Diana—
Do not let the ghosts of the past steal the joy from the future.
Thank you for holding my hand.
You can let go now.
Your father, in blood and vow,
Philippe
P.S. The coin is for the ferryman. Tell Matthew I will see you safe on the other side.
I choked on the last few words. They echoed in the silent room.
“So Philippe does expect me to return his coin.” He would be sitting on the banks of the river Styx waiting for Charon’s boat to bring me across. Perhaps Emily waited with him, and my parents, too. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the painful images.
“What did he mean, ‘Thank you for holding my hand’?” Matthew asked.
“I promised him he wouldn’t be alone in the dark times. That I’d be there, with him.” My eyes brimmed with tears. “How can I have no memory of doing so?”
“I don’t know, my love. But somehow you managed to keep your promise.” Matthew leaned down and kissed me. He looked over my shoulder. “And Philippe made sure he got the last word, as usual.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, wiping at my cheeks.
“He left written proof that he freely and gladly wanted you for his daughter.” Matthew’s long white finger touched the page.
“That is why Sieur Philippe wanted Madame de Clermont to have these as soon as possible,” Alain admitted.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking at Matthew.
“Between the jewels, your dowry, and this letter, it will be impossible for any of Philippe’s children—or even the Congregation—to suggest he was somehow forced to bestow a blood vow on you,” Matthew explained.
“Sieur Philippe knew his children well. He often foresaw their future as easily as any witch,” Alain said, nodding. “I will leave you to your memories.”
“Thank you, Alain.” Matthew waited until the sound of Alain’s footsteps faded before saying anything more. He looked down at me with concern. “All right, mon coeur?”
“Of course,” I murmured, staring at the desk. The past was strewn across it, and a clear future was nowhere to be found.
“I’m going upstairs to change. I won’t be long,” Matthew said, giving me a kiss.
“Take your time,” I said, mustering what I hoped was a genuine smile.
Once Matthew was gone, I reached for the golden arrowhead that Philippe gave me to wear at my wedding. Its weight was comforting, and the metal warmed quickly to my touch. I slipped its chain over my head. The arrowhead’s point nestled between my breasts, its edges too soft and worn to nick my skin.
I felt a squirming sensation in the pocket of my jeans and drew out a clutch of silk ribbons. My weaver’s cords had come with me from the past, and unlike the sleeve from my wedding dress or the faded silk that bound my letters, these strands were fresh and shiny. They twined and danced around my wrists and one another like a handful of brightly colored snakes, merging into new colors for a moment before separating into their original strands and hues. The cords snaked up my arms and wormed their way into my hair as if they were looking for something. I pulled them free and tucked the silks away.
I was supposed to be the weaver. But would I ever comprehend the tangled web that Philippe de Clermont had been spinning when he made me his blood-sworn daughter?