Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(72)

“Breathtaking,” he agreed. His face softened with regret. “I wish Ysabeau could be here to see you like this, and to witness Matthew’s happiness.”

“I’ll tell her everything one day,” I promised softly, holding his reflected gaze as Catrine fastened the arrow to the front of the chain and wound the rope of pearls through my hair. “I’ll take good care of the jewels tonight, too, and make sure they’re returned to you in the morning.”

“These belong to you now, Diana, to do with what you will. As does this.” Philippe pulled another bag from his belt, this one made from serviceable leather, and handed it to me.

It was heavy. Very heavy.

“The women in this family manage their own finances. Ysabeau insists upon it. All of the coins in here are English or French. They do not hold their value as well as Venetian ducats, but they will raise fewer questions when you spend them. If you need more, you have only to ask Walter or another member of the brotherhood.”

When I’d arrived in France, I was entirely dependent on Matthew. In little more than a week, I had learned how to conduct myself, converse, manage a household, and distill spirit of wine. I now had my own property, and Philippe de Clermont had claimed me publicly as his daughter.

“Thank you, for all of this,” I said softly. “I didn’t think you wanted me as a daughter-in-law.”

“Not at first, perhaps. But even old men can change their minds.” Philippe’s grin flashed. “And I always get what I want in the end.”

The women wrapped me in my cloak. At the very last moment, Catrine and Jehanne dropped a filmy piece of silk over my head and attached it to my hair with the opal crescent moons, which had tiny, tenacious claws on the back.

Thomas and étienne, who now saw themselves as my personal champions, ran ahead of us through the chateau and proclaimed our approach at the top of their lungs. Soon we formed a procession, moving through the twilight in the direction of the church. Someone must have been up in the bell tower, and once whoever that was spotted us, the bells began to ring.

I faltered as we came to the church. The entire village had assembled outside its doors, along with the priest. I searched for Matthew and found him standing at the top of the short flight of stairs. Through the transparent veil, I could feel his regard. Like sun and moon, we were unconcerned at this moment with time, distance, and difference. All that mattered was our position relative to each other.

I gathered my skirts and went to him. The brief climb felt endless. Did time misbehave this way for all brides, I wondered, or only for witches?

The priest beamed at me from the door but made no effort to admit us to the church. He was clutching a book in his hands but didn’t open it. I frowned in confusion.

“A ll right, mon coeur?” Matthew murmured.

“Aren’t we going inside?”

“Marriages take place at the church door to avoid bloody disputes later over whether or not the ceremony took place as reported. We can thank God there isn’t a blizzard.”

“Commencez!” the priest commanded, nodding at Matthew.

My entire role in the ceremony was to utter eleven words. Matthew was charged with fifteen. Philippe had informed the priest that we would then repeat our vows, in English, because it was important that the bride fully understand what she was promising. This brought the total number of words necessary to make us husband and wife to fifty-two.

“Maintenant!” The priest was shivering and wanted his supper.

“Je, Matthew, donne mon corps à toi, Diana, en loyal mariage.” Matthew took my hands in his. “I, Matthew, give my body to you, Diana, in faithful matrimony.”

“Et je le re?ois,” I replied. “And I receive it.”

We were halfway through. I took a deep breath and kept going.

“Je, Diana, donne mon corps à toi, Matthew.” The hard part over, I quickly said my final line. “I, Diana, give my body to you, Matthew.”

“Et je le re?ois, avec joie.” Matthew drew the veil over my head. “And I receive it, with joy.”

“Those aren’t the right words,” I said fiercely. I had memorized the vows, and there was no “avec joie” anywhere in them.

“They are,” Matthew insisted, lowering his head.

We’d been married by vampire custom when we mated and again by common law when Matthew had put Ysabeau”s ring on my finger in Madison. Now we were married a third time.

What happened afterward was a blur. There were torches and a long walk up the hill surrounded by well-wishers. Chef’s feast was already laid out, and people tucked into it with enthusiasm. Matthew and I sat alone at the family table, while Philippe strolled about serving wine and making sure the children got their fair share of spit-roasted hare and cheese fritters. Occasionally he cast a proud look in our direction, as if we’d slain dragons that afternoon.

“I never thought I would see this day,” Philippe told Matthew as he placed a slice of custard tart before us.

The feast seemed to be winding down when the men started shoving the tables to the sides of the hall. Pipes and drums sounded from the minstrels’ gallery above.

“By tradition the first dance belongs to the bride’s father,” Philippe said with a bow to me. He led me to the floor. Philippe was a good dancer, but even so I got us tangled.