Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(52)

“Are you finished here, madame?”

“Yes, Alain. Mercés, Chef,” I said.

Back in the library, I put the box carefully on the corner of my table and drew a blank sheet of paper toward me. Sitting down, I took a quill from the stand of pens.

“Chef tells me that it will be December on Saturday. I didn’t want to mention it in the kitchen, but can someone explain how I misplaced the second half of November?” I dipped my pen in a pot of dark ink and looked at Alain expectantly.

“The English refuse the pope’s new calendar,” he said slowly, as if talking to a child. “So it is only the seventeenth day of November there, and the twenty-seventh day of November here in France.”

I had timewalked more than four centuries and not lost a single hour, yet my trip from Elizabeth’s England to war-torn France had cost me nearly three weeks instead of ten days. I smothered a sigh and wrote the correct dates on the top of the page. My pen stilled.

“That means Advent will begin on Sunday.”

“Oui. The village—and milord, of course—will fast until the night before Christmas. The household will break the fast with the seigneur on the seventeenth of December.” How did a vampire fast? My knowledge of Christian religious ceremonies was of little help.

“What happens on the seventeenth?” I asked, making note of that date, too.

“It is Saturnalia, madame,” Pierre said, “the celebration dedicated to the god of the harvest. Sieur Philippe still observes the old ways.”

“Ancient” would be more accurate. Saturnalia hadn’t been practiced since the last days of the Roman Empire. I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling overwhelmed. “Let’s begin at the beginning, Alain. What, exactly, is happening in this house this weekend?”

After thirty minutes of discussion and three more sheets of paper, I was left alone with my books, papers, and a pounding headache. Sometime later I heard a commotion in the great hall, followed by a bellow of laughter. A familiar voice, somehow richer and warmer than I knew it, called out in greeting.

Matthew.

Before I could set my papers aside, he was there.

“Did you notice I was gone after all?” Matthew’s face was touched with color. His fingers pulled loose a tendril of hair as he gripped my neck and planted a kiss on my lips. There was no blood on his tongue, only the taste of the wind and the outdoors. Matthew had ridden, but he hadn’t fed. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier, mon coeur,” he whispered into my ear. “Forgive me for behaving so badly.” The ride had lifted his spirits, and his behavior toward his father was natural and unforced for the first time.

“Diana,” Philippe said, stepping from behind his son. He reached for the nearest book and took it to the fire, leafing through the pages. “You are reading The History of the Franks—not for the first time, I trust. This book would be more enjoyable, of course, if Gregory’s mother had overseen the writing of it. Armentaria’s Latin was most impressive. It was always a pleasure to receive her letters.”

I had never read Gregory of Tours’s famous book on French history, but there was no reason for Philippe to know that.

“When he and Matthew attended school in Tours, your famous Gregory was a boy of twelve. Matthew was far older than the teacher, never mind the other pupils, and allowed the boys to ride him like a horse when it was time for their recreation.” Philippe scanned the pages. “Where is the part about the giant? It’s my favorite.”

Alain entered, bearing a tray with two silver cups. He set it on the table by the fire.

“Merci, Alain.” I gestured at the tray. “You both must be hungry. Chef sent your meal here. Why don’t you tell me about your morning?”

“I don’t need—” Matthew began. His father and I both made sounds of exasperation. Philippe deferred to me with a gentle incline of his head.

“Yes you do,” I said. “It’s partridge blood, which you should be able to stomach at this hour. I hope you will hunt tomorrow, though, and Saturday, too. If you intend to fast for the next four weeks, you have to feed while you can.” I thanked Alain, who bowed, shot a veiled glance at his master, and left hastily. “Yours is stag’s blood, Philippe. It was drawn only this morning.”

“What do you know of partridge blood and fasting?” Matthew’s fingers tugged gently on my loose curl. I looked up into my husband’s gray-green eyes.

“More than I did yesterday.” I freed my hair before handing him his cup.

“I will take my meal elsewhere,” Philippe interjected, “and leave you to your argument.”

“There’s no argument. Matthew must remain healthy. Where did you go on your ride?” I picked up the cup of stag’s blood and held it out to Philippe.

Philippe’s attention traveled from the silver cup to his son’s face and back to me. He gave me a dazzling smile, but there was no mistaking his appraising look. He took the proffered cup and raised it in salute.

“Thank you, Diana,” he said, his voice full of friendship.

But those unnatural eyes that missed nothing continued to watch me as Matthew described their morning. A sensation of spring thaw told me when Philippe’s attention moved to his son. I couldn’t resist glancing in his direction to see if it was possible to tell what he was thinking. Our gazes crossed, clashed. The warning was unmistakable.