Matthew’s warning echoed long after he delivered it. I found myself watching the other vampires in the household for the small signs that they were thinking of moving or that they were hungry or tired, restless or bored. The signs were subtle and easy to miss. When Annie walked past Gallowglass, his lids dropped to shutter the avid expression in his eyes, but it was over so quickly I might have imagined it, just as I might have imagined the flaring of Hancock’s nostrils when a group of warmbloods passed by on the street below.
I was not imagining the extra laundry charges to clean the blood from their linen, however. Gallowglass and Hancock were hunting and feeding in the city, though Matthew did not join them. He confined himself to what Fran?oise could procure from the butchers.
When Annie and I went to Mary’s on Monday afternoon, as was our custom, I remained more alert to my surroundings than I had been since our arrival. This time it wasn’t to absorb the details of Elizabethan life but to make sure we weren’t being watched or followed. I kept Annie safely within arm’s reach, and Pierre retained a firm grip on Jack. We had learned the hard way that it was the only hope we had of keeping the boy from “magpie-ing,” as Hancock called it. In spite of our efforts, Jack still managed to commit numerous acts of petty theft. Matthew instituted a new household ritual in an effort to combat it. Jack had to empty his pockets every night and confess how he’d come by his extraordinary assortment of shiny objects. So far it hadn’t put a damper on his activities.
Given his light fingers, Jack could not yet be trusted in the Countess of Pembroke’s well-appointed home. Annie and I took our leave of Pierre and Jack, and the girl’s expression brightened considerably at the prospect of a long gossip with Mary’s maid, Joan, and a few hours of freedom from Jack’s unwanted attentions.
“Diana!” Mary cried when I crossed the threshold of her laboratory. No matter how many times I entered, it never failed to take my breath away, with its vivid murals illustrating the making of the philosopher’s stone. “Come, I have something to show you.”
“Is this your surprise?” Mary had been hinting that she would soon delight me with a display of her alchemical proficiency.
“Yes,” Mary replied, drawing her notebook from the table. “See here, it is now the eighteenth of January, and I began the work on the ninth of December. It has taken exactly forty days, just as the sages promised.”
Forty was a significant number in alchemical work, and Mary could have been undertaking any number of experiments. I looked through her laboratory entries in an effort to figure out what she’d been doing. Over the past two weeks, I’d learned Mary’s shorthand and the symbols she used for the various metals and substances. If I understood correctly, she began this process with an ounce of silver dissolved in aqua fortis—the “strong water” of the alchemists, known in my own time as nitric acid. To this, Mary added distilled water.
“Is this your mark for mercury?” I asked, pointing to an unfamiliar glyph.
“Yes—but only the mercury I obtain from the finest source in Germany.” Mary spared no expense when it came to her laboratory, chemicals, or equipment. She drew me toward another example of her commitment to quality at any price: a large glass flask. It was free of imperfections and clear as crystal, which meant it had come from Venice. The English glass made in Sussex was marred with tiny bubbles and faint shadows. The Countess of Pembroke preferred the Venetian stuff—and could afford it.
When I saw what was inside, a premonitory finger brushed against my shoulders.
A silver tree grew from a small seed in the bottom of the flask. Branches had sprouted from the trunk, forking out and filling the top of the vessel with glittering strands. Tiny beads at the ends of the branches suggested fruit, as though the tree were ripe and ready for harvesting.
“The arbor Dian?,” Mary said proudly. “It is as though God inspired me to make it so that it would be here to welcome you. I have tried to grow the tree before, but it has never taken root. No one could see such a thing and doubt the truth and power of the alchemical art.”
Diana’s tree was a sight to behold. It gleamed and grew before my eyes, sending out new shoots to fill the remaining space in the vessel. Knowing that it was nothing more than a dendritic amalgam of crystallized silver did little to diminish my wonder at seeing a lump of metal go through what looked like a vegetative process.
On the wall opposite, a dragon sat over a vessel similar to the one Mary had used to house the arbor Dian?. The dragon held his tail in his mouth, and drops of his blood fell into the silvery liquid below. I sought out the next image in the series: the bird of Hermes who flew toward the chemical marriage. The bird reminded me of the illustration of the wedding from Ashmole 782.
“I think it might be possible to devise a quicker method to achieve the same result,” Mary said, drawing back my attention. She pulled a pen from her upswept hair, leaving a black smudge over her ear. “What do you imagine would happen if we filed the silver before dissolving it in the aqua fortis?”
We spent a pleasant afternoon discussing new ways to make the arbor Dian?, but it was over all too soon.
“Will I see you Thursday?” Mary asked.
“I’m afraid I have another obligation,” I said. I was expected at Goody Alsop’s before sunset.
Mary’s face fell. “Friday, then?”
“Friday,” I agreed.
“Diana,” Mary said hesitantly, “are you well?”
“Yes,” I said in surprise. “Do I seem ill?”
“You are pale and look tired,” she admitted. “Like most mothers I am prone to— Oh.” Mary stopped abruptly and turned bright pink. Her eyes dropped to my stomach, then flew back to my face. “You are with child.”
“I will have many questions for you in the weeks ahead,” I said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.
“How far along are you?” she asked.
“Not far,” I said, keeping my answer deliberately vague.
“But the child cannot be Matthew’s. A wearh is not able to father a child.” Mary said, her hand rising to her cheek in wonder. “Matthew welcomes the babe, even though it is not his?”
Though Matthew had warned me that everybody would assume the child belonged to another man, we hadn’t discussed how to respond. I would have to punt.
“He considers it his own blood,” I said firmly. My answer only seemed to increase her concern.
“You are fortunate that Matthew is so selfless when it comes to protecting those who are in need. And you—can you love the child, though you were taken against your will?”
Mary thought I’d been raped—and perhaps that Matthew had married me only to shield me from the stigma of being pregnant and single.
“The child is innocent. I cannot refuse it love.” I was careful neither to deny nor confirm Mary’s suspicions. Happily, she was satisfied with my response, and, characteristically, she probed no further. “As you can imagine,” I added, “we are eager to keep this news quiet for as long as possible.”
“Of course,” Mary agreed. “I will have Joan make you a soft custard that fortifies the blood yet is very soothing to the stomach if taken at night before you sleep. It was a great help to me in my last pregnancy and seemed to lessen my sickness in the morning.”
“I have been blessedly free of that complaint so far,” I said, drawing on my gloves. “Matthew promises me it will come any day now.”
“Hmm,” Mary mused, a shadow crossing her face. I frowned, wondering what was worrying her now. She saw my expression and smiled brightly. “You should guard against fatigue. When you are here on Friday, you must not stand so long but take your ease on a stool while we work.” Mary fussed over the arrangement of my cloak. “Stay out of drafts. And have Fran?oise make a poultice for your feet if they start to swell. I will send a receipt for it with the custard. Shall I have my boatman take you to Water Lane?”
“It’s only a five-minute walk!” I protested with a laugh. Finally Mary let me leave on foot, but only after I assured her that I would avoid not only drafts but also cold water and loud noises.
That night I dreamed I slept under the limbs of a tree that grew from my womb. Its branches shielded me from the moonlight while, high above, a dragon flew through the night. When it reached the moon, the dragon’s tail curled around it and the silver orb turned red.