“Weavers are surrounded by mystery,” Goody Alsop told me. “We haven’t the time to seek answers to all your questions now but must focus instead on teaching you to manage the magic as it moves through you.”
“My powers have been misbehaving,” I admitted, thinking of the shriveled quinces and Mary’s ruined shoes. “I never know what’s going to happen next.”
“That’s not unusual for a weaver first coming into her power. But your brightness can be seen and felt, even by humans.” Goody Alsop sat back in her chair and studied me. “If witches see your glaem like young Annie did, they might use the knowledge for their own purposes. We will not let you or the child fall into Hubbard’s clutches. I trust you can manage the Congregation?” she said, looking at Matthew. Goody Alsop construed Matthew’s silence as consent.
“Very well, then. Come to me on Mondays and Thursdays, Diana. Mistress Norman will see to you on Tuesdays. I shall send for Marjorie Cooper on Wednesdays and Elizabeth Jackson and Catherine Streeter on Fridays. Diana will need their help to reconcile the fire and water in her blood, or she will never produce more than a vapor.”
“Perhaps it is not wise to make all those witches privy to this particular secret, Goody,” Matthew said.
“Master Roydon is right. There are already too many whispers about the witch. John Chandler has been spreading news of her to ingratiate himself with Father Hubbard. Surely we can teach her ourselves,” said Susanna.
“And when did you become a firewitch?” Goody Alsop retorted. “The child’s blood is full of flame. My talents are dominated by witchwind, and yours are grounded in the earth’s power. We are not sufficient to the task.”
“Our gathering will draw too much attention if we proceed with your plan. We are but thirteen witches, yet you propose to involve five of us in this business. Let some other gathering take on the problem of Mistress Roydon—the one in Moorgate, perhaps, or Aldgate.”
“The Aldgate gathering has grown too large, Susanna. It cannot govern its own affairs, never mind take on the education of a weaver. Besides, it is too far for me to travel, and the bad air by the city ditch worsens my rheumatism. We will train her in this parish, as the goddess intended.”
“I cannot—” Susanna began.
“I am your elder, Susanna. If you wish to protest further, you will need to seek a ruling from the Rede.” The air thickened uncomfortably.
“Very well, Goody. I will send my request to Queenhithe.” Susanna seemed startled by her own announcement.
“Who is Queen Hithe?” I asked Matthew, my voice low.
“Queenhithe is a place, not a person,” he murmured. “But what is this about a reed?”
“I have no idea,” I confessed.
“Stop whispering,” Goody Alsop said, shaking her head in annoyance. “With the charm on the windows and the doors, your muttering stirs the air and hurts my ears.”
Once the air quieted, Goody Alsop continued. “Susanna has challenged my authority in this matter. As I am the leader of the Garlickhythe gathering—and the Vintry’s ward elder as well—Mistress Norman must present her case to the other ward elders in London. They will decide on our course of action, as they do whenever there are disagreements between witches. There are twenty-six elders, and together we are known as the Rede.”
“So this is just politics?” I said.
“Politics and prudence. Without a way to settle our own disputes, Father Hubbard would have his wearh fingers in even more of our affairs,” said Goody Alsop. “I am sorry if I offend you, Master Roydon.”
“No offense taken, Goody Alsop. But if you take this matter to your elders, Diana’s identity will be known across London.” Matthew stood. “I can’t allow that.”
“Every witch in the city has already heard about your wife. News travels quickly here, no small thanks to your friend Christopher Marlowe,” Goody Alsop said, craning her neck to meet his eyes. “Sit down, Master Roydon. My old bones no longer bend that way.” To my surprise, Matthew sat.
“The witches of London still do not know you are a weaver, Diana, and that is the important thing,” Goody Alsop continued. “The Rede will have to be told, of course. When other witches hear that you’ve been called before the elders, they will assume you are being disciplined for your relationship with Master Roydon, or that you are being bound in some fashion to keep him from gaining access to your blood and power.”
“Whatever they decide, will you still be my teacher?” I was used to being the object of other witches’ scorn and knew better than to hope that the witches of London would approve of my relationship with Matthew. It mattered little to me whether Marjorie Cooper, Elizabeth Jackson, and Catherine Streeter (whoever they were) participated in Goody Alsop’s educational regimen. But Goody Alsop was different. This was one witch whose friendship and help I wanted to have.
“I am the last of our kind in London and one of only three known weavers in this part of the world. The Scottish weaver Agnes Sampson lies in a prison in Edinburgh. No one has seen or heard from the Irish weaver for years. The Rede has no choice but to let me guide you,” Goody Alsop assured me.
“When will the witches meet?” I asked.
“As soon as it can be arranged,” Goody Alsop promised.
“We will be ready for them,” Matthew assured her.
“There are some things that your wife must do for herself, Master Roydon. Carrying the babe and seeing the Rede are among them,” Goody Alsop replied. “Trust is not an easy business for a wearh, I know, but you must try for her sake.”
“I trust my wife. You felt what witches have done to her, so you will not be surprised that I don’t trust any of your kind with her,” Matthew said.
“You must try,” Goody Alsop repeated. “You cannot offend the Rede. If you do, Hubbard will have to intervene. The Rede will not suffer that additional insult and will insist on the Congregation’s involvement. No matter our other disagreements, no one in this room wants the Congregation’s attention focused on London, Master Roydon.”
Matthew took Goody Alsop’s measure. Finally he nodded. “Very well, Goody.”
I was a weaver.
Soon I would be a mother.
A child between, a witch apart, whispered the ghostly voice of Bridget Bishop.
Matthew’s sharp inhalation told me that he had detected some change in my scent. “Diana is tired and needs to go home.”
“She is not tired but fearful. The time for that has passed, Diana. You must face who you truly are,” Goody Alsop said with mild regret.
But my anxiety continued to rise even after we were safely back in the Hart and Crown. Once there, Matthew took off his quilted jacket. He wrapped it around my shoulders, trying to ward off the chilly air. The fabric retained his smell of cloves and cinnamon, along with traces of smoke from Susanna’s fire and the damp air of London.
“I’m a weaver.” Perhaps if I kept saying it, this fact would begin to make sense. “But I don’t know what that means or who I am anymore.”
“You are Diana Bishop—a historian, a witch.” He took me by the shoulders. “No matter what else you have been before or might one day be, this is who you are. And you are my life.”
“Your wife,” I corrected him.
“My life,” he repeated. “You are not just my heart but its beating. Before I was only a shadow, like Goody Alsop’s fetch.” His accent was stronger, his voice rough with emotion.
“I should be relieved to have the truth at last,” I said through chattering teeth as I climbed into bed. The cold seemed to have taken root in the marrow of my bones. “All my life I wondered why I was different. Now I know, but it doesn’t help.”
“One day it will,” Matthew promised, joining me under the coverlet. He folded his arms around me. We twined our legs like the roots of a tree, each clinging to the other for support as we worked our bodies closer. Deep within me the chain that I had somehow forged out of love and longing for someone I had yet to meet flexed between us and became fluid. It was thick and unbreakable, filled with a life-giving sap that flowed continuously from witch to vampire and back to witch. Soon I no longer felt between but blissfully, completely centered. I took a deep breath, then another. When I tried to draw away, Matthew refused.
“I’m not ready to let you go yet,” he said, pulling me closer.
“You must have work to do—for the Congregation, Philippe, Elizabeth. I’m fine, Matthew,” I insisted, though I wanted to stay exactly where I was for as long as possible.
“Vampires reckon time differently than warmbloods do,” he said, still unwilling to release me.
“How long is a vampire minute, then?” I asked, snuggling under his chin.
“It’s hard to say,” Matthew murmured. “Some length of time between an ordinary minute and forever.”