A Discovery of Witches(107)

I’d never seen him yawn before. Was his yawn, like his lowered shoulders, a sign of relaxation? The day after we’d first met, Matthew had told me that he liked to know his environment. Here he knew every inch of the place—every smell was familiar, as was every creature who roamed nearby. And then there was his relationship with his mother and Marthe. They were a family, this odd assortment of vampires, and they had taken me in for Matthew’s sake.

I turned back to Darwin. But the bath, the warm fire, and the constant background noise of his clacking fingers lulled me to sleep. I woke up covered with a blanket, On the Origin of Species lying on the floor nearby, neatly closed with a slip of paper marking my place.

I flushed.

I’d been caught snooping.

“Good evening,” Matthew said from the sofa opposite. He slid a piece of paper into the book that he was reading and rested it on his knee. “Can I interest you in some wine?”

Wine sounded very, very good. “Yes, please.”

Matthew went to a small eighteenth-century table near the landing. There was a bottle with no label, the cork pulled and lying at its side. He poured two glasses and carried one to me before he sat down. I sniffed, anticipating his first question.

“Raspberries and rocks.”

“For a witch you’re really quite good at this.” Matthew nodded in approval.

“What is it that I’m drinking?” I asked, taking a sip. “Is it ancient? Rare?”

Matthew put his head back and laughed. “Neither. It was probably put in the bottle about five months ago. It’s local wine, from vineyards down the road. Nothing fancy, nothing special.”

It may not have been fancy or special, but it was fresh and tasted woody and earthy like the air around Sept-Tours.

“I see that you gave up your search for a Bible in favor of something more scientific. Were you enjoying Darwin?” he asked mildly after watching me drink for a few moments.

“Do you still believe that creatures and humans are descended from common parents? Is it really possible that the differences between us are merely racial?”

He made a small sound of impatience. “I told you in the lab that I didn’t know.”

“You were sure in 1859. And you thought that drinking blood might be simply a dietary habit, not a mark of differentiation.”

“Do you know how many scientific advances have taken place between Darwin’s time and today? It’s a scientist’s prerogative to change his mind as new information comes to light.” He drank some wine and rested the glass against his knee, turning it this way and that so the firelight played on the liquid inside. “Besides, there’s no longer much scientific evidence for human notions of racial distinctions. Modern research suggests that most ideas about race are nothing more than an outmoded human method for explaining easily observable differences between themselves and someone else.”

“The question of why you’re here—how we’re all here—really does consume you,” I said slowly. “I could see it on every page of Darwin’s book.”

Matthew studied his wine. “It’s the only question worth asking.”

His voice was soft, but his profile was stern, with its sharp lines and heavy brow. I wanted to smooth the lines and lift his features into a smile but remained seated while the firelight danced over his white skin and dark hair. Matthew picked up his book again, cradling it in one set of long fingers while his wineglass rested in the other.

I stared at the fire as the light dimmed. When a clock on the desk struck seven, Matthew put down his book. “Should we join Ysabeau in the salon before dinner?”

“Yes,” I replied, squaring my shoulders slightly. “But let me change first.” My wardrobe couldn’t hold a candle to Ysabeau’s, but I didn’t want Matthew to be completely ashamed of me. As ever, he looked ready for a boardroom or a Milan catwalk in a simple pair of black wool trousers and a fresh selection from his endless supply of sweaters. My recent close encounters with them had convinced me they were all cashmere—thick and luscious.

Upstairs, I rooted through the items in my duffel bag and selected a gray pair of trousers and a sapphire blue sweater made out of finely spun wool with a tight, funnel-shaped neck and bell-shaped sleeves. My hair had a wave in it thanks to my earlier bath and the fact that it had finished drying scrunched under my head on the sofa.

With the minimum conditions of presentability met, I slid on my loafers and started down the stairs. Matthew’s keen ears had picked up the sound of my movements, and he met me on the landing. When he saw me, his eyes lit up and his smile was wide and slow.

“I like you in blue as much as I like you in black. You look beautiful,” he murmured, kissing me formally on both cheeks. The blood moved toward them as Matthew lifted my hair around my shoulders, the strands falling through his long white fingers. “Now, don’t let Ysabeau get under your skin no matter what she says.”

“I’ll try,” I said with a little laugh, looking up at him uncertainly.

When we reached the salon, Marthe and Ysabeau were already there. His mother was surrounded by newspapers written in every major European language, as well as one in Hebrew and another in Arabic. Marthe, on the other hand, was reading a paperback murder mystery with a lurid cover, her black eyes darting over the lines of print with enviable speed.