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  Phoebe leaned forward, eager to know what this treasure was. It couldn’t be long life—Phoebe had that now.

  Françoise, like most taciturn individuals, enjoyed having an attentive audience. She had also mastered the art of the dramatic pause. She picked up her bottle of lavender water and spritzed a pillowcase with it. Then she wielded the hot iron with the same quick expertise with which she did everything else in the house.

  Phoebe waited, as unusually patient as Françoise was unusually forthcoming.

  “Freedom,” Françoise said at last. She took up another pillowcase and let her words sink in.

  “No one pays any attention to me,” Françoise continued. “I can do as I please. Live, die, work, rest, fall in love—and out of it, too. Everybody is watching you, waiting for you to fail. Wondering if you will succeed. Come August, you’ll have Milord Marcus back in your bed, but you’ll have the eyes of the Congregation on you, too. After word spreads of your engagement, every vampire on earth will be curious about you. You’ll never have a moment’s peace or freedom in your life—which, God willing, will be long.”

  Phoebe stopped her nervous shifting, and the room was so quiet that even a warmblood could have heard a pin drop.

  “But you need not worry.” Françoise folded the smooth pillowcase into a sharp-edged rectangle before taking another damp one from the basket. “You will not have liberty, but you will succeed at your job—because I will be doing my job, protecting you from those who would do you harm.”

  “Excuse me?” This was news to Phoebe.

  “All newly reborn vampires need someone like me to take care of them—and older ones, too, when they are in society. I dressed Madame Ysabeau, and Miladies Freyja and Verin.” Françoise took no notice of Phoebe’s startled reaction. “I took care of Milady Stasia back in the winter of 802, when she was taken ill with the ennui and would not leave her house, not even to hunt.”

  Françoise finished her pillowcase and took up a sheet. The hot iron hissed and spit against the damp cloth. Phoebe held her breath. This was more ancient de Clermont history than she had ever heard before, and she did not wish to interrupt.

  “I attended on madame when she was in the past with Sieur Matthew, and made sure she did not come to harm when he was about town on business. I kept house for Milady Johanna after Milord Godfrey died in the wars, when she was in a rage and wished to die. I have cooked and cleaned for Sieur Baldwin, and helped Alain take care of Sieur Philippe when he came home from the Nazis a broken man.”

  Françoise fixed her dark eyes on Phoebe. “Aren’t you glad now that this is the life I chose: taking care of this family? Because without me, you would be eaten up, spit out, and ground under the heels of every vampire you meet, and Milord Marcus with you.”

  Phoebe wasn’t glad, precisely, although the more Françoise spoke the more grateful she was for the advice the woman was delivering. And she still couldn’t understand why anyone with her full faculties—which Françoise obviously possessed—would choose to look after other people. Phoebe supposed it wasn’t dissimilar to Marcus’s choice of medicine, but he’d gone to years and years of schooling for that and it seemed somehow more worthy than Françoise’s path.

  The more she considered Françoise’s question, however, the less sure Phoebe was of her answer.

  Françoise’s mouth began to curve upward in a slow, deliberate smile.

  For the first time since becoming a vampire, Phoebe felt an unmistakable flush of pride. Somehow, simply by keeping silent, she had earned Françoise’s approval. And it mattered to her a great deal more than she might have expected.

  Phoebe handed Françoise the lump of sheet that was uppermost in the basket.

  “What’s ‘ennui’?” Phoebe asked.

  Françoise’s smile widened. “It’s a type of sickness—not so dangerous as Sieur Matthew’s blood rage, you understand, but it can be deadly.”

  “Does Stasia still have it?” Phoebe settled back onto her stool, watching Françoise’s movements and taking in how she managed the lengths of damp linen without letting them drag on the floor. The two of them would be spending a lot of time together. If housekeeping was important to Françoise, Phoebe should at least try to discover why.

  “Middle-aged white women,” Miriam said as she entered Françoise’s territory.

  “What about them?” Phoebe asked, confused.

  “They were sample eighty-three—the one you claimed to like second only to cat’s blood,” Miriam explained.

  “Oh.” Phoebe blinked.

  “We’ll get you some more. Françoise will have it on hand—but you have to ask for it. Specifically. Unless you do, you’ll have nothing but the cat to feed from,” Miriam said.

  Whatever was the point of that? Phoebe wondered. Couldn’t she just say, “I’m hungry,” and rummage through the fridge?

  Françoise, however, seemed to understand what was going on. She nodded. Phoebe would learn later why this ridiculous rule was being imposed.

  “The cat will be sufficient, thank you, Miriam,” Phoebe said stiffly. She simply couldn’t imagine being in such need that she would utter the words “give me the blood of a middle-aged white woman.”

  “We’ll see,” Miriam said with a smile. “Come. It’s time for you to learn how to write.”

  “I know how to write,” Phoebe said, sounding cross.

  “Yes, but we’d like you to do it without setting the paper on fire with excessive friction or carving up the desk.” Miriam crooked her finger in a way that made Phoebe shiver.

  For the first time in her life, Phoebe left the kitchen reluctantly. It seemed a place of comfort and safe harbor now, with Françoise and the laundry, the clean glasses, and the hiss of the iron. Upstairs there was nothing but peril and whatever fresh tests her sadistic vampire schoolmistresses could devise.

  As the baize-covered door to the kitchen swung shut behind her, Phoebe finally arrived at the answer to Françoise’s question.

  “Yes. I’m glad.” Phoebe was back in the kitchen before she had fully formulated a plan to return. Miriam and Freyja were right: thinking of where she wanted to be really was sufficient cause to get her there.

  “I thought so. Go now. Don’t keep your maker waiting,” Françoise advised, brandishing the heavy iron in the direction of the door as though it weighed no more than a feather.

  Phoebe returned to Miriam’s side. As the baize door flapped its way closed, she heard the strangest sound, something between a cough and a chortle.

  It was Françoise—and she was laughing.

  14

  A Life of Trouble

  25 MAY

  “Sit. Stay. Wait.” My son’s piping voice carried through the open window, uttering a stream of nonsense that exactly imitated the instructions I gave Hector and Fallon every time we attempted to get back into the house without my getting knocked over. The kitchen door creaked open. There was a pause. “Wait. Stay. Okay.”

  Apollo bounded into the room, looking extremely pleased with himself—but not nearly as proud as Philip, who toddled after him holding Fallon’s dog leash, hand in hand with Matthew.

  Alarmingly, Fallon’s leather lead was not attached to the griffin.

  “Mommy!” Philip hurled himself at my legs. Apollo joined in the embrace, wrapping his wings around us both, cooing with delight.

  “Did you have a nice walk?” I smoothed down Philip’s hair, which was inclined to stand straight up at the slightest breeze.

  “Very nice.” Matthew gave me a lingering kiss. “You taste of almonds.”

  “We’ve been having some breakfast.” I pointed to Becca, whose face was partially obscured by jam and nut butter. Her smile of welcome for her father and brother was unmistakable, however. “Becca has been sharing.”

  This was uncharacteristic behavior for our daughter. Becca tracked her food car
efully, and had to be reminded that not everything put on the table was solely for her.

  Apollo hopped over to Becca’s chair. He sat, long tongue lolling expectantly, his beady eyes fixed on the table, where the remnants of her feast remained. Becca narrowed her eyes at him in warning.

  “I see that Rebecca and Apollo are still working out their relationship,” Matthew commented. He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and sat down with the paper.

  “Come. Sit. Okay.” Philip kept rattling off commands to the griffin while jiggling the leash enticingly. “Come, ’Pollo. Sit.”

  “Let’s get your bib on and some breakfast in you.” I snagged the leash and put it on the table. “Marthe made oatmeal. Your favorite!”

  Philip’s preferred breakfast was pale pink goo—a splash of quail blood, some oats, and lumps of berries—with plenty of milk. We called it oatmeal, though food critics might not recognize the dish as such.

  “Apollo. Here!” Philip’s patience was running out and his tone was decidedly peevish. “Here!”

  “Let Apollo visit with Becca,” I said, trying to distract him by picking him up and tumbling him upside down. All I succeeded in doing, however, was alarming the griffin.

  Apollo screeched in horror and launched himself into the air, clucking around Philip and comforting him with pats of his tail. It was not until Philip was right-side up and in his booster seat that the griffin settled back down to earth.

  “Have you seen Marcus this morning?” Matthew cocked his head, listening for a sound from his grown son.

  “He came through the kitchen while you were out. Said something about taking a run.” I handed Philip a spoon, which he would use to fling the oatmeal around rather than feed himself, and picked up my cup of tea. “He seems on edge.”

  “He’s expecting an update from Paris,” Matthew explained.

  The phone calls came every few days. Freyja spoke to Ysabeau, and then Matthew’s mother relayed the information to her grandson. So far, Phoebe was doing brilliantly. There had been a few hiccups, Freyja acknowledged, but nothing that wasn’t expected during a vampire’s first weeks. The stalwart Françoise was supporting Phoebe every step of the way, and I knew from my own experience that she would be dogged in her pursuit of Phoebe’s success. Still, Marcus couldn’t help worrying.

  “Marcus hasn’t been himself since he told you about Obadiah,” Matthew said, attributing his son’s anxiety to a different cause.

  Obadiah’s violent end had been the subject of many whispered conversations between me, Agatha, and Sarah. Over the past few days, Marcus had returned to the events of 1776, adding new details, worrying if there was some way he could have avoided killing his father and still have protected his mother and sister.

  “The threads that bind him to the world have changed in color, but they’re still tangled and twisted,” I admitted. “I’ve been wondering if a simple charm would help, one woven with the second knot. He’s all blue these days.”

  “I don’t think he’s that depressed,” Matthew said with a frown.

  “No, not that kind of blue!” I said. “Though maybe that’s where we get the expression. Everywhere Marcus rubs up against time, it seems to register in shades of blue: royal blue, pale blue, purple, lavender, indigo, even turquoise. I’d like to see more balance. Last week there was some red, white, and black in the mix. Not all of them are happy colors, but at least there was some variety.”

  Matthew looked fascinated. He also looked concerned.

  “Second-knot spells rebalance energy. They’re often used in love magic,” I said. “But that’s not their only purpose. In this case, I could weave a spell to help Marcus sort out the emotions that are tied to his past lives.”

  “For a vampire, coming to terms with our past lives is the most important work we do,” Matthew said cautiously. “I don’t think magical assistance is a good idea, mon coeur.”

  “But Marcus is trying to ignore his past, not face it,” I said. “I know how impossible that is.”

  Past. Present. Future. As a historian, I was intrigued by the relationship between them. To examine one thread required that you study them all.

  “He’ll realize that,” Matthew said, returning to his paper. “In time.”

  * * *

  —

  MATTHEW AND I WERE TAKING the children for a walk when we spotted a convertible approaching the house. It turned in to the driveway and wended its way to the house at a crawl.

  “Ysabeau,” Matthew said. “And Marcus, too.”

  It was a bizarre procession. Alain was at the wheel of the car. Ysabeau de Clermont sat in the passenger seat, wearing dark glasses and a sleeveless dress in a pale primrose color. The ends of the Hermès scarf knotted around her head fluttered in the breeze. She looked like the star of a 1960s film about a European princess on summer holiday. Marcus ran alongside, asking if there was news from Paris.

  “Jesus, Grand-mère,” Marcus said when they finally arrived in the courtyard and Alain switched off the ignition. “Why own a car with that much engine if you’re going to let Alain drive it at five miles per hour like a golf cart?”

  “One never knows when one might have to make a getaway,” Ysabeau replied cagily.

  The children clamored for Ysabeau’s attention. She ignored them, although she did sneak in a wink at Rebecca.

  “How’s Phoebe?” Marcus was practically dancing in anticipation of the news.

  Ysabeau didn’t answer her grandson’s question, but motioned toward the rear of the automobile. “I brought decent champagne. There is never enough of it in this house.”

  “And Phoebe?” Marcus asked, renewing his calls for more information.

  “Has Becca’s tooth come in yet?” Ysabeau inquired of Matthew, still ignoring Marcus. “Hello, Diana. You are looking well.”

  “Good morning, Maman.” Matthew stooped to kiss his mother.

  Sarah and Agatha joined us in the courtyard. Sarah was still in her pajamas and dressing gown, and Agatha was wearing a cocktail dress. They made an odd pair.

  “It is afternoon, Matthew. Have you no clocks in the house?” Ysabeau looked around for her next target and found one in my aunt. “Sarah. What a strange frock. I hope you didn’t pay much for it.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Ysabeau. Agatha made it for me. I’m sure she’d make one for you, too, if you asked nicely.” Sarah drew the vivid kimono around her.

  Ysabeau looked askance at the garment, then sniffed.

  “Are you having a problem with fleas? Why does everything reek of lavender?” Ysabeau asked.

  “Why don’t we all go inside,” I said, shifting Becca to my other hip.

  “I have been waiting for an invitation to do just that,” Ysabeau said, her annoyance at the delay evident. “I cannot just walk in, can I?”

  “You would know better than me,” I replied agreeably, determined not to fight with my mother-in-law. “My vampire etiquette is pretty sketchy. Witches—we just barge right in and head for the kitchen.”

  Her worst fears confirmed, Ysabeau sailed between us lesser beings and into the house that had formerly been her home.

  Once she was ensconced in a comfortable chair in the parlor, Ysabeau insisted everyone have a drink, and then she held the twins on her lap and embarked on a long conversation with each of them. A ringing phone interrupted it.

  “Oui?” Ysabeau said, after drawing her bright red mobile phone out of a slender vintage clutch with a distinctive Bakelite handle shaped like a running greyhound.

  Marcus crept closer to listen to the conversation on the other end, during what I, and the other warmbloods in the room, perceived as a very long silence.

  “Ah. That is excellent news.” Ysabeau smiled. “I expected no less of Phoebe.”

  Matthew’s face relaxed a fraction, and Marcus let out a shout of joy.

 
; “Bee Bee!” Becca sang out her pet name for Phoebe.

  “And she is feeding well?” Ysabeau paused while Freyja responded. “Persephone? Hein, I was never fond of that girl and her endless complaints.”

  My eyes narrowed. In the not-too-distant future, Ysabeau and I were going to have a talk about things mythological. Maybe she would know the average height and weight of a fully grown griffin.

  “Has Phoebe asked for me?” Marcus demanded of his grandmother.

  Ysabeau’s long fingernail pressed into her grandson’s chest in a gesture of warning. I’d seen that same fingernail push its way into a vampire’s heart. Marcus grew still.

  “You may tell Phoebe that Marcus is in excellent health, and we are finding ways to keep him occupied until she is returned to us.” Ysabeau made it sound as if Phoebe were a borrowed book. “Until Sunday, then.” She disconnected the line.

  “Two whole days!” Marcus groaned. “I can’t believe I have to wait two whole days for more news.”

  “You are fortunate to be doing this in the age of telephones, Marcus. It took more than two days for news to reach Jerusalem from Antioch when Louisa was made, I assure you,” Ysabeau replied, giving him a stern look. “You might attend to the Knights of Lazarus, instead of wallowing in self-pity. There are so many of them now, all quite young and inexperienced. Go and play.”

  “What are you proposing, Grand-mère? That I lead them on a quest to the Holy Land? Have an archery tournament? Put on a joust?” Marcus asked, lightly mocking.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ysabeau said. “I hate jousts. There’s nothing for the women to do but gaze at the men adoringly and look decorative. Surely there’s a country to conquer, or a government to infiltrate, or an evil family to bring to justice.” Her eyes sparkled at the prospect.

  “This is precisely how we ended up with the Congregation,” Marcus said, pointing an admonishing finger. “Think how much trouble that caused. We don’t behave like that anymore, Grand-mère.”