“No. It’s like the helicopters,” he replied with a smile, “just another perk associated with being a de Clermont.”
I left Syracuse as Diana Bishop and entered Europe the next day as Diana de Clermont. Matthew’s house in Amsterdam turned out to be a seventeenth-century mansion on the most beautiful stretch of the Herengracht. He had, Matthew explained, bought it right after he left Scotland in 1605.
We lingered there only long enough to shower and change clothes. I kept on the same leggings that I’d worn since Madison, and swapped out my shirt for one of Matthew’s. He donned his habitual gray and black cashmere and wool. It was odd not to see his legs. I’d grown accustomed to their being on display.
“It seems a fair trade,” Matthew commented. “I haven’t seen your legs for months, except in the privacy of our bedchamber.”
Matthew nearly had a heart attack when he discovered that his beloved Range Rover was not waiting for him in the underground garage. Instead we found a blue sports car with a soft top.
“I’m going to kill him,” Matthew said when he saw the low-slung vehicle. He used his house key to unlock a metal box bolted to the wall. Inside were another key and a note: “Welcome home. No one will expect you to be driving this. It’s safe. And fast. Hi, Diana. M.”
“What is it?” I said, looking at the airplane-style dials set into a flashy chrome dashboard.
“A Spyker Spyder. Marcus collects cars named after arachnids.” Matthew activated the car doors, and they scissored up like the wings on a jet fighter. He swore. “It’s the most conspicuous car imaginable.”
We only made it as far as Belgium before Matthew pulled in to a car dealership, handed over the keys to Marcus’s car, and pulled off the lot in something bigger and far less fun to drive. Safe in its heavy, boxy confines, we entered into France and some hours later began our slow ascent through the mountains of the Auvergne to Sept-Tours.
Glimpses of the fortress flickered between the trees—the pinkish gray stone, a dark tower window. I couldn’t help drawing comparisons between the castle and its adjacent town now and how it had looked when last I saw it in 1590. This time no smoke hung over Saint-Lucien in a gray pall. A sound of distant bells made me turn my head, thinking to spot the descendants of the goats I had known coming home for their evening meal. Pierre wouldn’t rush out with torches to meet us, though. Chef wasn’t in the kitchen decapitating pheasants with a cleaver as the freshly killed game was efficiently prepared to feed both warmbloods and vampires.
And there would be no Philippe, and therefore no shouts of laughter, shrewd observations on human frailty lifted from Euripides, or acute insights into the problems that would face us now that we had returned to the present. How long would it take to stop bracing myself for the rush of motion and bellow of sound that heralded Philippe’s arrival in a room? My heart hurt at the thought of my father-in-law. This harshly lit, fast-paced modern world had no place for heroes such as he.
“You’re thinking of my father,” Matthew murmured. Our silent rituals of a vampire’s blood-taking and a witch’s kiss had strengthened our ability to gauge each other’s thoughts.
“So are you,” I observed. He had been since we’d crossed over the border into France.
“The chateau has felt empty to me since the day he died. It has provided refuge, but little comfort.” Matthew’s eyes lifted to the castle, then settled back on the road before us. The air was heavy with responsibility and a son’s need to live up to his father’s legacy.
“Maybe it will be different this time. Sarah and Em are there. Marcus, too. Not to mention Sophie and Nathaniel. And Philippe is still here, if only we can learn to focus on his presence rather than his absence.” He would be in the shadows of every room, every stone in the walls. I studied my husband’s beautifully austere face, understanding better how experience and pain had shaped it. One hand curved around my belly, while the other sought him out to offer the comfort he so desperately needed.
His fingers clasped mine, squeezed. Then Matthew released me, and we didn’t speak for a time. My fingers soon beat an impatient tattoo on my thigh in the quiet, however, and I was tempted several times to open the car’s moonroof and fly to the chateau’s front door.
“Don’t you dare.” Matthew’s wide grin softened the warning note in his voice. I returned his smile as he downshifted around a deep curve.
“Hurry, then,” I said, scarcely able to control myself. Despite my entreaties the speedometer stayed exactly where it was. I groaned with impatience. “We should have stuck with Marcus’s car.”
“Patience. We’re almost there.” And there’s no chance of my going any faster, Matthew thought as he downshifted again.
“What did Sophie say about Nathaniel’s driving when she was pregnant? ‘He drives like an old lady.’”
“Imagine how Nathaniel might drive if he actually was an old lady—a centuries-old old lady, like me. That’s how I will drive for the rest of my days, so long as you are in the car.” He reached for my hand again, bringing it to his lips.
“Both hands on the wheel, old lady,” I joked as we rounded the last bend, putting a straight stretch of road and walnut trees between us and the chateau’s courtyard.
Hurry, I begged him silently. My eyes fixed on the roof of Matthew’s tower as it came into view. When the car slowed, I looked at him in confusion.
“They’ve been expecting us,” he explained, angling his head toward the windshield.
Sophie, Ysabeau, and Sarah were waiting, motionless, in the middle of the road.
Daemon, vampire, witch—and one more. Ysabeau held a baby in her arms. I could see its rich brown thatch of hair and chubby, long legs. One of the baby’s hands was wrapped firmly around a strand of the vampire’s honeyed locks, while her other hand stretched imperiously in our direction. There was a tiny, undeniable tingle when the baby’s eyes focused on me. Sophie and Nathaniel’s child was a witch, just as she had foretold.
I unbuckled the seat belt, flung the door open, and sped up the road before Matthew could bring the car to a complete stop. Tears streamed down my face, and Sarah ran to enfold me in familiar textures of fleece and flannel, surrounding me with the scents of henbane and vanilla.
Home, I thought.
“I’m so glad you’re back safely,” she said fiercely.
Over Sarah’s shoulder I watched while Sophie gently took the baby from Ysabeau’s grasp. Matthew’s mother’s face was as inscrutable and lovely as ever, but the tightness around her mouth suggested strong emotions as she gave up the child. That tightness was one of Matthew’s tells, too. They were so much more similar in flesh and blood than the method of Matthew’s making would suggest was possible.
Pulling myself loose from Sarah’s embrace, I turned to Ysabeau.
“I was not sure you would come back. You were gone so long. Then Margaret began to demand that we take her to the road, and it was possible for me to believe that you might return to us safely after all.” Ysabeau searched my face for some piece of information that I had not yet given her.
“We’re back now. To stay.” There had been enough loss in her long life. I kissed her softly on one cheek, then the other.
“Bien,” she murmured with relief. “It will please us all to have you here—not just Margaret.” The baby heard her name and began to chant “D-d-d-d” while her arms and legs moved like eggbeaters in an attempt to get to me. “Clever girl,” Ysabeau said approvingly, giving Margaret and then Sophie a pat on the head.
“Do you want to hold your goddaughter?” Sophie asked. Her smile was wide, though there were tears in her eyes.
“Please,” I said, taking the baby into my arms in exchange for a kiss on Sophie’s cheek. Margaret felt so substantial.
“Hello, Margaret,” I whispered, breathing in her baby smell.
“D-d-d-d.” Margaret grabbed a hank of my hair and began to wave it around in her fist.