A Discovery of Witches(97)

Marthe giggled and swatted at Matthew’s wrist with a towel that she pulled from her waist. He dropped the cover and took a seat.

“Come here, come here,” she said, gesturing at the chair across from him. “Sit, eat.” I did as I was told. Marthe poured Matthew a goblet of wine from a tall, silver-handled glass pitcher.

“Mercés,” he murmured, his nose going immediately to the glass in anticipation.

A similar pitcher held icy-cold water, and Marthe put this in another goblet, which she handed to me. She poured a steaming cup of tea, which I recognized immediately as coming from Mariage Frères in Paris. Apparently Matthew had raided my cupboards while I slept last night and been quite specific with his shopping lists. Marthe poured thick cream into the cup before he could stop her, and I shot him a warning glance. At this point I needed allies. Besides, I was too thirsty to care. He leaned back in his chair meekly, sipping his wine.

Marthe pulled more items from her tray—a silver place setting, salt, pepper, butter, jam, toast, and a golden omelet flecked with fresh herbs.

“Merci, Marthe,” I said with heartfelt gratitude.

“Eat!” she commanded, aiming her towel at me this time.

Marthe looked satisfied with the enthusiasm of my first few bites. Then she sniffed the air. She frowned and directed an exclamation of disgust at Matthew before striding to the fireplace. A match snapped, and the dry wood began to crackle.

“Marthe,” Matthew protested, standing up with his wineglass, “I can do that.”

“She is cold,” Marthe grumbled, clearly aggravated that he hadn’t anticipated this before he sat down, “and you are thirsty. I will make the fire.”

Within minutes there was a blaze. Though no fire would make the enormous room toasty, it took the chill from the air. Marthe brushed her hands together and stood. “She must sleep. I can smell she has been afraid.”

“She’ll sleep when she’s through eating,” Matthew said, holding up his right hand in a pledge. Marthe looked at him for a long moment and shook her finger at him as though he were fifteen, and not fifteen hundred, years old. Finally his innocent expression convinced her. She left the room, her ancient feet moving surely down the challenging stairs.

“Occitan is the language of the troubadours, isn’t it?” I asked, after Marthe had departed. The vampire nodded. “I didn’t realize it was spoken this far north.”

“We’re not that far north,” Matthew said with a smile. “Once, Paris was nothing more than an insignificant borderlands town. Most people spoke Occitan then. The hills kept the northerners—and their language—at a distance. Even now people here are wary of outsiders.”

“What do the words mean?” I asked.

“‘You are the tree and branch,’” he said, fixing his eyes on the slashes of countryside visible through the nearest window, “‘where delight’s fruit ripens. ’” Matthew shook his head ruefully. “Marthe will hum the song all afternoon and make Ysabeau crazy.”

The fire continued to spread its warmth through the room, and the heat made me drowsy. By the time the eggs were gone, it was difficult to keep my eyes open.

I was in the middle of a jaw-splitting yawn when Matthew drew me from the chair. He scooped me into his arms, my feet swinging in midair. I started to protest.

“Enough,” he said. “You can barely sit up straight, never mind walk.”

He put me gently on the end of the bed and pulled the coverlet back. The snowy-white sheets looked so crisp and inviting. I dropped my head onto the mountain of down pillows arranged against the bed’s intricate walnut carvings.

“Sleep.” Matthew took the bed’s curtains in both hands and gave them a yank.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to,” I said, stifling another yawn. “I’m not good at napping.”

“All appearances to the contrary,” he said drily. “You’re in France now. You’re not supposed to try. I’ll be downstairs. Call if you need anything.”

With one staircase leading from the hall up to his study and the other staircase leading to the bedroom from the opposite side, no one could reach this room without going past—and through—Matthew. The rooms had been designed as if he needed to protect himself from his own family.

A question rose to my lips, but he gave the curtains a final tug until they were closed, effectively silencing me. The heavy bed hangings didn’t allow the light to penetrate, and they shut out the worst of the drafts as well. Relaxing into the firm mattress, my body’s warmth magnified by the layers of bedding, I quickly fell asleep.

I woke up to the rustle of turning pages and sat bolt upright, trying to imagine why someone had shut me into a box made of fabric. Then I remembered.

France. Matthew. At his home.

“Matthew?” I called softly.

He parted the curtains and looked down with a smile. Behind him, candles were lit—dozens and dozens of them. Some were set into the sconces around the room, and others stood in ornate candelabras on the floor and tables.

“For someone who doesn’t nap, you slept quite soundly,” he said with satisfaction. As far as he was concerned, the trip to France had already proved a success.

“What time is it?”

“I’m going to get you a watch if you don’t stop asking me that.” Matthew glanced at his old Cartier. “It’s nearly two in the afternoon. Marthe will probably be here any minute with some tea. Do you want to shower and change?”