A Discovery of Witches(130)

“We might miss something. Each bag must have every single herb—all twelve.”

“Would missing a tiny seed like this really make a difference to the taste?” I held a tiny Queen Anne’s lace seed between my index finger and thumb.

“One pinch of each,” Marthe repeated. “Again.”

The vampire’s experienced hands moved surely from pile to pile, neatly filling the bags and tightening their strings. After we finished, Marthe brewed me a cup of tea using a bag I’d filled myself.

“It’s delicious,” I said, happily sipping my very own herbal tea.

“You will take it back to Oxford with you. One cup a day. It will keep you healthy.” She started putting bags into a tin. “When you need more, you will know how to make it.”

“Marthe, you don’t have to give me all of it,” I protested.

“You will drink this for Marthe, one cup a day. Yes?”

“Of course.” It seemed the least I could do for my sole remaining ally in the house—not to mention the person who fed me.

After my tea I went upstairs to Matthew’s study and switched on my computer. All that riding had made my forearms ache, so I moved the computer and manuscript to his desk, hoping that it might be more comfortable to work there rather than at my table by the window. Unfortunately, the leather chair was made for someone Matthew’s height, not mine, and my feet swung freely.

Sitting in Matthew’s chair made him seem closer, however, so I remained there while waiting for my computer to boot up. My eyes fell on a dark object tucked into the tallest shelf. It blended into the wood and the books’ leather bindings, which hid it from casual view. From Matthew’s desk, however, you could see its outlines.

It wasn’t a book but an ancient block of wood, octagonal in shape. Tiny arched windows were carved into each side. The thing was black, cracked, and misshapen with age.

With a pang of sadness, I realized it was a child’s toy.

Matthew had made it for Lucas before Matthew became a vampire, while he was building the first church. He’d tucked it into the corner of a shelf where no one would notice it—except him. He couldn’t fail to see it, every time he sat at his desk.

With Matthew at my side, it was all too easy to think we were the only two in the world. Not even Domenico’s warnings or Ysabeau’s tests had shaken my sense that our growing closeness was a matter solely between him and me.

But this little wooden tower, made with love an unimaginably long time ago, brought my illusions to an end. There were children to consider, both living and dead. There were families involved, including my own, with long and complicated genealogies and deeply ingrained prejudices, including my own. And Sarah and Em still didn’t know that I was in love with a vampire. It was time to share that news.

Ysabeau was in the salon, arranging flowers in a tall vase on top of a priceless Louis XIV escritoire with impeccable provenance—and a single owner.

“Ysabeau?” My voice sounded hesitant. “Is there a phone I could use?”

“He will call you when he wants to talk to you.” She took great care placing a twig with turning leaves still attached to it among the white and gold flowers.

“I’m not calling Matthew, Ysabeau. I need to speak to my aunt.”

“The witch who called the other night?” she asked. “What is her name?”

“Sarah,” I said with a frown.

“And she lives with a woman—another witch, yes?” Ysabeau kept putting white roses into the vase.

“Yes. Emily. Is that a problem?”

“No,” Ysabeau said, eyeing me over the blooms. “They are both witches. That’s all that matters.”

“That and they love each other.”

“Sarah is a good name,” Ysabeau continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know the legend, of course.”

I shook my head. Ysabeau’s changes in conversation were almost as dizzying as her son’s mood swings.

“The mother of Isaac was called Sarai—‘quarrelsome’—but when she became pregnant, God changed it to Sarah, which means ‘princess.’”

“In my aunt’s case, Sarai is much more appropriate.” I waited for Ysabeau to tell me where the phone was.

“Emily is also a good name, a strong, Roman name.” Ysabeau clipped a rose stem between her sharp fingernails.

“What does Emily mean, Ysabeau?” Happily I was running out of family members.

“It means ‘industrious.’ Of course, the most interesting name belonged to your mother. Rebecca means ‘captivated,’ or ‘bound,’” Ysabeau said, a frown of concentration on her face as she studied the vase from one side and then the other. “An interesting name for a witch.”

“And what does your name mean?” I said impatiently.

“I was not always Ysabeau, but it was the name Philippe liked for me. It means ‘God’s promise.’” Ysabeau hesitated, searching my face, and made a decision. “My full name is Geneviève Mélisande Hélène Ysabeau Aude de Clermont.”

“It’s beautiful.” My patience returned as I speculated about the history behind the names.

Ysabeau gave me a small smile. “Names are important.”