Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(158)

“Do you want to draw yours?” Jack inched the paper in Matthew’s direction. “Then you could sleep, too.”

“Your monsters have frightened mine away,” Matthew said, returning his attention to Jack, his face grave. My heart hurt for the boy and all he had endured in his brief, hard life.

Matthew met my eyes again and indicated with a slight shift of his head that he had everything under control. I blew him a kiss and returned to the warm, feathery nest of our bed.

The next day we received a note from the emperor. It was sealed with thick wax and ribbons.

“The painting worked, milord,” Pierre said apologetically.

“It figures. I loved that altarpiece. Now I’ll have a hell of a time getting my hands on it again,” Matthew said, sitting back in his chair. The wood creaked in protest. Matthew reached out for the letter. The penmanship was elaborate, with so many swirls and curlicues that the letters were practically unrecognizable.

“Why is the handwriting so ornate?” I wondered.

“The Hoefnagels have arrived from Vienna and have nothing to occupy their time. The fancier the handwriting, the better, as far as His Majesty is concerned,” Pierre replied cryptically.

“I’m to go to Rudolf this afternoon,” Matthew said with a satisfied smile, folding up the message. “My father will be pleased. He sent some money and jewels, too, but it would appear that the de Clermonts got off lightly this time.”

Pierre held out another, smaller letter, addressed in a plainer style. “The emperor added a postscript. In his own hand.”

I looked over Matthew’s shoulder as he read it.

“Bringen das Buch. Und die Hexe.” The emperor’s swirling signature, with its elaborate R, looping d and l, and double f’s, was at the bottom.

My German was rusty, but the message was clear: Bring the book. And the witch.

“I spoke too soon,” Matthew muttered.

“I told you to hook him with Titian’s great canvas of Venus that Grandfather took off King Philip’s hands when his wife objected to it,” Gallowglass observed. “Like his uncle, Rudolf has always been unduly fond of redheads. And saucy pictures.”

“And witches,” my husband said under his breath. He threw the letter on the table. “It wasn’t the painting that baited him, but Diana. Maybe I should refuse his invitation.”

“That was a command, Uncle.” Gallowglass’s brow lowered.

“And Rudolf has Ashmole 782,” I said. “It’s not going to simply appear in front of the Three Ravens on Sporrengasse. We’re going to have to find it.”

“Are you calling us ravens, Auntie?” Gallowglass said with mock offense.

“I’m talking about the sign on the house, you great oaf.” Like every other residence on the street, ours had a symbol over the door rather than a house number. After the neighborhood caught fire in the middle of the century, the emperor’s grandfather had insisted on having some way to tell houses apart besides the popular sgraffito decorations scratched into the plaster.

Gallowglass grinned. “I knew very well what you were talking about. But I do love seeing you go all shiny like that when your glaem’s raised.”

I pulled my disguising spell around me with a harrumph, dimming my shininess to more acceptable, human levels.

“Besides,” Gallowglass continued. “Among my people it’s a great compliment to be likened to a raven. I’ll be Muninn, and Matthew we’ll call Huginn. Your name will be G?ndul, Auntie. You’ll make a fine Valkyrie.”

“What is he talking about?” I asked Matthew blankly.

“Odin’s ravens. And his daughters.”

“Oh. Thank you, Gallowglass,” I said awkwardly. It couldn’t be a bad thing to be likened to a god’s daughter.

“Even if this book of Rudolf’s is Ashmole 782, we’re not sure it contains answers to our questions.” Our experience with the Voynich manuscript still worried Matthew.

“Historians never know if a text will provide answers. If it doesn’t, though, we’ll still have better questions as a result,” I replied.

“Point taken.” Matthew’s lips quirked. “As I can’t get in to see the emperor or his library without you, and you won’t leave Prague without the book, there is nothing for it. We’ll both go to the palace.”

“You’ve been hoist by your own petard, Uncle,” Gallowglass said cheerfully. He gave me a broad wink.

When compared to our visit to Richmond, the trip up the street to see the emperor seemed almost like popping next door to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor—though it required a more formal costume. The papal ambassador’s mistress was much my size, and her wardrobe had provided me with a suitably luxurious and circumspect garment for the wife of an English dignitary—or a de Clermont, she quickly added. I loved the style of clothing worn by well-heeled women in Prague: simple gowns with high necks, bell-shaped skirts, embroidered coats with hanging sleeves trimmed in fur. The small ruffs they wore served as another welcome barrier between the elements and me.

Matthew had happily abandoned his dreams of red hose in favor of his usual gray and black, accented with a deep green that was the most attractive color I had ever seen him wear. This afternoon it provided flashes of color peeking through the slashes on his bulbous britches and the lining peeking around the open collar of his jacket.