A Discovery Of Witches Part 60

"Stephen Proctor could travel in time?" Matthew's voice a.s.sumed the deliberate evenness it often did when magic was mentioned.

Sarah nodded. "Yes. Stephen went to the past or the future at least once a year, usually after the annual anthropologists' convention in December."

"There's something on the back of Rebecca's letter." Em bent her neck to see underneath the page.

Matthew quickly flipped it over. "I dropped the page to get you outside before the witchwater broke. I didn't see this. It's not your mother's handwriting," he said, pa.s.sing it to me.

The handwriting on the penciled note had elongated loops and spiky peaks. "Remember, Diana: 'The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.'" "Remember, Diana: 'The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.'" I' d seen that hand somewhere before. In the recesses of my memory, I flipped through images trying to locate its source but without success. I' d seen that hand somewhere before. In the recesses of my memory, I flipped through images trying to locate its source but without success.

"Who would have written a quote from Albert Einstein on the back of Mom's note?" I asked Sarah and Em, angling the page to face them and struck again by its familiarity.

"That looks like your dad. He took calligraphy lessons. Rebecca poked fun at him for it. It made his handwriting look so old-fas.h.i.+oned."

Slowly I turned the page over, scrutinizing the writing again. It did look nineteenth-century in style, like the handwriting of the clerks employed to compile the catalogs in the Bodleian back during Victoria's reign. I stiffened, looked more closely at the writing, shook my head.

"No, it's not possible." There was no way my father could have been one of those clerks, no way he could have written the nineteenth-century subt.i.tle on Ashmole 782.

But my father could timewalk. And the message from Einstein was unquestionably meant for me. I dropped the page onto the table and put my head in my hands.

Matthew sat next to me and waited. When Sarah made an impatient sound, he silenced her with a decisive gesture. Once my mind stopped spinning, I spoke.

"There were two inscriptions on the first page of the ma.n.u.script. One was in ink, written by Elias Ashmole: 'Anthropologia, or a treatis containing a short description of Man.' The other was in a different hand, in pencil: ' The other was in a different hand, in pencil: 'in two parts: the first Anatomical, the second Psychological.'"

"The second inscription had to be written much later," Matthew observed. "There was no such thing as 'psychology' during Ashmole's lifetime."

"I thought it dated from the nineteenth century." I pulled my father's note toward me. "But this makes me think my father wrote it."

The room fell silent.

"Touch the words," Sarah finally suggested. "See what else they say."

My fingers pa.s.sed lightly over the penciled letters. Images bloomed from the page, of my father in a dark frock coat with wide lapels and a high black cravat, crouched over a desk covered with books. There were other images, too, of him in his study at home wearing his familiar corduroy jacket, scrawling a note with a No. 2 pencil while my mother looked over his shoulder, weeping.

"It was him." My fingers lifted from the page, shaking visibly.

Matthew took my hand in his. "That's enough bravery for one day, ma lionne ma lionne."

"But your father didn't remove the chemical wedding from the book at the Bodleian," mused Em, "so what was he doing there?"

"Stephen Proctor was bewitching Ashmole 782 so that no one but his daughter could call it from the stacks." Matthew sounded sure.

"So that's why the spell recognized me. But why didn't it behave the same way when I recalled it?"

"You didn't need it. Oh, you wanted wanted it," Matthew said with a wry smile when I opened my mouth to protest, "but that's different. Remember, your parents bound your magic so that your power couldn't be forced from you. The spell on the ma.n.u.script was no different." it," Matthew said with a wry smile when I opened my mouth to protest, "but that's different. Remember, your parents bound your magic so that your power couldn't be forced from you. The spell on the ma.n.u.script was no different."

"When I first called Ashmole 782, all I needed was to check the next item off my to-do list. It's hard to believe that something so insignificant could trigger such a reaction."

"Your mother and father couldn't have foreseen everything-such as the fact that you would be a historian of alchemy and would regularly work at the Bodleian. Could Rebecca timewalk, too?" Matthew asked Sarah.

"No. It's rare, of course, and the most adept timewalkers are well versed in witchcraft as well. Without the right spells and precautions, you can easily end up somewhere you don't want to be, no matter how much power you have."

"Yes," Matthew said drily. "I can think of any number of times and places you would want to avoid."

"Rebecca went with Stephen sometimes, but he had to carry her." Sarah smiled at Em. "Do you remember Vienna? Stephen decided he was going to take her waltzing. He spent a full year figuring out which bonnet she should wear for the journey."

"You need three objects from the particular time and place you want to travel back to. They keep you from getting lost," Em continued. "If you want to go to the future, you have to use witchcraft, because it's the only way to direct yourself."

Sarah picked up the picture of the chemical wedding, no longer interested in timewalking. "What's the unicorn for?"

"Forget the unicorn, Sarah," I said impatiently. "Daddy couldn't have wanted me to go back in the past and get the ma.n.u.script. What did he think, that I'd timewalk and s.n.a.t.c.h it before it was bewitched? What if I ran into Matthew by accident? Surely that would mess up the time-s.p.a.ce continuum."

"Oh, relativity." Sarah's voice was dismissive. "As an explanation that only goes so far."

"Stephen always said timewalking was like changing trains," Em said. "You get off one train, then wait at the station until there's a place for you on a different train. When you timewalk, you depart from the here and now and you're held out of time until there's room for you sometime else."

"That's similar to the way vampires change lives," Matthew mused. "We abandon one life-arrange a death, a disappearance, a change of residence-and look for another one. You'd be amazed at how easily people walk away from their homes, jobs, and families."

"Surely someone notices that the John Smith they knew last week doesn't look the same," I protested.

"That's even more amazing," Matthew admitted. "So long as you pick carefully, no one says a word. A few years in the Holy Land, a life-threatening illness, the likelihood of losing an inheritance-all provide excellent excuses for creatures and humans to turn a blind eye."

"Well, whether it's possible or not, I can't timewalk. It wasn't on the DNA report."

"Of course you can timewalk. You've been doing it since you were a child." Sarah sounded smug as she discredited Matthew's scientific findings. "The first time you were three. Your parents were scared to death, the police were called out-it was quite a scene. Four hours later they found you sitting in the kitchen high chair eating a slice of birthday cake. You must have been hungry and gone back to your own birthday party. After that, whenever you disappeared, we figured you were sometime else and you'd turn up. And you disappeared a lot."

My alarm at the thought of a toddler traveling through time gave way to the realization that I had the power to answer any historical question. I brightened considerably.

Matthew had already figured this out and was waiting patiently for me to catch up. "No matter what your father wanted, you aren't going back to 1859," he said firmly, turning the chair around so I faced him. "Time is not something you're going to meddle with. Understood?"

Even after a.s.suring him that I would stay in the present, no one left me alone for an instant. The three of them silently pa.s.sed me from one to the other in ch.o.r.eography worthy of Broadway. Em followed me upstairs to make sure there were towels, though I knew perfectly well where the linen closet was. When I came out of the bathroom, Matthew was lying on the bed fiddling with his phone. He stayed upstairs when I went down to make a cup of tea, knowing that Sarah and Em would be waiting for me in the family room.

Marthe's tin was in my hands, and I felt guilty for missing yesterday and breaking my promise to her. Determined to have some tea today, I filled the kettle and opened the black metal box. The smell of rue triggered a sharp recollection of being swept into the air by Satu. Gripping the lid more tightly, I focused on the other scents and happier memories of Sept-Tours. I missed its gray stone walls, the gardens, Marthe, Rakasa-even Ysabeau.

"Where did you get that, Diana?" Sarah came in the kitchen and pointed at the tin.

"Marthe and I made it."

"That's his mother's housekeeper? The one who made the medicine for your back?"

"Marthe is is Ysabeau's Ysabeau's housekeeper, yes." I put a slight emphasis on their proper names. "Vampires have names, just like witches. You need to learn them." housekeeper, yes." I put a slight emphasis on their proper names. "Vampires have names, just like witches. You need to learn them."

Sarah sniffed. "I would have thought you'd go to the doctor for a prescription, not depend on old herbal lore."

"Dr. Fowler will fit you in if you want something more reliable." Em had come in, too. "Not even Sarah is much of an advocate of herbal contraception."

I hid my confusion by plopping a tea bag into the mug, keeping my mind blank and my face hidden. "This is fine. There's no need to see Dr. Fowler."

"True. Not if you're sleeping with a vampire. They can't reproduce-not in any way that contraception is going to prevent. All you have to watch out for is teeth on your neck."

"I know, Sarah."

But I didn't. Why had Marthe taught me so carefully how to make a completely unnecessary tea? Matthew had been clear that he couldn't father children as warmbloods did. Despite my promise to Marthe, I dumped the half-steeped cup down the sink and threw the bag in the trash. The tin went on the top shelf in the cupboard, where it would be safely out of sight.

By late afternoon, in spite of many conversations about the note, the letter, and the picture, we were no closer to understanding the mystery of Ashmole 782 and my father's connection to it. My aunts started to make dinner, which meant that Em roasted a chicken while Sarah drank a gla.s.s of bourbon and criticized the quant.i.ty of vegetables being prepared. Matthew prowled around the kitchen island, uncharacteristically restless.

"Come on," he said, grabbing my hand. "You need some exercise."

It was he who needed fresh air, not I, but the prospect of going outdoors was enticing. A search in the mudroom closet revealed an old pair of my running shoes. They were worn, but they fit better than Sarah's boots.

We made it as far as the first apple trees before Matthew swung me around and pressed me between his body and one of the old, gnarled trunks. The low canopy of branches s.h.i.+elded us from the house's sight.

Despite my being trapped, there was no answering rush of witchwind. There were plenty of other feelings, though.

"Christ, that house is crowded," Matthew said, pausing just long enough to get the words out before refastening his lips on mine.

We'd had too little time alone since he'd returned from Oxford. It seemed a lifetime ago, but it was only days. One of his hands slid into the waistband of my jeans, his fingers cool against my bare flesh. I s.h.i.+vered with pleasure, and he drew me closer, his other hand locating the rounded curves of my breast. We pressed the length of our bodies against each other, but he kept looking for new ways to connect.

Finally there was only one possibility left. For a moment it seemed Matthew intended to consummate our marriage the old-fas.h.i.+oned way-standing up, outdoors, in a blinding rush of physical need. His control returned, however, and he pulled away.

"Not like this," he rasped, his eyes black.

"I don't care." I pulled him back against me.

"I do." There was a soft, ragged expulsion of air as Matthew breathed a vampire's sigh. "When we make love for the first time, I want you to myself-not surrounded by other people. And I'll want you for more than the few s.n.a.t.c.hed moments we'd have now, believe me."

"I want you, too," I said, "and I'm not known for my patience."

His lips drew up into a smile, and he made a soft sound of agreement.

Matthew's thumb stroked the hollow in my throat, and my blood leaped. He put his lips where his thumb had been, pressing them softly against the outward sign of the vitality that pulsed beneath the surface. He traced a vein up the side of my neck toward my ear.

"I'm enjoying learning where you like to be touched. Like here." Matthew kissed behind my ear. "And here." His lips moved to my eyelids, and I made a soft sound of pleasure. "And here." He ran his thumb over my lower lip.

"Matthew," I whispered, my eyes pleading.

"What, mon coeur mon coeur?" He watched, fascinated, as his touch drew fresh blood to the surface.

I didn't answer but pulled him to me, unconcerned with the cold, the growing darkness, and the rough bark beneath my sore back. We remained there until Sarah called from the porch.

"You didn't get very far, did you?" Her snort carried clear across the field. "That hardly qualifies as exercise."

Feeling like a schoolgirl caught necking in the driveway, I pulled my sweats.h.i.+rt into the proper position and headed back to the house. Matthew chuckled and followed.

"You look pleased with yourself," Sarah said when he stepped into the kitchen. Standing under the bright lights, he was every inch a vampire-and a self-satisfied one, at that. But his eyes were no longer restless, and for that I was grateful.

"Leave him alone." Em's voice was uncharacteristically sharp. She handed me the salad and pointed me to the table in the family room where we usually ate. "We saw a fair amount of that apple tree ourselves while Diana was growing up."

"Hmph," Sarah said. She picked up three winegla.s.ses and waved them in Matthew's direction. "Got any more of that wine, Casanova?"

"I'm French, Sarah, not Italian. And I'm a vampire. I always have wine," Matthew said with a wicked smile. "There's no danger of running out either. Marcus will bring more. He's not French-or Italian either, alas-but his education compensated for it."

We sat around the table, and the three witches proceeded to demolish Em's roast chicken and potatoes. Tabitha sat next to Matthew, her tail swis.h.i.+ng flirtatiously across his feet every few minutes. He kept the wine flowing into Sarah's gla.s.s, and I sipped at my own. Em asked repeatedly if he wanted to taste anything, but Matthew declined.

"I'm not hungry, Emily, but thank you."

"Is there anything at all that you would would eat?" Em wasn't used to people refusing her food. eat?" Em wasn't used to people refusing her food.

"Nuts," I said firmly. "If you have to buy him food, get him nuts."

Em hesitated. "What about raw meat?"

Matthew grabbed my hand and squeezed it before I could reply. "If you want to feed me, uncooked meat would be just fine. I like broth, too-plain, no vegetables."

"Is that what your son and colleague eat, too, or are these just your favorite foods?"

Matthew's impatience with my earlier questions about his lifestyle and dining habits made sense to me now.

"It's pretty standard vampire fare when we're among warmbloods." Matthew released my hand and poured himself more wine.

"You must hang out at bars a lot, what with the wine and nuts," Sarah observed.

Em put her fork down and stared at her.

"What?" Sarah demanded.

"Sarah Bishop, if you embarra.s.s us in front of Matthew's son, I'll never forgive you."

My resulting fit of giggles quickly turned into full-blown laughter. Sarah was the first to join in, followed by Em. Matthew sat and smiled as if he'd been dropped into a lunatic asylum but was too polite to mention it.

When the laughter subsided, he turned to Sarah. "I was wondering if I could borrow your stillroom to a.n.a.lyze the pigments used in the picture of the chemical wedding. Maybe they can tell us where and when it was made."

"You're not going to remove anything from that picture." The historian in me rose up in horror at the thought.

"It won't come to any harm," Matthew said mildly. "I do know how to a.n.a.lyze tiny pieces of evidence."

"No! We should leave it alone until we know what we're dealing with."

"Don't be so prim, Diana. Besides, it's a bit late for that when it was you who sent the book back." Sarah stood, her eyes brightening. "Let's see if the cookbook can help."

"Well, well," Em said under her breath. "You're one of the family now, Matthew."

Sarah disappeared into the stillroom and returned holding a leather-bound book the size of a family Bible. Within its covers was all the learning and lore of the Bishops, handed down from witch to witch for nearly four hundred years. The first name in the book was Rebecca, accompanied by the date 1617 in an ornate, round hand. Other names were sprawled down the first page in two columns, each one in a slightly different ink with a different date attached to it. The names continued onto the back of the sheet as well, with Susannahs, Elizabeths, Margarets, Rebeccas, and Sarahs dominating the list. My aunt never showed anybody this book-not even other witches. You had to be family to see her "cookbook."

"What is that, Sarah?" Matthew's nostrils flared at the scent of old paper, herbs, and smoke that was released as Sarah splayed its covers open.

"The Bishop grimoire." She pointed to the first name. "It first belonged to Rebecca Davies, Bridget Bishop's grandmother, then to her mother, Rebecca Playfer. Bridget handed the book down to her first daughter, born out of wedlock in England around 1650. Bridget was still in her teens at the time, and she named her daughter after her mother and grandmother. Unable to care for the girl, Bridget gave her up to a family in London. " Sarah made a soft sound of disgust. "The rumors of her immorality haunted her for the rest of her life. Later her daughter Rebecca joined her and worked in her mother's tavern. Bridget was on her second husband then, and had another daughter named Christian."

"And you're descended from Christian Bishop?" Matthew asked.