A Discovery of Witches(240)

“No,” Matthew said, his voice thoughtful, “none of them.” He reached into the bag again. When his hand emerged, it was clutching the silver pilgrim’s badge from Bethany.

There was no note to explain why it was there.

The clock in the front hall struck ten. We were due to leave—soon.

“I wish I knew why she sent these.” Matthew sounded worried.

“Maybe she thought we should carry other things that were precious to you.” I knew how strong his attachment was to the tiny silver coffin.

“Not if it makes it harder for you to concentrate on 1590.” He glanced at the ring on my left hand, and I closed my fingers. There was no way he was taking it off, whether it was from 1590 or not.

“We could call Sarah and ask her what she thinks.”

Matthew shook his head. “No. Let’s not trouble her. We know what we need to do—take three objects and nothing else from the past or present that might get in the way. We’ll make an exception for the ring, now that it’s on your finger.” He opened the top book and froze.

“What is it?”

“My annotations are in this book—and I don’t remember putting them there.”

“It’s more than four hundred years old. Maybe you forgot.” In spite of my words, a cold finger ran up my spine.

Matthew flipped through a few more pages and inhaled sharply. “If we leave these books in the keeping room, along with the pilgrim’s badge, will the house take care of them?”

“It will if we ask it to,” I said. “Matthew, what’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later. We should go. These,” he said, lifting the books and Lazarus’s coffin, “need to stay here.”

We changed in silence. I took off everything down to my bare skin, shivering as the linen smock slipped over my shoulders. The cuffs skimmed my wrists as it fell to my ankles, and the wide neck drew closed when I tugged on the string.

Matthew was out of his clothes and into his shirt quickly. It nearly reached his knees, and his long white legs stuck out below. While I collected our clothes, Matthew went to the dining room and came out with stationery and one of his favorite pens. His hand sped across the page, and he folded the single sheet and tucked it into the waiting envelope.

“A note for Sarah,” he explained. “We’ll ask the house to take care of that, too.”

We carried the extra books, the note, and the pilgrim’s badge to the keeping room. Mathew put them carefully on the sofa.

“Shall we leave the lights on?” Matthew asked.

“No,” I said. “Just the porch light, in case it’s still dark when they come home.”

There was a smudge of green when we turned off the lamps. It was my grandmother, rocking in her chair.

“Good-bye, Grandma.” Neither Bridget Bishop nor Elizabeth was with her.

Good-bye, Diana.

“The house needs to take care of those.” I pointed to the pile of objects on the sofa.

Don’t worry about a thing except for where you’re going.

Slowly we walked the length of the house to the back door, shutting off lights as we went. In the family room, Matthew picked up Doctor Faustus, the earring, and the chess piece.

I looked around one last time at the familiar brown kitchen. “Good-bye, house.”

Tabitha heard my voice and ran screeching from the stillroom. She came to an abrupt halt and stared at us without blinking.

“Good-bye, ma petite,” Matthew said, stooping to scratch her ears.

We’d decided to leave from the hop barn. It was quiet, with no vestiges of modern life to serve as distractions. We moved through the apple orchard and over the frost-covered grass in our bare feet, the cold quickening our steps. When Matthew pulled open the barn door, my breath was visible in the chilly air.

“It’s freezing.” I drew my smock closer, teeth chattering.

“There will be a fire when we arrive at the Old Lodge,” he said, handing me the earring.

I put the thin wire through the hole in my ear and held my hand out for the goddess. Matthew dropped her into my palm.

“What else?”

“Wine, of course—red wine.” Matthew handed me the book and folded me into his arms, planting a firm kiss on my forehead.

“Where are your rooms?” I shut my eyes, remembering the Old Lodge.

“Upstairs, on the western side of the courtyard, overlooking the deer park.”

“And what will it smell like?”

“Like home,” he said. “Wood smoke and roasted meat from the servants’ dinner, beeswax from the candles, and the lavender used to keep the linens fresh.”

“Can you hear anything special?”

“Nothing at all. Just the bells from St. Mary’s and St. Michael’s, the crackle of the fires, and the dogs snoring on the stairs.”

“How do you feel when you’re there?” I asked, concentrating on his words and the way they in turn made me feel.

“I’ve always felt . . . ordinary at the Old Lodge,” Matthew said softly. “It’s a place where I can be myself.”

A whiff of lavender swirled through the air, out of time and place in a Madison hop barn in October. I marveled at the scent and thought of my father’s note. My eyes were fully open to the possibilities of magic now.