes were frantic.
“You dote on her like a sister. George is half in love. Tom praises her wit, and Walter would have her skirts up and her back against a wall if he weren’t afraid of Matt. Return her to where she belongs. We were happy before.”
“Matthew wasn’t happy.”
Tom had been drawn to our end of the room by Marlowe’s angry energy.
“You say you love him.” Kit turned to me, his face full of entreaty. “Do you truly know what he is? Have you seen him feed, felt the hunger in him when a warmblood is near? Can you accept Matthew completely—the blackness in his soul along with the light—as I do? You have your magic for solace, but I am not fully alive without him. All poetry flies from my mind when he is gone, and only Matthew can see what little good I have in me. Leave him to me. Please.”
“I can’t,” I said simply.
Kit wiped his sleeve across his mouth as if the gesture might remove all trace of me. “When the rest of the Congregation discovers your affections for him—”
“If my affection for him is forbidden, so is yours,” I interrupted. Marlowe flinched. “But none of us choose whom we love.”
“Iffley and his friends won’t be the last to accuse you of witchcraft,” Kit said with a note of sour triumph. “Mark me well, Mistress Roydon. Daemons often see the future as plainly as witches.”
Matthew’s hand moved to my waist. The cold, familiar touch of his fingers swept from one side of my rib cage to the other, following the curved path that marked me as belonging to a vampire. For Matthew it was a powerful reminder of his earlier failure to keep me safe. Kit made a horrible, half-swallowed sound of distress at the intimacy of the gesture. “If you are so prescient, then you should have foreseen what your betrayal would mean to me,” Matthew said, gradually unfolding himself.
“Get out of my sight, Kit, or so help me God there will be nothing left of you to bury.”
“You would have her over me?” Kit sounded dumbfounded.
“In a heartbeat. Get out,” repeated Matthew.
Kit’s passage out of the room was measured, but once in the corridor his pace quickened. His feet echoed on the wooden stairs, faster and faster, as he climbed to his room.
“We’ll have to watch him.” Gallowglass’s shrewd eyes turned from Kit’s departing back to Hancock. “He can’t be trusted now.”
“Marlowe could never be trusted,” Hancock muttered.
Pierre slipped through the open door looking stricken, another piece of mail in his hand.
“Not now, Pierre,” Matthew groaned, sitting down and reaching for his wine. His shoulders sagged against the back of his chair. “There simply isn’t room in this day for one more crisis—be it queen, country, or Catholics. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”
“But . . . milord,” Pierre stammered, holding out the letter. Matthew glanced at the decisive writing that marched across the front. “Christ and all His saints.” His fingers rose to touch the paper, then froze. Matthew’s throat moved as he struggled for control. Something red and bright appeared in the corner of his eye, then slid down his cheek and splashed onto the folds of his collar. A vampire’s blood tear.
“What is it, Matthew?” I looked over his shoulder, wondering what had caused so much grief.
“Ah. The day is not over yet,” Hancock said uneasily while he backed away. “There is one small matter that requires your attention. Your father thinks you’re dead.”
In my own time, it was Matthew’s father, Philippe, who was dead—horribly, tragically, irrevocably so. But this was 1590, which meant he was alive. Ever since we’d arrived, I had worried about a chance encounter with Ysabeau or with Matthew’s laboratory assistant, Miriam, and the ripples such a meeting might cause in future times. Not once had I considered what seeing Philippe would do to Matthew.
Past, present, and future collided. Had I looked into the corners, I would surely have seen time unspooling in protest at the clash. But my eyes were fixed on Matthew instead, and the blood tear caught in the snowy linen at his throat.
Gallowglass brusquely picked up the tale. “With the news from Scotland and your sudden disappearance, we feared you’d gone north for the queen and been caught up in the madness there. We looked for two days. When we couldn’t find a trace of you—hell, Matthew, we had no choice but to tell Philippe you had vanished. It was that or raise the alarm with the Congregation.”
“There’s more, milord.” Pierre flipped the letter over. The seal on it was like the others I associated with the Knights of Lazarus—except that the wax used here was a vivid swirl of black and red and an ancient silver coin had been pushed into its surface, the edges worn and thin, instead of the usual impression of the order’s seal. The coin was stamped with a cross and a crescent, two de Clermont family symbols.
“What did you tell him?” Matthew was transfixed by the pale moon of silver floating in its red-black sea.
“Our words are of little consequence now that this has arrived. You must be on French soil within the next week. Otherwise Philippe will set out for England,” Hancock mumbled.
“My father cannot come here, Hancock. It is impossible.”
“Of course it’s impossible. The queen would have his head after all he’s done to stir the pot of English politics. You must go to him. So long as you travel night and day, you will have plenty of time,” Hancock assured him.
“I can’t.” Matthew’s gaze was fixed on the unopened letter.
“Philippe will have horses waiting. You will be back before long,” Gallowglass murmured, resting his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.
Matthew looked up, eyes suddenly wild. “It’s not the distance. It’s—” Matthew stopped abruptly.
“He’s your mother’s husband, man. Surely you can trust Philippe—unless you’ve been lying to him as well.”
Hancock’s eyes narrowed. “Kit’s right. No one can trust me.” Matthew shot to his feet. “My life is a tissue of lies.”
“This isn’t the time or place for your philosophical nonsense, Matthew. Even now Philippe wonders if he has lost another son!” Gallowglass exclaimed. “Leave the girl with us, get on your horse, and do what your father commands. If you don’t, I’ll knock you out and Hancock will carry you there.”
“You must be very sure of yourself, Gallowglass, to issue me orders,” Matthew said, a dangerous edge to his tone. He braced his hands on the chimneypiece and stared into the fire.
“I’m sure of my grandfather. Ysabeau made you a wearh, but it is Philippe’s blood that courses through my veins.”
Gallowglass’s words wounded Matthew. His head snapped up when the blow landed, raw emotion overcoming his usual impassiveness.
“George, Tom, go upstairs and see to Kit,” Walter murmured, pointing his friends to the door. Raleigh inclined his head in Pierre’s direction, and Matthew’s servant joined in the efforts to get them out of the room. Calls for more wine and food echoed through the vestibule. Once the two were in Françoise’s care, Pierre returned, shut the door firmly, and placed himself before it. With only Walter, Henry, Hancock, and me there to bear witness to the conversation—along with the silent Pierre—Gallowglass continued his efforts with Matthew.
“You must go to Sept-Tours. He won’t rest until he claims your body for burial or you are standing before him, alive. Philippe doesn’t trust Elizabeth—or the Congregation.” Gallowglass intended his words to bring comfort this time, but Matthew’s air of remove remained.
Gallowglass made an exasperated sound. “Deceive the others—and yourself, if you must. Discuss alternatives all night if you wish. But Auntie’s right: It’s all shite.” Gallowglass’s voice dropped. “Your Diana doesn’t smell right. And you smell older than you did last week. I know the secret you’re both keeping. He’ll know it, too.”
Gallowglass had deduced that I was a timewalker. One look at Hancock told me that he had, too.
“Enough!” Walter barked.
Gallowglass and Hancock quieted immediately. The reason blinked on Walter’s little finger: a signet bearing the outlines of Lazarus and his coffin. “So you’re a knight, too,” I said, stunned.
“Yes,” said Walter tersely.
“And you outrank Hancock. What about Gallowglass?” There were too many overlapping layers of loyalty and allegiance in the room. I was desperate to organize them into a navigable structure.
“I outrank everyone in this room, madam, with the exception of your husband,” Raleigh cautioned. “And that includes you.”
“You have no authority over me,” I shot back. “Exactly what is your role in the de Clermont family’s business, Walter?”
Over my head, Raleigh’s angry blue eyes met Matthew’s. “Is she always like this?”
“Usually,” Matthew said drily. “It takes some getting used to, but I rather like it. You might, too, given time.”
“I already have one demanding woman in my life. I don’t need another,” Walter snorted. “If you must know, I command the brotherhood in England, Mistress Roydon. Matthew cannot do so, given his position on the Congregation. The other members of the family were otherwise occupied. Or they refused.” Walter’s eyes flickered to Gallowglass.
“So you’re one of the order’s eight provincial masters and report directly to Philippe,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you’re not the ninth knight.”
The ninth knight was a mysterious figure in the order, his identity kept secret from all except those at the very highest levels.
Raleigh swore so vehemently that Pierre gasped. “You keep the fact that you’re a spy and a member of the Congregation from your wife, yet you tell her the most private business of the brotherhood?”
“She asked,” Matthew said simply. “But I think that’s enough talk of the Order of Lazarus for tonight.”
“Your wife won’t be satisfied leaving it there. She will worry at this like a hound with a bone.” Raleigh crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.
“Very well. If you must know, Henry is the ninth knight. His unwillingness to embrace the Protestant faith makes him vulnerable to allegations of treason here in England, and in Europe he is an easy target for every malcontent who would like to see Her Majesty lose her throne. Philippe offered him the position to shield him from those who would abuse his trusting nature.”
“Henry? A rebel?” I looked at the gentle giant, stunned.
“I’m no rebel,” Henry said tightly. “But Philippe de Clermont’s protection has saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“The Earl of Northumberland is a powerful man, Diana,” Matthew said quietly, “which makes him a valuable pawn in the hands of an unscrupulous player.”
Gallowglass coughed. “Can we leave off talk of the brotherhood and return to more urgent matters? The Congregation will call on Matthew to calm the situation in Berwick. The queen will want him to stir it up further, because so long as the Scots are preoccupied with witches, they won’t be able to plan any mischief in England. Matthew’s new wife is facing witchcraft accusations at home. And his father has recalled him to France.”
“Christ,” Matthew said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What a tangled mess.”
“How do you propose we untangle it?” Walter demanded. “You say Philippe cannot come here, Gallowglass, but I fear that Matthew ought not go there either.”
“No one ever said that having three masters—and a wife—was going to be easy,” Hancock declared sourly.
“So which devil will it be, Matthew?” asked Gallowglass.
“If Philippe doesn’t receive the coin embedded in the letter’s seal from my own hand, and soon, he’ll come looking for me,” Matthew said hollowly. “It’s a test of loyalty. My father loves tests.”
“Your father does not doubt you. This misunderstanding will be set to rights when you see each other,” Henry maintained. When Matthew didn’t respond, Henry moved to fill the silence. “You are always telling me that I must have a plan, or else be pulled into the designs of other men. Tell us what must be done, and we will see to it.”
Without speaking, Matthew picked through options, discarding one after the other. It would have taken any other man days to sift through the possible moves and countermoves. For Matthew it took only minutes. There was little sign of the struggle on his face, but the bunching of his shoulder muscles and the distracted pass of his hand through his hair told another story.
“I’ll go,” he said at last. “Diana will stay here, with Gallowglass and Hancock. Walter will have to put off the queen with some excuse. And I’ll handle the Congregation.”
“Diana can’t remain in Woodstock,” Gallowglass told him firmly. “Not now that Kit’s been at work in the village, spreading his lies and asking questions about her. Without your presence neither the queen nor the Congregation will have any incentive to keep your wife from the magistrate.”
“We can go to London, Matthew,” I urged. “Together. It’s a big city. There will be too many witches for anyone to notice me—witches who aren’t afraid of power like mine—and messengers to take word to France that you’re safe. You don’t have to go.”
You don’t have to see your father again.
“London!” Hancock scoffed. “You wouldn’t last three days there, madam. Gallowglass and I will take you into Wales. We’ll go to Abergavenny.”
“No.” My eyes were drawn by the crimson stain at Matthew’s neck. “If Matthew is going to France, I’m going with him.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not dragging you through a war.”
“The war has quieted with the coming of winter,” said Walter. “Taking Diana to Sept-Tours may be for the best. Few are brave enough to tangle with you, Matthew. None at all will cross your father.”
“You have a choice,” I told him fiercely. Matthew’s friends and family weren’t going to use me to force him to France.
“Yes. And I choose you.” He traced my lip with this thumb. My heart sank. He was going to go to Sept-Tours.
“Don’t do this,” I implored him. I didn’t trust myself to say more for fear of betraying the fact that in our own time Philippe was dead, and that it would be torture for Matthew to see him alive again.
“Philippe told me that mating was destiny. Once I found you, there would be nothing to do but accept fate’s decision. But that’s not how it works at all. In every moment, for the rest of my life, I will be choosing you—over my father, over my own self-interest, even over the de Clermont family.” Matthew’s lips pressed against mine, silencing my protests. There was no mistaking the conviction in his kiss.
“It’s decided, then,” Gallowglass said softly.
Matthew’s eyes held mine. He nodded. “Yes. Diana and I will go home. Together.”
“There’s work to do, arrangements to be made,” Walter said. “Leave it to us. Your wife looks exhausted, and the journey will be taxing. You both should rest.”
Neither of us made any move toward bed once the men had gone off to the parlor.
“Our time in 1590 isn’t turning out quite as I hoped,” Matthew admitted. “It was supposed to be straightforward.”
“How could it possibly be straightforward, with the Congregation, the trials in Berwick, the Elizabethan intelligence service, and the Knights of Lazarus all vying for your attention?”
“Being a member of the Congregation and serving as a spy should be helps—not hindrances.” Matthew stared out the window. “I thought we’d come to the Old Lodge, use the services of Widow Beaton, find the manuscript in Oxford, and be gone within a few weeks.”
I bit my lip to keep from pointing out the flaws in his strategy—Walter, Henry, and Gallowglass had already done so repeatedly this evening—but my expression gave me away.
“It was shortsighted of me,” he said with a sigh. “And it’s not just establishing your credibility that’s a problem, or avoiding the obvious traps like witch trials and wars. I’m overwhelmed, too. The broad canvas of what I did for Elizabeth and the Congregation—and the countermoves I made on behalf of my father—that’s clear, but all the details have faded. I know the date, but not the day of the week. That means I’m not sure which messenger is due to arrive and where the next delivery will be made. I could have sworn I’d parted ways with Gallowglass and Hancock before Halloween.”
“The devil is always in the details,” I murmured. I brushed at the sooty track of dried blood that marked the passage of his tear. There were specks of it near the corner of his eye, a thin trace down his cheek. “I should have realized your father might contact you.”
“It was only a matter of time before his letter came. Whenever Pierre brings the mail, I steel myself. But the courier had already been and gone today. His handwriting took me by surprise, that’s all,” he explained. “I’d forgotten how strong it once was. When we got him back from the Nazis in 1944, his body was so broken that not even vampire blood could mend it. Philippe couldn’t hold a pen. He loved to write, and all he could manage was an illegible scrawl.” I knew of Philippe’s capture and captivity in World War II, but few details of what he’d suffered at the hands of the Nazis who had wanted to determine just how much pain a vampire could endure. “Maybe the goddess wanted us back in 1590 for more than just my benefit. Seeing Philippe again may reopen these old wounds of yours—and heal them.”
“Not before making them worse.” Matthew’s head dipped. “But in the end it might make them better.” I smoothed his hair over
his hard, stubborn skull. “You still haven’t opened your father’s letter.”
“I know what it says.”
“Perhaps you should open it anyway.”
At last Matthew slid his finger under the seal and broke it. The coin tumbled out of the wax, and he caught it in his palm. When he unfolded the thick paper, it released a faint scent of laurel and rosemary. “Is that Greek?” I asked, looking over his shoulder at the single line of text and a swirling rendition of the letter phi below.
“Yes.” Matthew traced the letters, making his first tentative contact with his father. “He commands me to come home. Immediately.”
“Can you bear seeing him again?”
“No. Yes.” Matthew’s fingers crumpled the page into his fist. “I don’t know.”
I took the page away from him, flattening it back into its rectangle. The coin sparkled in Matthew’s palm. It was such a small sliver of metal to have caused so much trouble.
“You won’t face him alone.” Standing by his side when he saw his dead father wasn’t much, but it was all I could do to ease his grief.
“Each of us is alone with Philippe. Some think my father can see into one’s very soul,” Matthew murmured. “It worries me to take you there. With Ysabeau I could predict how she would react: coldness, anger, then acquiescence. When it comes to Philippe, I have no idea. No one understands the way Philippe’s mind works, what information he possesses, what traps he’s laid. If I am secretive, then my father is inscrutable. Not even the Congregation knows what he’s up to, and God knows they spend enough time trying to figure it out.”
“It will be fine,” I reassured him. Philippe would have to accept me into the family. Like Matthew’s mother and brother, he would have no choice.
“Don’t think you can best him,” Matthew warned. “You may be like my mother, as Gallowglass said, but even she gets caught in his web from time to time.”
“And are you still a member of the Congregation in the present? Is that how you knew that Knox and Domenico were members?” The witch Peter Knox had been stalking me since the moment I called up Ashmole 782 at the Bodleian. As for Domenico Michele, he was a vampire with old animosities when it came to the de Clermonts. He’d been present at La Pierre before yet another member of the Congregation tortured me.
“No,” Matthew said shortly, turning away.
“So what Hancock said about a de Clermont always being on the Congregation is no longer true?” I held my breath. Say yes, I urged him silently, even if it’s a lie.
“It’s still true,” he said evenly, crushing my hope.
“Then who . . . ?” I trailed off. “Ysabeau? Baldwin? Surely not Marcus!”
I couldn’t believe that Matthew’s mother, his brother, or his son could be involved without someone letting it slip.
“There are creatures on my family tree that you don’t know, Diana. In any case, I’m not free to divulge the identity of the one who sits at the Congregation’s table.”
“Do any of the rules that bind the rest of us apply to your family?” I wondered. “You meddle in politics—I’ve seen the account books that prove it. Are you hoping that when we return to the present, this mysterious family member is going to somehow shield us from the Congregation’s wrath?”
“I don’t know,” Matthew said tightly. “I’m not sure of anything. Not anymore.”
Our plans for departure took shape quickly. Walter and Gallowglass argued about the best route, while Matthew set his affairs in order.
Hancock was dispatched to London with Henry and a leather-wrapped packet of correspondence. As a peer of the realm, the earl was required at court for the celebrations of the queen’s anniversary on the seventeenth of November. George and Tom were packed off to Oxford with a substantial sum of money and a disgraced Marlowe. Hancock warned them of the dire consequences that would ensue if the daemon caused any more trouble. Matthew might be far away, but Hancock would be within sword’s reach and would not hesitate to strike if it was warranted. In addition, Matthew instructed George on exactly what questions about alchemical manuscripts he could ask the scholars of Oxford.
My own affairs were far simpler to arrange. I had few personal items to pack: Ysabeau’s earrings, my new shoes, a few items of clothing. Françoise turned all her attention to making me a sturdy, cinnamon-colored gown for the journey. Its high, fur-lined collar was designed to fasten closely and keep out the winds and rain. The silky fox pelts that Françoise stitched into the lining of my cloak would serve the same purpose, as would the bands of fur she inserted into the embroidered edges of my new gloves.
My last act at the Old Lodge was to take the book Matthew had given me to the library. It would be easy to lose such an item on the way to SeptTours, and I wanted my diary to be as safe from prying eyes as possible. I stooped to the rushes and picked up sprigs of rosemary and lavender. Then I went to Matthew’s desk and selected a quill and a pot of ink and made one final entry.
5 November 1590 cold rain
News from home. We are preparing for a journey.
After blowing gently on the words to set the ink, I slipped the rosemary and lavender into the crevice between the pages. My aunt used rosemary for memory spells and lavender to breathe a note of caution into love charms—a fitting combination for our present circumstances.
“Wish us luck, Sarah,” I whispered as I slid the small volume into the end of the shelf, in hopes that it would still be there should I return.
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