Deborah Harkness - Shadow of Night

“You get to choose me, over and over again, but when I want the same, you think I don’t know my own mind?”

“I’ve had ample opportunity to know what I want. Your fondness for me may be nothing more than a way of alleviating your fear of the unknown, or satisfying your desire to embrace this world of creatures that you’ve denied for so long.”

“Fondness? I love you. It makes no difference whether I have two days or two years. My decision will be the same.”

“The difference will be that I will not have done to you what your parents did!” he exploded, pushing past me. “Mating a vampire is no less confining than being spellbound by witches. You’re living on your own terms for the first time, yet you’re ready to swap one set of restraints for another. But mine aren’t the enchanted stuff of fairy tales, and no charm will remove them when they begin to chafe.”

“I’m your lover, not your prisoner.”

“And I am a vampire, not a warmblood. Mating instincts are primitive and difficult to control. My entire being will be focused on you. No one deserves that kind of ruthless attention, least of all the woman I love.”

“So I can either live without you or be locked in a tower by you.” I shook my head. “This is fear talking, not reason. You’re scared of losing me, and being with Philippe is making it worse. Pushing me away isn’t going to ease your pain, but talking about it might.”

“Now that I’m with my father again, my wounds open and bleeding, am I not healing as quickly as you hoped?” The cruelty was back in Matthew’s tone. I winced. Regret flickered over his features before they hardened again.

“You would rather be anywhere than here. I know that, Matthew. But Hancock was right: I wouldn’t last long in a place like London or Paris, where we might be able to find a willing witch. Other women will spot my differences straightaway, and they won’t be as forgiving as Walter or Henry. I’d be turned in to the authorities—or the Congregation—in a matter of days.”

The acuity of Matthew’s gaze gave weight to his warning about what it would feel like to be the object of a vampire’s single-minded attention. “Another witch won’t care,” he said stubbornly, dropping my arms and turning away. “And I can manage the Congregation.”

The few feet that separated Matthew and me stretched until we might have been on opposite sides of the world. Solitude, my old companion, no longer felt like a friend.

“We can’t go on this way, Matthew. With no family and no property, I’m utterly dependent on you,” I continued. Historians had some things right about the past, including the structural weaknesses associated with being female, friendless, and without money. “We need to stay at SeptTours until I can walk into a room and not draw every curious eye. I have to be able to manage on my own. Starting with these.” I held up the keys to the castle.

“You want to play house?” he said doubtfully.

“I’m not playing house. I’m playing for keeps.” Matthew quirked his lips at my words, but it wasn’t a real smile. “Go. Spend time with your father. I’ll be too busy to miss you.”

Matthew left for the stables without a kiss or word of farewell. The absence of his usual reassurances left me feeling strangely unresolved. After his scent had dissipated, I called softly for Alain, who arrived suspiciously quickly, accompanied by Pierre. They must have heard every word of our exchange.

“Staring out the window doesn’t hide your thoughts, Pierre. It’s one of your master’s few tells, and every time he does it, I know he’s concealing something.”

“Tells?” Pierre looked at me, confused. The game of poker had yet to be invented.

“An outward sign of an inward concern. Matthew looks away when he’s anxious or doesn’t want to tell me something. And he runs his fingers through his hair when he doesn’t know what to do. These are tells.”

“So he does, madame .” Pierre looked at me, awestruck. “Does milord know that you used a witch’s powers of divination to see into his soul? Madame de Clermont knows these habits, and milord’s brothers and father do as well. But you have known him for such a short time and yet know so much.”

Alain coughed.

Pierre looked horrified. “I forget myself, madame . Please forgive me.”

“Curiosity is a blessing, Pierre. And I used observation, not divination, to know my husband.” There was no reason the seeds of the Scientific Revolution shouldn’t be planted now, in the Auvergne. “We will, I think, be more comfortable discussing matters in the library.” I pointed in what I hoped was the proper direction.

The room where the de Clermonts kept most of their books represented the closest thing to a home-court advantage available to me in sixteenthcentury Sept-Tours. Once I was enshrouded in the scent of paper, leather, and stone, some of the loneliness left me. This was a world I knew.

“We have a great deal of work to do,” I said quietly, turning to face the family retainers. “First, I would ask both of you to promise me something.”

“A vow, madame ?” Alain looked upon me with suspicion.

I nodded. “If I request something that would require the assistance of milord or, more important, his father, please tell me and we will change course immediately. They don’t need to worry about my small concerns.” The men looked wary but intrigued.

“Òc ,” Alain agreed with a nod.

Despite such auspicious beginnings, my first team meeting got off to a rocky start. Pierre refused to sit in my presence, and Alain would take a chair only if I did. But remaining motionless wasn’t an option, given my rising tide of anxiety about my responsibilities at Sept-Tours, so the three of us completed lap after lap of the library. While we circled, I pointed to books to be brought to Louisa’s room, reeled off necessary supplies, and ordered that my traveling clothes be handed to a tailor to serve as a pattern for a basic wardrobe. I was prepared to wear Louisa de Clermont’s clothes for two more days. After that I threatened to resort to Pierre’s cupboards for breeches and hose. The prospect of such grievous female immodesty clearly struck terror into their hearts.

We spent our second and third hours discussing the inner workings of the château. I had no experience running such a complicated household, but I knew which questions to ask. Alain rehearsed the names and job descriptions of its key officers, provided a brief introduction to leading personalities in the village, accounted for who was staying in the house at present, and speculated about who we could expect to visit over the next few weeks.

Then we decamped to the kitchens, where I had my first encounter with Chef. He was a human, as thin as a reed and no taller than Pierre. Like Popeye, he had all of his bulk concentrated in his forearms, which were the size of hams. The reason for this was apparent when he hefted an enormous lump of dough onto a floury surface and began to work it smooth. Like me, Chef was able to think only when he was in motion.

Word had trickled belowstairs about the warmblooded guest sleeping in a room near the head of the family. So, too, had speculation about my relationship to milord and what kind of creature I was, given my scent and eating habits. I caught the words sorcière and masca —French and Occitan terms for witch— when we entered the inferno of activity and heat. Chef had assembled the kitchen staff, which was vast and Byzantine in its organization. This provided an opportunity for them to study me firsthand. Some were vampires, others were humans. One was a daemon. I made a mental note to ensure that the young woman called Catrine, whose glance nudged against my cheeks with open curiosity, was kindly treated and looked after until her strengths and weaknesses were clearer.