A Discovery of Witches(99)

“Nobody is going to believe this. An unknown copy of Aurora Consurgens—with illuminations by a woman?” I shook my head in amazement. “How will I cite it?”

“I’ll loan the manuscript to the Beinecke Library for a year, if that helps. Anonymously, of course. As for Bourgot, the experts will say it’s her father’s work. But it’s all hers. We probably have the receipt for it somewhere,” Matthew said vaguely, looking around. “I’ll ask Ysabeau where Godfrey’s things are.”

“Godfrey?” The unfamiliar coat of arms featured a fleur-de-lis, surrounded by a snake with its tail in its mouth.

“My brother.” The vagueness left his voice, and his face darkened. “He died in 1668, fighting in one of Louis XIV’s infernal wars.” Closing the manuscript gently, he put it on a nearby table. “I’ll take this up to my study later so you can look at it more closely. In the morning Ysabeau reads her newspapers here, but otherwise it sits empty. You’re welcome to browse the shelves whenever you like.”

With that promise he moved me through the salon and into the great hall. We stood by the table with the Chinese bowl, and he pointed out features of the room, including the old minstrels’ gallery, the trapdoor in the roof that had let the smoke out before the fireplaces and chimneys were constructed, and the entrance to the square watchtower overlooking the main approach to the chateau. That climb could wait until another day.

Matthew led me down to the lower ground floor, with its maze of store-rooms, wine cellars, kitchens, servants’ rooms, larders, and pantries. Marthe stepped out of one of the kitchens, flour covering her arms up to the elbows, and handed me a warm roll fresh from the oven. I munched on it as Matthew walked the corridors, pointing out the old purposes of every room—where the grain was stored, the venison hung, the cheese made.

“Vampires don’t eat anything,” I said, confused.

“No, but our tenants did. Marthe loves to cook.”

I promised to keep her busy. The roll was delicious, and the eggs had been perfect.

Our next stop was the gardens. Though we had descended a flight of stairs to get to the kitchens, we left the chateau at ground level. The gardens were straight out of the sixteenth century, with divided beds full of herbs and autumn vegetables. Rosebushes, some with a few lonely blooms remaining, filled the borders.

But the aroma that intrigued me wasn’t floral. I made a beeline for a low-slung building.

“Be careful, Diana,” he called, striding across the gravel, “Balthasar bites.”

“Which one is Balthasar?”

He rounded the stable entrance, an anxious look on his face. “The stallion using your spine as a scratching post,” Matthew replied tightly. I was standing with my back to a large, heavy-footed horse while a mastiff and a wolfhound circled my feet, sniffing me with interest.

“Oh, he won’t bite me.” The enormous Percheron maneuvered his head so he could rub his ears on my hip. “And who are these gentlemen?” I asked, ruffling the fur on the wolf hound’s neck while the mastiff tried to put my hand in his mouth.

“The hound is Fallon, and the mastiff is Hector.” Matthew snapped his fingers, and both dogs came running to his side, where they sat obediently and watched his face for further instructions. “Please step away from that horse.”

“Why? He’s fine.” Balthasar stamped the ground in agreement and pitched an ear back to look haughtily at Matthew.

“‘If the butterfly wings its way to the sweet light that attracts it, it’s only because it doesn’t know that the fire can consume it,’” Matthew murmured under his breath. “Balthasar is only fine until he gets bored. I’d like you to move away before he kicks the stall door down.”

“We’re making your master nervous, and he’s started reciting obscure bits of poetry written by mad Italian clerics. I’ll be back tomorrow with something sweet.” I turned and kissed Balthasar on the nose. He nickered, his hooves dancing with impatience.

Matthew tried to cover his surprise. “You recognized that?”

“Giordano Bruno. ‘If the thirsty stag runs to the brook, it’s only because he isn’t aware of the cruel bow,’” I continued. “‘If the unicorn runs to its chaste nest, it’s only because he doesn’t see the noose prepared for him.’”

“You know the work of the Nolan?” Matthew used the sixteenth-century mystic’s own way of referring to himself.

My eyes narrowed. Good God, had he known Bruno as well as Machiavelli ? Matthew seemed to have been attracted to every strange character who’d ever lived. “He was an early supporter of Copernicus, and I’m a historian of science. How do you know Bruno’s work?”

“I’m a great reader,” he said evasively.

“You knew him!” My tone was accusing. “Was he a daemon?”

“One who crossed the madness-genius divide rather too frequently, I’m afraid.”

“I should have known. He believed in extraterrestrial life and cursed his inquisitors on the way to the stake,” I said, shaking my head.

“Nevertheless, he understood the power of desire.”

I looked sharply at the vampire. “‘Desire urges me on, as fear bridles me.’ Did Bruno feature in your essay for All Souls?”