A Discovery of Witches(90)

“Knox knows witchcraft, and spells are complicated. I suppose it’s possible that time pulls them out of shape every now and again.” He looked unconvinced.

“I wish I could see the pattern in all this.” My white table rose into view, with pieces of the puzzle laid on it. Though I moved a few pieces around—Knox, the manuscript, my parents—they refused to form an image. Matthew’s voice broke through my reveries.

“Diana?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said, too quickly.

“You’re using magic,” he said, putting his tea down. “I can smell it. See it, too. You’re shimmering.”

“It’s what I do when I can’t solve a puzzle—like now.” My head was bowed to hide how difficult it was to talk about this. “I see a white table and imagine all the different pieces. They have shapes and colors, and they move around until they form a pattern. When the pattern forms, they stop moving to show I’m on the right track.”

Matthew waited a long time before he responded. “How often do you play this game?”

“All the time,” I said reluctantly. “While you were in Scotland, I realized that it was yet more magic, like knowing who’s looking at me without turning my head.”

“There is a pattern, you know,” he said. “You use your magic when you’re not thinking.”

“What do you mean?” The puzzle pieces started dancing on the white table.

“When you’re moving, you don’t think—not with the rational part of your mind, at least. You’re somewhere else entirely when you row, or run, or do yoga. Without your mind keeping your gifts in check, out they come.”

“But I was thinking before,” I said, “and the witchwind came anyway.”

“Ah, but then you were feeling a powerful emotion,” he explained, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “That always keeps the intellect at bay. It’s the same thing that happened when your fingers turned blue with Miriam and then with me. This white table of yours is an exception to the general rule.”

“Moods and movement are enough to trigger these forces? Who would want to be a witch if something so simple can make all hell break loose?”

“A great many people, I would imagine.” Matthew glanced away. “I want to ask you to do something for me,” he said. The sofa creaked as he faced me once more. “And I want you to think about it before you answer. Will you do that?”

“Of course.” I nodded.

“I want to take you home.”

“I’m not going back to America.” It had taken me five seconds to do exactly what he’d asked me not to.

Matthew shook his head. “Not your home. My home. You need to get out of Oxford.”

“I already told you I’d go to Woodstock.”

“The Old Lodge is my house, Diana,” Matthew explained patiently. “I want to take you to my home—to France.”

“France?” I pushed the hair out of my face to get a clearer view of him.

“The witches are intent on getting Ashmole 782 and keeping it from the other creatures. Their theory that you broke the spell and the prominence of your family are all that’s kept them at arm’s length. When Knox and the others find out that you used no witchcraft to obtain the manuscript—that the spell was set to open for you—they’ll want to know how and why.”

My eyes closed against the sudden, sharp image of my father and mother. “And they won’t ask nicely.”

“Probably not.” Matthew took a deep breath, and the vein in his forehead throbbed. “I saw the photo, Diana. I want you away from Peter Knox and the library. I want you under my roof for a while.”

“Gillian said it was witches.” When my eyes met his, I was struck by how tiny the pupils were. Usually they were black and enormous, but something was different about Matthew tonight. His skin was less ghostly, and there was a touch more color in his normally pale lips. “Was she right?”

“I can’t know for sure, Diana. The Nigerian Hausa believe that the source of a witch’s power is contained in stones in the stomach. Someone went looking for them in your father,” he said regretfully. “Another witch is the most likely scenario.”

There was a soft click, and the light on the answering machine began to blink. I groaned.

“That’s the fifth time your aunts have called,” Matthew observed.

No matter how low the volume, the vampire was going to be able to hear the message. I walked to the table near him and picked up the receiver.

“I’m here, I’m here,” I began, talking over my aunt’s agitated voice.

“We thought you were dead,” Sarah said. The realization that she and I were the last remaining Bishops struck me forcefully. I could picture her sitting in the kitchen, phone to her ear and hair wild around her face. She was getting older, and despite her feistiness, the fact that I was far away and in danger had rocked her.

“I’m not dead. I’m in my rooms, and Matthew is with me.” I smiled at him weakly. He didn’t smile back.

“What’s going on?” Em asked from another extension. After my parents died, Em’s hair had turned silver in the space of a few months. At the time she was still a young woman—not yet thirty—but Em had always seemed more fragile after that, as if she might blow away in the next puff of wind. Like my aunt, she was clearly upset at what her sixth sense told her was happening in Oxford.