“We’ve been having some breakfast.” I pointed to Becca, whose face was partially obscured by jam and nut butter. Her smile of welcome for her father and brother was unmistakable, however. “Becca has been sharing.”
This was uncharacteristic behavior for our daughter. Becca tracked her food carefully, and had to be reminded that not everything put on the table was solely for her.
Apollo hopped over to Becca’s chair. He sat, long tongue lolling expectantly, his beady eyes fixed on the table, where the remnants of her feast remained. Becca narrowed her eyes at him in warning.
“I see that Rebecca and Apollo are still working out their relationship,” Matthew commented. He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and sat down with the paper.
“Come. Sit. Okay.” Philip kept rattling off commands to the griffin while jiggling the leash enticingly. “Come, ’Pollo. Sit.”
“Let’s get your bib on and some breakfast in you.” I snagged the leash and put it on the table. “Marthe made oatmeal. Your favorite!”
Philip’s preferred breakfast was pale pink goo—a splash of quail blood, some oats, and lumps of berries—with plenty of milk. We called it oatmeal, though food critics might not recognize the dish as such.
“Apollo. Here!” Philip’s patience was running out and his tone was decidedly peevish. “Here!”
“Let Apollo visit with Becca,” I said, trying to distract him by picking him up and tumbling him upside down. All I succeeded in doing, however, was alarming the griffin.
Apollo screeched in horror and launched himself into the air, clucking around Philip and comforting him with pats of his tail. It was not until Philip was right-side up and in his booster seat that the griffin settled back down to earth.
“Have you seen Marcus this morning?” Matthew cocked his head, listening for a sound from his grown son.
“He came through the kitchen while you were out. Said something about taking a run.” I handed Philip a spoon, which he would use to fling the oatmeal around rather than feed himself, and picked up my cup of tea. “He seems on edge.”
“He’s expecting an update from Paris,” Matthew explained.
The phone calls came every few days. Freyja spoke to Ysabeau, and then Matthew’s mother relayed the information to her grandson. So far, Phoebe was doing brilliantly. There had been a few hiccups, Freyja acknowledged, but nothing that wasn’t expected during a vampire’s first weeks. The stalwart Fran?oise was supporting Phoebe every step of the way, and I knew from my own experience that she would be dogged in her pursuit of Phoebe’s success. Still, Marcus couldn’t help worrying.
“Marcus hasn’t been himself since he told you about Obadiah,” Matthew said, attributing his son’s anxiety to a different cause.
Obadiah’s violent end had been the subject of many whispered conversations between me, Agatha, and Sarah. Over the past few days, Marcus had returned to the events of 1776, adding new details, worrying if there was some way he could have avoided killing his father and still have protected his mother and sister.
“The threads that bind him to the world have changed in color, but they’re still tangled and twisted,” I admitted. “I’ve been wondering if a simple charm would help, one woven with the second knot. He’s all blue these days.”
“I don’t think he’s that depressed,” Matthew said with a frown.
“No, not that kind of blue!” I said. “Though maybe that’s where we get the expression. Everywhere Marcus rubs up against time, it seems to register in shades of blue: royal blue, pale blue, purple, lavender, indigo, even turquoise. I’d like to see more balance. Last week there was some red, white, and black in the mix. Not all of them are happy colors, but at least there was some variety.”
Matthew looked fascinated. He also looked concerned.
“Second-knot spells rebalance energy. They’re often used in love magic,” I said. “But that’s not their only purpose. In this case, I could weave a spell to help Marcus sort out the emotions that are tied to his past lives.”
“For a vampire, coming to terms with our past lives is the most important work we do,” Matthew said cautiously. “I don’t think magical assistance is a good idea, mon coeur.”
“But Marcus is trying to ignore his past, not face it,” I said. “I know how impossible that is.”
Past. Present. Future. As a historian, I was intrigued by the relationship between them. To examine one thread required that you study them all.
“He’ll realize that,” Matthew said, returning to his paper. “In time.”
* * *
—
MATTHEW AND I WERE TAKING the children for a walk when we spotted a convertible approaching the house. It turned in to the driveway and wended its way to the house at a crawl.
“Ysabeau,” Matthew said. “And Marcus, too.”
It was a bizarre procession. Alain was at the wheel of the car. Ysabeau de Clermont sat in the passenger seat, wearing dark glasses and a sleeveless dress in a pale primrose color. The ends of the Hermès scarf knotted around her head fluttered in the breeze. She looked like the star of a 1960s film about a European princess on summer holiday. Marcus ran alongside, asking if there was news from Paris.
“Jesus, Grand-mère,” Marcus said when they finally arrived in the courtyard and Alain switched off the ignition. “Why own a car with that much engine if you’re going to let Alain drive it at five miles per hour like a golf cart?”
“One never knows when one might have to make a getaway,” Ysabeau replied cagily.
The children clamored for Ysabeau’s attention. She ignored them, although she did sneak in a wink at Rebecca.
“How’s Phoebe?” Marcus was practically dancing in anticipation of the news.
Ysabeau didn’t answer her grandson’s question, but motioned toward the rear of the automobile. “I brought decent champagne. There is never enough of it in this house.”
“And Phoebe?” Marcus asked, renewing his calls for more information.
“Has Becca’s tooth come in yet?” Ysabeau inquired of Matthew, still ignoring Marcus. “Hello, Diana. You are looking well.”
“Good morning, Maman.” Matthew stooped to kiss his mother.
Sarah and Agatha joined us in the courtyard. Sarah was still in her pajamas and dressing gown, and Agatha was wearing a cocktail dress. They made an odd pair.
“It is afternoon, Matthew. Have you no clocks in the house?” Ysabeau looked around for her next target and found one in my aunt. “Sarah. What a strange frock. I hope you didn’t pay much for it.”
“Nice to see you, too, Ysabeau. Agatha made it for me. I’m sure she’d make one for you, too, if you asked nicely.” Sarah drew the vivid kimono around her.
Ysabeau looked askance at the garment, then sniffed.
“Are you having a problem with fleas? Why does everything reek of lavender?” Ysabeau asked.
“Why don’t we all go inside,” I said, shifting Becca to my other hip.
“I have been waiting for an invitation to do just that,” Ysabeau said, her annoyance at the delay evident. “I cannot just walk in, can I?”
“You would know better than me,” I replied agreeably, determined not to fight with my mother-in-law. “My vampire etiquette is pretty sketchy. Witches—we just barge right in and head for the kitchen.”
Her worst fears confirmed, Ysabeau sailed between us lesser beings and into the house that had formerly been her home.
Once she was ensconced in a comfortable chair in the parlor, Ysabeau insisted everyone have a drink, and then she held the twins on her lap and embarked on a long conversation with each of them. A ringing phone interrupted it.
“Oui?” Ysabeau said, after drawing her bright red mobile phone out of a slender vintage clutch with a distinctive Bakelite handle shaped like a running greyhound.
Marcus crept closer to listen to the conversation on the other end, during what I, and the other warmbloods in the room, perceived as a very long silence.
“Ah. That is excellent news.” Ysabeau smiled. “I expected no less of Phoebe.”
Matthew’s face relaxed a fraction, and Marcus let out a shout of joy.