“You are not, thank the gods. Go down, and I will join you shortly.” He shook his head ruefully and withdrew.
Matthew was tight-lipped as we faced each other across one of the long tables in the chilly great hall. There were few people in the room at this hour, and those who lingered left quickly after getting a good look at his forbidding expression. Bread, hot from the oven, and spiced wine were laid before me on the table. It wasn’t tea, but it would do. Matthew waited to speak until I had taken my first long sip.
“I’ve seen my father. We’ll leave at once.”
I wrapped my fingers more tightly around the cup without responding. Bits of orange peel floated in the wine, plumped up with the warm liquid. The citrus made it seem slightly more like a breakfast drink.
Matthew looked around the room, his face haunted. “Coming here was unwise.”
“Where are we to go instead? It’s snowing. Back at Woodstock the village is ready to drag me before a judge on charges of witchcraft. At SeptTours we may have to sleep apart and put up with your father, but perhaps he’ll be able to find a witch willing to help me.” So far Matthew’s hasty decisions had not worked out well.
“Philippe is a meddler. As for finding a witch, he’s not much fonder of your people than is Maman.” Matthew studied the scarred wooden table and picked at a bit of candle wax that had trickled down into one of the cracks. “My house in Milan might do. We could spend Christmas there. Italian witches have a considerable reputation for magic and are known for their uncanny foresight.”
“Surely not Milan.” Philippe appeared before us with the force of a hurricane and slid onto the bench next to me. Matthew carefully moderated his speed and strength in deference to warmblooded nerves. So, too, did Miriam, Marcus, Marthe, and even Ysabeau. His father showed no such consideration.
“I’ve performed my act of filial piety, Philippe,” Matthew said curtly. “There’s no reason to tarry, and we will be fine in Milan. Diana knows the Tuscan tongue.”
If he meant Italian, I was capable of ordering tagliatelle in restaurants and books at the library. Somehow I doubted that would be sufficient.
“How useful for her. It is regrettable that you are not going to Florence, then. But it will be a long time before you will be welcomed back to that city, after your latest escapades there,” Philippe said mildly. “Parlez-vous fran?ais, madame?”
“Oui,” I said warily, certain that this conversation was taking a multilingual turn for the worse.
“Hmm.” Philippe frowned. “Dicunt mihi vos es philologus.” “She is a scholar,” Matthew interjected testily. “If you want a rehearsal of her credentials, I’ll be pleased to provide it, in private, after breakfast.”
“Loquerisne latine?” Philippe asked me, as if his son hadn’t spoken. “Milás elliniká?”
“Mea lingua latina est mala,” I replied, putting down my wine. Philippe’s eyes shot wide at my appallingly schoolgirl response, his expression taking me straight back to the horrors of Latin 101. Put a Latin alchemical text in front of me and I could read it. But I wasn’t prepared for a discussion. I soldiered bravely on, hoping I had deduced correctly that his second question probed my grasp of Greek. “Tamen mea lingua graeca est peior.”
“Then we shall not converse in that language either,” murmured Philippe in a pained tone. He turned to Matthew in indignation. “Den tha ekpaidéfsoun gynaíkes sto méllon?”
“Women in Diana’s time receive considerably more schooling than you would think wise, Father,” Matthew answered. “Just not in Greek.”
“They have no need for Aristotle in the future? What a strange world it must be. I am glad that I will not encounter it for some time to come.” Philippe gave the wine pitcher a suspicious sniff and decided against it. “Diana will have to become more fluent in French and Latin. Only a few of our servants speak English, and none at all belowstairs.” He tossed a heavy ring of keys across the table. My fingers opened automatically to catch them.
“Absolutely not,” Matthew said, reaching to pluck them from my grasp. “Diana won’t be here long enough to trouble herself with the household.”
“She is the highest-ranking woman at SeptTours, and it is her due. You should begin, I think, with the cook,” Philippe said, pointing to the largest of the keys. “That one opens the food stores. The others unlock the bakehouse, the brewhouse, all the sleeping chambers save my own, and the cellars.”
“Which one opens the library?” I asked, fingering the worn iron surfaces with interest.
“We don’t lock up books in this house,” Philippe said, “only food, ale, and wine. Reading Herodotus or Aquinas seldom leads to bad behavior.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I said under my breath. “And what is the cook’s name?”
“Chef.”
“No, his given name,” I said, confused.
Philippe shrugged. “He is in charge, so he is Chef. I’ve never called him anything else. Have you, Matthaios?” Father and son exchanged a look that had me worried about the future of the trestle table that separated them.
“I thought you were in charge. If I’m to call the cook ‘Chef,’ what am I to call you?” My sharp tone temporarily distracted Matthew, who was about to toss the table aside and wrap his long fingers around his father’s neck.
“Everyone here calls me either ‘sire’ or ‘Father.’ Which would you prefer?” Philippe’s question was silky and dangerous.
“Just call him Philippe,” Matthew rumbled. “He goes by many other titles, but those that fit him best would blister your tongue.”
Philippe grinned at his son. “You didn’t lose your combativeness when you lost your sense, I see. Leave the household to your woman and join me for a ride. You look puny and need proper exercise.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“I am not leaving Diana,” Matthew retorted. He was fiddling nervously with an enormous silver salt, the ancestor of the humble salt crock that sat by my stove in New Haven.
“Why not?” Philippe snorted. “Alain will play nursemaid.”
Matthew opened his mouth to reply.
“Father?” I said sweetly, cutting into the exchange. “Might I speak with my husband privately before he meets you in the stables?”
Philippe’s eyes narrowed. He stood and bowed slowly in my direction. It was the first time the vampire had moved at anything resembling normal speed. “Of course, madame. I will send for Alain to attend upon you. Enjoy your privacy—while you have it.”
Matthew waited, his eyes on me, until his father left the room.
“What are you up to, Diana?” he asked quietly as I rose and made a slow progress around the table.
“Why is Ysabeau in Trier?” I asked.
“What does it matter?” he said evasively.
I swore like a sailor, which effectively removed the innocent expression from his face. There had been a lot of time to think last night, lying alone in Louisa’s rose-scented room—enough time for me to piece together the events of the past weeks and square them with what I knew about the period.
“It matters because there’s nothing much to do in Trier in 1590 but hunt witches!” A servant scuttled through the room, headed for the front door. There were still two men sitting by the fire, so I lowered my voice. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss your father’s current role in early-modern geopolitics, why a Catholic cardinal allowed you to order him around Mont Saint-Michel as if it were your private island, or the tragic death of Gallowglass’s father. But you will tell me. And we definitely will require further time and privacy for you to explain the more technical aspects of vampire mating.”
I whirled around to get away from him. He waited until I was far enough away to think escape was possible before neatly catching my elbow and turning me back. It was the instinctive maneuver of a predator. “No, Diana. We’ll talk about our marriage before either of us leaves this room.”