A Discovery of Witches(110)

“Was it fun?” Matthew asked as the last notes of Marthe’s song faded, eyes gleaming.

“It was,” I answered, laughing, after considering his question.

“I hoped it would be. You’ve been practicing for years. Now maybe you’ll ride with your eyes open for a change.” He caught me up in an embrace full of happiness and possibility.

Ysabeau began to sing the same song Marthe had been humming.

“Whoever sees her dance,

And her body move so gracefully,

Could say, in truth,

That in all the world she has no equal, our joyful queen.

Go away, go away, jealous ones,

Let us, let us,

Dance together, together.”



“Go away, go away, jealous ones,” Matthew repeated as the final echo of his mother’s voice faded, “let us dance together.”

I laughed again. “With you I’ll dance. But until I figure out how this flying business works, there will be no other partners.”

“Properly speaking, you were floating, not flying,” Matthew corrected me.

“Floating, flying—whatever you call it, it would be best not to do it with strangers.”

“Agreed,” he said.

Marthe had vacated the sofa for a chair near Ysabeau. Matthew and I sat together, our hands still entwined.

“This was her first time?” Ysabeau asked him, her voice genuinely puzzled.

“Diana doesn’t use magic, Maman, except for little things,” he explained.

“She is full of power, Matthew. Her witch’s blood sings in her veins. She should be able to use it for big things, too.”

He frowned. “It’s hers to use or not.”

“Enough of such childishness,” she said, turning her attention to me. “It is time for you to grow up, Diana, and accept responsibility for who you are.”

Matthew growled softly.

“Do not growl at me, Matthew de Clermont! I am saying what needs to be said.”

“You’re telling her what to do. It’s not your job.”

“Nor yours, my son!” Ysabeau retorted.

“Excuse me!” My sharp tone caught their attention, and the de Clermonts, mother and son, stared at me. “It’s my decision whether—and how—to use my magic. But,” I said, turning to Ysabeau, “it can’t be ignored any longer. It seems to be bubbling out of me. I need to learn how to control my power, at the very least.”

Ysabeau and Matthew continued to stare. Finally Ysabeau nodded. Matthew did, too.

We continued to sit by the fire until the logs burned down. Matthew danced with Marthe, and each of them broke into song occasionally when a piece of music reminded them of another night, by another fire. But I didn’t dance again, and Matthew didn’t press me.

Finally he stood. “I am taking the only one of us who needs her sleep up to bed.”

I stood as well, smoothing my trousers against my thighs. “Good night, Ysabeau. Good night, Marthe. Thank you both for a lovely dinner and a surprising evening.”

Marthe gave me a smile in return. Ysabeau did her best but managed only a tight grimace.

Matthew let me lead the way and put his hand gently against the small of my back as we climbed the stairs.

“I might read for a bit,” I said, turning to face him when we reached his study.

He was directly behind me, so close that the faint, ragged sound of his breath was audible. He took my face in his hands.

“What spell have you put on me?” He searched my face. “It’s not simply your eyes—though they do make it impossible for me to think straight—or the fact you smell like honey.” He buried his face in my neck, the fingers of one hand sliding into my hair while the other drifted down my back, pulling my hips toward him.

My body softened into his, as if it were meant to fit there.

“It’s your fearlessness,” he murmured against my skin, “and the way you move without thinking, and the shimmer you give off when you concentrate—or when you fly.”

My neck arched, exposing more flesh to his touch. Matthew slowly turned my face toward him, his thumb seeking out the warmth of my lips.

“Did you know that your mouth puckers when you sleep? You look as though you might be displeased with your dreams, but I prefer to think you wish to be kissed.” He sounded more French with each word that he spoke.

Aware of Ysabeau’s disapproving presence downstairs, as well as her acute, vampiric hearing, I tried to pull away. It wasn’t convincing, and Matthew’s arms tightened.

“Matthew, your mother—”

He gave me no chance to complete my sentence. With a soft, satisfied sound, he deliberately fitted his lips to mine and kissed me, gently but thoroughly, until my entire body—not just my hands—was tingling. I kissed him back, feeling a simultaneous sense of floating and falling until I had no clear awareness of where my body ended and his began. His mouth drifted to my cheeks and eyelids. When it brushed against my ear, I gasped. Matthew’s lips curved into a smile, and he pressed them once more against my own.

“Your lips are as red as poppies, and your hair is so alive,” he said when he was quite finished kissing me with an intensity that left me breathless.

“What is it with you and my hair? Why anyone with a head of hair like yours would be impressed with this,” I said, grabbing a fistful of it and pulling, “is beyond me. Ysabeau’s hair looks like satin, so does Marthe’s. Mine is a mess—every color of the rainbow and badly behaved as well.”