Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(157)

“Master Roydon!” Jack shrieked, hurling himself at the door and flinging it open before Tereza could stop him. How he detected Matthew was a mystery, given the growing darkness and Matthew’s head-to-toe adoption of slate-colored wool.

“Easy,” Matthew said, catching Jack before he hurt himself running into a pair of solid vampire legs. Gallowglass snatched at Jack’s cap as he went by, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“We almost froze. In the river. And the sled turned over once, but the dog was not hurt. I ate roasted boar. And Annie caught her skirt in the wagon wheel and almost tumbled out.” Jack couldn’t get the details of their journey out of his mouth fast enough. “I saw a blazing star. It was not very big, but Pierre told me I must share it with Master Harriot when we return home. I drew a picture of it for him.” Jack’s hand slid inside his grimy doublet and pulled out an equally grimy slip of paper. He presented this to Matthew with the reverence normally accorded to a holy relic.

“This is quite good,” Matthew said, studying the drawing with appropriate care. “I like how you’ve shown the curve of the tail. And you put the other stars around it. That was wise, Jack. Master Harriot will be pleased at your powers of observation.”

Jack flushed. “That was my last piece of paper. Do they sell paper in Prague?” Back in London, Matthew had taken to supplying Jack with a pocketful of paper scraps every morning. How Jack went through them was a matter of some speculation.

“The city is awash in the stuff,” Matthew said. “Pierre will take you to the shop in Malá Strana tomorrow.”

After that exciting promise, it was hard to get the children upstairs, but Tereza proved to possess the precise mix of gentleness and resolve to accomplish the task. That gave the four grown-ups a chance to talk freely.

“Has Jack been sick?” Matthew asked Pierre with a frown.

“No, milord. Since we left you, his sleep has been troubled.” Pierre hesitated. “I think the evils in his past haunt him.”

Matthew’s forehead smoothed out, but he still looked concerned. “And otherwise the journey was as you expected?” This was his cagey way of asking whether they had been set upon by bandits or plagued by supernatural or preternatural beings.

“It was long and cold,” Pierre said matter-of-factly, “and the children were always hungry.”

Gallowglass bellowed with laughter. “Well, that sounds about right.”

“And you, milord?” Pierre shot a veiled glance at Matthew. “Is Prague as you expected?”

“Rudolf hasn’t seen me. Rumor has it that Kelley is on the uppermost reaches of the Powder Tower blowing up alembics and God-knows-whatelse,” Matthew reported.

“And the Old Town?” Pierre asked delicately.

“It is much as it ever was.” Matthew’s tone was breezy and light—a dead giveaway that he was concerned about something.

“So long as you ignore the gossip coming from the Jewish quarter. One of their witches has made a creature from clay who prowls the streets at night.” Gallowglass turned innocent eyes on his uncle. “Saving that, it is practically unchanged from the last time we were here to help Emperor Ferdinand secure the city in 1547.”

“Thank you, Gallowglass,” Matthew said. His tone was as chilly as the wind off the river.

Surely it would require more than an ordinary spell to construct a creature from mud and set it in motion. Such a rumor could mean only one thing: Somewhere in Prague was a weaver like me, one who could move between the world of the living and the world of the dead. But I didn’t have to call Matthew on his secret. His nephew beat me to it.

“You didn’t think you could keep news of the clay creature from Auntie?” Gallowglass shook his head in amazement. “You don’t spend enough time at the market. The women of Malá Strana know everything, including what the emperor is having for breakfast and that he’s refused to see you.”

Matthew ran his fingers over the painted wooden surface of the triptych and sighed. “You’ll have to take this up to the palace, Pierre.”

“But that is the altarpiece from Sept-Tours,” Pierre protested. “The emperor is known for his caution. Surely it is only a matter of time before he admits you.”

“Time is the one commodity we lack—and the de Clermonts have altarpieces aplenty,” Matthew said ruefully. “Let me write a note to the emperor, and you can be on your way.”

Matthew dispatched Pierre and the painting shortly thereafter. His servant returned just as empty-handed as Matthew had, with no assurances of a future meeting.

All around me the threads that bound the worlds were tightening and shifting in a weaving whose pattern was too large for me to perceive or understand. But something was brewing in Prague. I could feel it.

That night I awoke to the sound of soft voices in the room adjoining our bedchamber. Matthew was not next to me, reading, as he had been when I’d dropped off to sleep. I padded to the door to see who was with him.

“Tell me what happens when I shade the side of the monster’s face.” Matthew’s hand moved swiftly over the large sheet of foolscap before him.

“It makes him seem farther away!” Jack whispered, awestruck by the transformation.

“You try it,” Matthew said, handing Jack his pen. Jack gripped the pen with great concentration, his tongue stuck slightly out. Matthew rubbed the boy’s back with his hand, relaxing the taut muscles wrapped around his rangy frame. Jack was not quite sitting on his knee but leaning into the vampire’s comforting bulk for support. “So many monsters,” Matthew murmured, meeting my eyes.