As on the night I’d waited for him to take my vein, time stretched out to infinity while Matthew wrestled with himself. Now, as then, I could do nothing to speed the process or help him choose life over death. He had to grab hope’s fragile thread without any help from me.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Once I knew that love between a vampire and a witch was wrong. I was sure the four species were distinct. I accepted the deaths of witches if it meant that vampires and daemons survived.” Though his pupils still eclipsed his eyes, a bright sliver of green appeared. “I told myself that the madness among daemons and the weaknesses among vampires were relatively recent developments, but now that I see Louisa and Kit . . .”
“You don’t know.” I lowered my voice. “None of us do. It’s a frightening prospect. But we have to hope in the future, Matthew. I don’t want our children to be born under this same shadow, hating and fearing who they are.”
I waited for him to fight me further, but he remained silent.
“Let Gallowglass take responsibility for your sister. Allow Hubbard to take Kit. And try to forgive them.”
“Wearhs do not forgive as easily as warmbloods do,” Gallowglass said gruffly. “You cannot ask that of him.”
“Matthew asked it of you,” I pointed out.
“Aye, and I told him the best he could hope for was that I might, in time, forget. Don’t demand more from Matthew than he can give, Auntie. He is his own worst rack master, and he needs no assistance from you.” Gallowglass’s voice held a warning.
“I would like to forget, witch,” Louisa said primly, as if she were making a simple choice of fabric for a new gown. She waved her hand in the air. “All of this. Use your magic and make these horrible dreams go away.”
It was in my power to do it. I could see the threads binding her to Bedlam, to Matthew, and to me. But though I didn’t want to torture Louisa, I was not so forgiving as to grant her peace.
“No, Louisa,” I said. “You will remember Greenwichfor the rest of your days , and me, and even how you hurt Matthew. Let that be your prison, and not this place.” I turned to Gallowglass. “Make sure she isn’t a danger to herself or anyone else, before you set her free.”
“Oh, she won’t enjoy any freedom,” Gallowglass promised. “She’ll go from here to wherever Philippe sends her. After what she’s done here, my grandfather will never let her roam again.”
“Tell them, Matthew!” Louisa pleaded. “You understand what it is to have these . . . things crawling in your skull. I cannot bear them!” She pulled at her hair with a manacled hand.
“And Kit?” Gallowglass asked. “You are sure you want Hubbard to take care of him, Matthew? I know that Hancock would be delighted to dispatch him.”
“He is Hubbard’s creature, not mine.” Matthew’s tone was absolute. “I care not what happens to him.”
“What I did was out of love—” Kit began.
“You did it out of spite,” Matthew said, turning his back on his best friend.
“Father Hubbard,” I called as he rushed to collect his charge. “Kit’s actions at Greenwich will be forgotten, provided that what happened here stays within these walls.”
“You promise this, on behalf of all the de Clermonts?” Hubbard’s pale eyebrows lifted. “Your husband must give me this assurance, not you.”
“My word is going to have to be enough,” I said, standing my ground.
“Very well, Madame de Clermont.” It was the first time that Hubbard had used the title. “You are indeed Philippe’s daughter. I accept your family’s terms.”
Even after we left Bedlam, I could feel its darkness clinging to us. Matthew did, too. It followed us everywhere we went in London, accompanied us to dinner, visited with our friends. There was only one way to rid ourselves of it.
We had to return to our present.
Without discussion or conscious plans, we both began putting our affairs in order, snipping the threads that bound us to the past we now shared. Fran?oise had been planning to rejoin us in London, but we sent word for her to remain at the Old Lodge. Matthew had long and complicated conversations with Gallowglass about the lies his nephew would have to tell so as not to reveal to the sixteenth-century Matthew that he’d been temporarily replaced by his future self. The sixteenth-century Matthew could not be allowed to see Kit or Louisa, for neither could be trusted. Walter and Henry would make up some story to explain any discontinuities in behavior. Matthew sent Hancock to Scotland to prepare for a new life there. I worked with Goody Alsop, perfecting the knots I would use to weave the spell that would carry us into the future.
Matthew met me in St. James Garlickhythe after one of my lessons and suggested we stroll through St. Paul’s Churchyard on our way home. It was two weeks from midsummer, and the days were sunny and bright in spite of Bedlam’s persistent pall.
Though Matthew still looked drawn after his experience with Louisa and Kit, it felt almost like old times when we stopped at the booksellers to see the latest titles and news. I was reading a fresh volley in the war of words between two spatting Cambridge graduates when Matthew stiffened.
“Chamomile. And coffee.” His head swung around at the unfamiliar scent.
“Coffee?” I asked, wondering how something that had not yet come to England could possibly be scenting the air around St. Paul’s. But Matthew was no longer beside me to answer. Instead he was pushing his way through the crowd, his sword in one hand.
I sighed. Matthew couldn’t stop himself from going after every thief in the market. At times I wished his eyesight were not so keen, his moral compass less absolute.
This time he was pursuing a man about five inches shorter than he was, with thick brown curls peppered with gray. The man was slender and slightly stooped at the shoulders, as though he spent too much time hunched over books. Something about the combination tugged at my memory.
The man sensed the danger approaching and turned. Alas, he carried a pitifully small dagger no bigger than a penknife. That wasn’t going to be much use against Matthew. Hoping to avoid a bloodbath, I hurried after my husband.
Matthew grabbed the poor man’s hand so tightly that his inadequate weapon fell to the ground. With one knee the vampire pressed his prey against the bookstall, the flat of his sword against the man’s neck. I did a double take.
“Daddy?” I whispered. It couldn’t be. I stared at him incredulously, my heart hammering with excitement and shock.
“Hello, Miss Bishop,” my father replied, glancing up from Matthew’s sharp-edged blade. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
My father looked calm as he faced an unfamiliar, armed vampire and his own grown daughter. Only the slight tremor in his voice and his whiteknuckled grip on the stall gave him away.
“Dr. Proctor, I presume.” Matthew stepped away and sheathed his weapon.
My father straightened his serviceable brown jacket. It was all wrong. Someone—probably my mother—had tried to modify a Nehru jacket into something resembling a cleric’s cassock. And his britches were too long, more like something Ben Franklin would wear than Walter Raleigh. But his familiar voice, which I hadn’t heard for twenty-six years, was exactly right.
“You’ve grown in the past three days,” he said shakily.
“You look just as I remember,” I said, still stunned by the fact that he was standing before me. Mindful that two witches and a wearh might be too much for the St. Paul’s Churchyard crowd, and unsure what I to do in this novel situation, I fell back on social convention. “Do you want to come back to our house for a drink?” I suggested awkwardly.
“Sure, honey. That would be great,” he said with a tentative nod.
My father and I couldn’t stop looking at each other—not on our way home nor when we reached the safety of the Hart and Crown, which was, miraculously, empty. There he caught me up in a fierce hug.
“It’s really you. You sound just like your mom,” he said, holding me at arm’s length to study my features. “You look like her, too.”