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.
“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.
“You look splendid,” I said after inspecting him.
“And you look like a proper Bohemian aristocrat,” he replied, kissing me on the cheek.
“Can we go now?” Jack said, dancing with impatience. Someone had found him a suit of black-and-silver livery and put a cross and crescent moon on the sleeve.
“So we are going as de Clermonts, not as Roydons,” I said slowly.
“No. We are Matthew and Diana Roydon,” Matthew replied. “We’re just traveling with the de Clermont family servants.”
“That should confuse everybody,” I commented as we left the house.
“Exactly,” Matthew said with a smile.