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  “First I need to hear her account,” Philippe said. He looked at me and lifted his eyebrows.

  “We met by chance. I knew she was a witch, but the bond between us was undeniable,” Matthew said. “Her own people have turned on her—”

  A hand that might have been mistaken for a paw rose in a gesture commanding quiet. Philippe returned his attention to his son.

  “Matthaios.” Philippe’s lazy drawl had the efficiency of a slow-moving whip, silencing his son immediately. “Am I to understand that you need my protection?”

  “Of course not,” Matthew said indignantly.

  “Then hush and let the witch speak.”

  Intent on giving Matthew’s father what he wanted so that we could get out of his unnerving presence as quickly as possible, I considered how best to recount our recent adventures. Rehearsing every detail would take too long, and the chances that Matthew might explode in the meantime were excellent. I took a deep breath and began.

  “My name is Diana Bishop, and my parents were both powerful witches. Other witches killed them when they were far from home, when I was still a child. Before they died, they spellbound me. My mother was a seer, and she knew what was to come.”

  Philippe’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. I understood his caution. It was still difficult for me to understand why two people who loved me had broken the witches’ ethical code and placed their only daughter in magical shackles.

  “Growing up, I was a family disgrace—a witch who couldn’t light a candle or perform a spell properly. I turned my back on the Bishops and went to university.” With this revelation Matthew began to shift uneasily in his seat. “I studied the history of alchemy.”

  “Diana studies the art of alchemy,” Matthew corrected, shooting me a warning glance. But his convoluted half-truths wouldn’t satisfy his father.

  “I’m a timewalker.” The word hung in the air between the three of us. “You call it a fileuse de temps.”

  “Oh, I am well aware of what you are,” Philippe said in the same lazy tone. A fleeting look of surprise touched Matthew’s face. “I have lived a long time, madame, and have known many creatures. You are not from this time, nor the past, so you must be from the future. And Matthaios traveled back with you, for he is not the same man he was eight months ago. The Matthew I know would never have looked twice at a witch.” The vampire drew in a deep breath. “My grandson warned me that you both smelled very odd.”

  “Philippe, let me explain—” But Matthew was not destined to finish his sentences this evening.

  “As troubling as many aspects of this situation are, I am glad to see that we can look forward to a sensible attitude toward shaving in the years to come.” Philippe idly scratched his own neatly clipped beard and mustache. “Beards are a sign of lice, not wisdom, after all.”

  “I’m told Matthew looks like an invalid.” I drew a tired sigh. “But I don’t know a spell to fix it.”

  Philippe waved my words away. “A beard is easy enough to arrange. You were telling me of your interest in alchemy.”

  “Yes. I found a book—one that many others have sought. I met Matthew when he came to steal it from me, but he couldn’t because I’d already let it out of my hands. Every creature for miles was after me then. I had to stop working!”

  A sound that might have been suppressed laughter set a muscle in Philippe’s jaw throbbing. It was, I discovered, hard to tell with lions whether they were amused or about to pounce.

  “We think it’s the book of origins,” Matthew said. His expression was proud, though my calling of the manuscript had been completely accidental. “It came looking for Diana. By the time the other creatures realized what she’d found, I was already in love.”

  “So this went on for some time, then.” Philippe tented his fingers in front of his chin, resting his elbows on the edges of the table. He was sitting on a simple four-legged stool, even though a splendid, thronelike eyesore sat empty next to him.

  “No,” I said after doing some calculations, “just a fortnight. Matthew wouldn’t admit to his feelings for the longest time, though—not until we were at Sept-Tours. But it wasn’t safe here either. One night I left Matthew’s bed and went outside. A witch took me from the gardens.”

  Philippe’s eyes darted from me to Matthew. “There was a witch inside the walls of Sept-Tours?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew tersely.

  “Down into them,” I corrected gently, capturing his father’s attention once more. “I don’t believe any witch’s foot ever touched the ground, if that’s important. Well, mine did, of course.”

  “Of course,” Philippe acknowledged with a tip of his head. “Continue.”

  “She took me to La Pierre. Domenico was there. So was Gerbert.” The look on Philippe’s face told me that neither the castle nor the two vampires who had met me inside it were unfamiliar.

  “Curses, like chickens, come home to roost,” Philippe murmured.

  “It was the Congregation who ordered my abduction, and a witch named Satu tried to force the magic from me. When she failed, Satu threw me into the oubliette.”

  Matthew’s hand strayed to the small of my back as it always did when that night was mentioned. Philippe watched the movement but said nothing.

  “After I escaped, I couldn’t stay at Sept-Tours and put Ysabeau in danger. There was all this magic coming out of me, you see, and powers I couldn’t control. Matthew and I went home, to my aunts’ house.” I paused, searching for a way to explain where that house was. “You know the legends told by Gallowglass’s people, about lands across the ocean to the west?” Philippe nodded. “That’s where my aunts live. More or less.”

  “And these aunts are both witches?”

  “Yes. Then a manjasang came to kill Matthew—one of Gerbert’s creatures—and she nearly succeeded. There was nowhere we could go that would be beyond the Congregation’s reach, except the past.” I paused, shocked at the venomous look that Philippe gave Matthew. “But we haven’t found a haven here. People in Woodstock know I’m a witch, and the trials in Scotland might affect our lives in Oxfordshire. So we’re on the run again.” I reviewed the outlines of the story, making sure I hadn’t left out anything important. “That’s my tale.”

  “You have a talent for relating complicated information quickly and succinctly, madame. If you would be so kind as to share your methods with Matthew, it would be a service to the family. We spend more than we should on paper and quills.” Philippe considered his fingertips for a moment, then stood with a vampiric efficiency that turned a simple movement into an explosion. One minute he was seated, and then, the next, his muscles sprang into action so that all six feet of him suddenly, and startlingly, loomed over the table. The vampire fixed his attention on his son.

  “This is a dangerous game you are playing, Matthew, one with everything to lose and very little to gain. Gallowglass sent a message after you parted. The rider took a different route and arrived before you did. While you’ve been taking your time getting here, the king of Scotland has arrested hundreds of witches and imprisoned them in Edinburgh. The Congregation no doubt thinks you are on your way there to persuade King James to drop this matter.”

  “All the more reason for you to give Diana your protection,” Matthew said tightly.

  “Why should I?” Philippe’s cold countenance dared him to say it.

  “Because I love her. And because you tell me that’s what the Order of Lazarus is for: protecting those who cannot protect themselves.”

  “I protect other manjasang, not witches!”

  “Maybe you should take a more expansive view,” Matthew said stubbornly. “Manjasang can normally take care of themselves.”

  “You know very well that I cannot protect this woman, Matthew. All of Europe is feuding over matters of faith, and warmbloods are seeking scapegoats for their present troubles. Inevitably they turn to the creatures around them. Yet you knowingly brought this woman—a woman you claim is your mate and a witch by
blood—into this madness. No.” Philippe shook his head vehemently. “You may think you can brazen it out, but I will not put the family at risk by provoking the Congregation and ignoring the terms of the covenant.”

  “Philippe, you must—”

  “Don’t use that word with me.” A finger jabbed in Matthew’s direction. “Set your affairs in order and return whence you came. Ask me for help there—or better yet, ask the witch’s aunts. Don’t bring your troubles into the past where they don’t belong.”

  But there was no Philippe for Matthew to lean on in the twenty-first century. He was gone—dead and buried.

  “I have never asked you for anything, Philippe. Until now.” The air in the room dropped several dangerous degrees.

  “You should have foreseen my response, Matthaios, but as usual you were not thinking. What if your mother were here? What if bad weather hadn’t struck Trier? You know she despises witches.” Philippe stared at his son. “It would take a small army to keep her from tearing this woman limb from limb, and I don’t have one to spare at the moment.”

  First it had been Ysabeau who’d wished me out of her son’s life. Baldwin had made no effort to hide his disdain. Matthew’s friend Hamish was wary of me, and Kit openly disliked me. Now it was Philippe’s turn. I stood and waited for Matthew’s father to look at me. When he did, I met his eyes squarely. His flickered with surprise.

  “Matthew couldn’t anticipate this, Monsieur de Clermont. He trusted you to stand with him, though his faith was misplaced in this case.” I took a steadying breath. “I would be grateful if you would let me stay at SeptTours tonight. Matthew hasn’t slept for weeks, and he is more likely to do so in a familiar place. Tomorrow I will return to England—without Matthew, if necessary.”

  One of my new curls tumbled onto my left temple. I reached up to push it away and found my wrist in Philippe de Clermont’s grip. By the time I had registered my new position, Matthew was next to his father, palms on his shoulders.

  “Where did you get that?” Philippe was gazing at the ring on the third finger of my left hand. Ysabeau’s ring. Philippe’s eyes turned feral, sought out mine. His fingers tightened on my wrist until the bones started to give way. “She would never have given my ring to another, not while we both lived.”

  “She lives, Philippe.” Matthew’s words were fast and rough, meant to convey information rather than reassurance.

  “But if Ysabeau is alive, then . . .” Philippe trailed off into silence. For a moment he looked dumbfounded before understanding crept over his features. “So I am not immortal after all. And you cannot seek me out when and where these troubles began.”

  “No.” Matthew forced the syllable past his lips.

  “Yet you left your mother to face your enemies?” Philippe’s expression was savage.

  “Marthe is with her. Baldwin and Alain will make certain that she comes to no harm.” Matthew’s words now came in a soothing stream, but his father still held my fingers. They were growing numb.

  “And Ysabeau gave my ring to a witch? How extraordinary. It looks well on her, though,” Philippe said absently, turning my hand toward the firelight.

  “Maman thought it would,” said Matthew softly.

  “When—” Philippe took a deliberate breath and shook his head. “No. Don’t tell me. No creature should know his own death.”

  My mother had foreseen her gruesome end and my father’s, too. Cold, exhausted, and haunted by my own memories, I started to tremble. Matthew’s father seemed oblivious to it, staring down at our hands, but his son was not.

  “Let her go, Philippe,” Matthew commanded.

  Philippe looked into my eyes and sighed with disappointment. Despite the ring, I was not his beloved Ysabeau. He withdrew his hand, and I stepped back, well beyond Philippe’s long reach.

  “Now that you have heard her tale, will you give Diana your protection?” Matthew searched his father’s face.

  “Is that what you want, madame?”

  I nodded, my fingers curling around the carved arm of the nearby chair.

  “Then yes, the Knights of Lazarus will ensure her well-being.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Matthew’s hands tightened on Philippe’s shoulder, and then he headed back in my direction. “Diana is tired. We will see you in the morning.”

  “Absolutely not.” Philippe’s voice cracked across the room. “Your witch is under my roof and in my care. She will not be sharing a bed with you.”

  Matthew took my hand in his. “Diana is far from home, Philippe. She’s not familiar with this part of the castle.”

  “She will not be staying in your rooms, Matthew.”

  “Why not?” I asked, frowning at Matthew and his father in turn.

  “Because the two of you are not mated, no matter what pretty lies Matthew told you. And thank the gods for that. Perhaps we can avert disaster after all.”

  “Not mated?” I asked numbly.

  “Exchanging promises and accepting a manjasang bond do not make an inviolable agreement, madame.”

  “He’s my husband in every way that matters,” I said, color flooding into my cheeks. After I told Matthew I loved him, he had assured me that we were mated.

  “You’re not properly married either—at least not in a way to stand up to scrutiny,” Philippe continued, “and there will be plenty of that if you keep up this pretense. Matthew always did spend more time in Paris brooding over his metaphysics than studying the law. In this case, my son, your instinct should have told you what was necessary even if your intellect did not.”

  “We swore oaths to each other before we left. Matthew gave me Ysabeau’s ring.” We’d been through a kind of ceremony during those last minutes in Madison. My mind raced over the sequence of events to find the loophole.

  “What constitutes a manjasang mating is the same thing that silences all objections to a marriage when priests, lawyers, enemies, and rivals come calling: physical consummation.” Philippe’s nostrils flared. “And you are not yet joined in that way. Your scents are not only odd but entirely distinct— like two separate creatures instead of one. Any manjasang would know you are not fully mated. Gerbert and Domenico certainly knew it as soon as Diana was in their presence. So did Baldwin.”

  “We are married and mated. There is no need for any proof other than my assurances. As for the rest, it is none of your affair, Philippe,” Matthew said, putting his body firmly between me and his father.

  “Oh, Matthaios, we are long past that.” Philippe sounded tired. “Diana is an unmarried, fatherless woman, and I see no brothers in the room to stand for her. She is entirely my affair.”

  “We are married in the eyes of God.”

  “And yet you waited to take her. What are you waiting for, Matthew? A sign? She wants you. I can tell by the way she looks at you. For most men that’s enough.” Philippe’s eyes pinned his son and me in turn. Reminded of Matthew’s strange reluctance on this score, worry and doubt spread through me like poison.

  “We’ve not known each other long. Even so, I know I will be with her—and only her—for my whole life. She is my mate. You know what the ring says, Philippe: ‘a ma vie de coer entier.’”

  “Giving a woman your whole life is meaningless without giving her your whole heart as well. You should pay more attention to the conclusion of that love token, not just the beginning.”

  “She has my heart,” Matthew said.

  “Not all of it. If she did, every member of the Congregation would be dead, the covenant would be broken forever, and you would be where you belong and not in this room,” Philippe said bluntly. “I don’t know what constitutes marriage in this future of yours, but in the present moment it is something worth dying for.”

  “Shedding blood in Diana’s name is not the answer to our current difficulties.” Despite centuries of experience with his father, Matthew stubbornly refused to admit to what I already knew: There was no way to win an argument with Philippe de Clermont.

  “Doe
s a witch’s blood not count?” Both men turned to me in surprise. “You’ve killed a witch, Matthew. And I’ve killed a vampire—a manjasang—rather than lose you. Since we are sharing secrets tonight, your father may as well know the truth.” Gillian Chamberlain and Juliette Durand were two casualties in the escalating hostilities caused by our relationship.

  “And you think there is time for courtship? For a man who considers himself learned, Matthew, your stupidity is breathtaking,” Philippe said, disgusted. Matthew took his father’s insult without flinching, then played his trump card.

  “Ysabeau accepted Diana as her daughter,” he said.

  But Philippe would not be so easily swayed.

  “Neither your God nor your mother has ever succeeded in making you face the consequences of your actions. Apparently that hasn’t changed.” Philippe braced his hands on the desk and called for Alain. “Since you are not mated, no permanent damage has been done. This matter can be set to rights before anyone finds out and the family is ruined. I will send to Lyon for a witch to help Diana better understand her power. You can inquire after her book while I do, Matthew. Then you are both going home, where you will forget about this indiscretion and move on with your separate lives.”

  “Diana and I are going to my rooms. Together. Or so help me—”

  “Before you finish delivering that threat, be very sure that you have sufficient might to back it up,” Philippe replied dispassionately. “The girl sleeps alone and near me.”

  A draft told me the door had opened. It carried with it a distinct whiff of wax and cracked pepper. Alain’s cold eyes darted around, taking in Matthew’s anger and the unrelenting look on Philippe’s face.

  “You have been outmaneuvered, Matthaios,” Philippe said to his son. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing with yourself, but it has made you soft. Come now. Concede the field, kiss your witch, and say your good-nights. Alain, take this woman to Louisa’s room. She is in Vienna—or Venice. I cannot keep up with that girl and her endless wanderings.

  “As for you,” Philippe continued, casting amber eyes over his son, “you will go downstairs and wait for me in the hall until I am finished writing to Gallowglass and Raleigh. It has been some time since you were home, and your friends want to know whether Elizabeth Tudor has two heads and three breasts as is widely claimed.”

  Unwilling to relinquish his territory completely, Matthew put his fingers under my chin, looked deep into my eyes, and kissed me rather more thoroughly than his father apparently expected.

  “That will be all, Diana,” Philippe said, sharply dismissive, when Matthew was finished.

  “Come, madame,” Alain said, gesturing toward the door.

  Awake and alone in another woman’s bed, I listened to the crying wind, turning over all that had happened. There was too much subterfuge