“Sometimes.” Marcus’s chin was now jutting at a belligerent angle.
“Bullshit.” I sounded like Sarah—blunt and impatient—and attributed it to the early hour rather than to any genetic predisposition to forthrightness among Bishop women. “You vampires are all the same—thinking you know what we poor warmbloods really want—especially the females. In fact, this is what Phoebe wanted: to be made a vampire the old-fashioned way. It’s your job to make sure her decision is honored and that the plan works.”
“Phoebe didn’t understand what she was agreeing to. Not entirely,” Marcus said, unwilling to concede the point. “She could get bloodsick. She could have trouble making her first kill. I would be able to help her, support her.”
Bloodsick? I nearly choked on my tea. What on earth was that?
“I’ve never seen anyone so well prepared to become a manjasang as Phoebe,” Ysabeau reassured Marcus.
“But there are no guarantees.” Marcus couldn’t let his worries go.
“Not in this life, my child.” Ysabeau’s expression was pained as she remembered when life still held the promise of a happy ending.
“It’s late. We’ll talk more after sunrise. You won’t sleep, Marcus, but try to rest.” Matthew touched his son’s shoulder as he passed by.
“I might take a run instead. Try to wear myself out that way. Nobody but the farmers will be awake at this hour.” Marcus looked at the brightening light beckoning through the windows.
“You shouldn’t attract any notice,” Matthew confirmed. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No need,” Marcus replied. “I’ll get changed and head out. Maybe take the route toward Saint-Priest-sous-Aixe. There are some good climbs along the way.”
“Should we expect you for breakfast?” Matthew’s tone was a touch too casual. “The children are early risers. They’ll want a chance to order their older brother around.”
“Don’t worry, Matthew.” A ghost of a smile touched Marcus’s lips. “Your legs are longer than mine. I’m not going to run away again. I just need to clear my head.”
* * *
—
WE LEFT THE DOOR of our room ajar in case Philip or Becca woke, and got back into bed. I crawled between the sheets, grateful on this warm May morning that my husband was a vampire, and tucked myself into his coolness. I knew when Marcus set out for his run because Matthew’s shoulders settled fully into the mattress. Until then, he had been slightly braced, ready to get up and go to his son’s aid.
“Do you want to go after him?” I asked. Matthew’s legs really were longer than Marcus’s, and he was fast. There was plenty of time for him to catch up to his son.
“Alain is following along, just in case,” Matthew said.
“Ysabeau said that she was more worried about Marcus than Phoebe.” I drew back to look at Matthew’s face in the dawn light. “Why?”
“Marcus is still so young.” Matthew sighed.
“Are you serious?” Marcus had been reborn a vampire in 1781. Two-hundred-plus years seemed plenty grown up to me.
“I know what you’re thinking, Diana, but when a human is made a vampire, they have to mature all over again. It can take a very long time before we are ready to strike out on our own,” Matthew said. “Our judgment can be faulty when we’re in the first flush of vampire blood.”
“But Marcus has already sown his wild oats.” The family was quick to tell tales of Marcus’s early years in America, the scandals and scrapes in which he became entangled, the difficulties from which he’d had to be extracted by senior members of the de Clermont family.
“Which is precisely why he can’t be allowed to supervise Phoebe’s transformation. Marcus is about to take a newly reborn vampire as a mate. It would be a major step under any circumstances, but given his youth . . .” Matthew paused. “I hope I’m doing the right thing, letting him take this step.”
“The family is doing what Marcus and Phoebe wanted,” I said, making sure that my emphasis registered. “They’re old enough—be they cold-blooded vampire or warmblooded human—to know their own minds.”
“Are they?” Matthew adjusted his position so that his eyes could meet mine. “That’s a very modern notion you have, that a man just turned four-and-twenty and a young woman of about the same age would be sufficiently experienced to determine the course of their future lives.” He was teasing, but his lowered eyebrows indicated that part of him believed what he said.
“It’s the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth,” I observed. “Besides, Marcus is not a man of ‘four-and-twenty,’ as you so charmingly put it, but two hundred and fifty plus.”
“Marcus will always be a child of that earlier time,” Matthew said. “If it were 1781, and it was Marcus who was experiencing his first day as a vampire and not Phoebe, he would have been considered in need of wise counsel—and a strong hand.”
“Your son has asked every member of this family—and Phoebe’s, too—for advice,” I reminded him. “It’s time to let Marcus determine his own future, Matthew.”
Matthew was silent, his hand moving along the faint scars that had been left on my back by the witch Satu J?rvinen. Over and over he traced them, lines of regret that reminded him of every time he had failed to protect those he loved.
“It will all be fine,” I assured him, snuggling closer.
Matthew sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
* * *
—
LATER THAT DAY, a marvelous air of quiet descended on Les Revenants. I looked forward to these rare moments of peace—often a mere twenty minutes, occasionally a blissful expanse of an hour or more—from the moment I awoke.
The children were in the nursery, tucked in for naps. Matthew was in his library working on a paper he was co-writing with our Yale colleague, Chris Roberts. They were scheduled to reveal more of their research findings at conferences this autumn and were already gearing up to submit an article to a leading scientific journal. Marthe was in the kitchen canning fresh beans in peppery brine while watching Plus belle la vie on the television Matthew had installed there. Marthe had insisted she had no interest in such technological fripperies, but she was soon hooked on the escapades of the residents of Le Mistral. As for me, I was avoiding my grading in favor of my new research into the connections between early modern cooking and laboratory practices. But I could spend only so much time bent over images of seventeenth-century alchemical manuscripts.
After an hour of work, the glorious May weather called to me. I made myself a cold drink and went upstairs to the wooden deck that Matthew had constructed between the battlements atop one of Les Revenants’ crenellated towers. Ostensibly it was built to provide views of the surrounding countryside, but everybody knew its primary purpose was defensive. It provided a good lookout, and would give plenty of advance warning if a stranger approached. Between our new rooftop aerie and the cleaned and refilled moat, Les Revenants was now as secure as Matthew could make it.
There I found Marcus, wearing dark glasses and lounging in the midday heat, the summer sun streaking his blond hair.
“Hello, Diana,” Marcus said, putting aside his book. It was a slender volume, the brown leather cover stained and pitted with age.
“You look like you need this more than I do.” I handed him my glass of iced tea. “Lots of mint, no lemon, no sugar.”
“Thanks,” Marcus said. He took an appreciative sip. “Delicious.”
“May I join you, or are you up here to escape?” Vampires were pack animals, but they definitely liked their alone time.
“This is your house, Diana.” Marcus drew his feet from the seat of the nearby wooden chair that he was using as an impromptu ottoman.