Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“You were born in August, yes? Under the sign of Leo?” He sounded entirely French, most of the Oxbridge accent gone.

I nodded.

“Then I will have to call you my lioness now, because only she could have fought as you did. But even la lionne needs her protectors.” His eyes flickered toward my right arm. My gripping the tub had made the bleeding resume. “Your ankle is sprained, but it’s not serious. I’ll bind it later. Now let’s see to your back and your arm.”

Matthew scooped me out of the tub and set me down, instructing me to keep the weight off my right foot. Marthe and Ysabeau steadied me while he cut off my leggings and underclothes. The three vampires’ premodern matter-of-factness about bodies left me strangely unconcerned at standing half naked in front of them. Matthew lifted the front hem of my soggy pullover, revealing a dark purple bruise that spread across my abdomen.

“Christ,” he said, his fingers pushing into the stained flesh above my pubic bone. “How the hell did she do that?”

“Satu lost her temper.” My teeth chattered at the memory of flying through the air and the sharp pain in my gut. Matthew tucked the towel around my waist.

“Let’s get the pullover off,” he said grimly. He went behind me, and there was a sting of cold metal against my back.

“What are you doing?” I twisted my head, desperate to see. Satu had kept me on my stomach for hours, and it was intolerable to have anyone— even Matthew—behind me. The trembling in my body intensified.

“Stop, Matthew,” Ysabeau said urgently. “She cannot bear it.”

A pair of scissors clattered to the floor.

“It’s all right.” Matthew nestled his body against mine like a protective shell. He crossed his arms over my chest, completely enfolding me. “I’ll do it from the front.”

Once the shaking subsided, he came around and resumed cutting the fabric away from my body. The cold air on my back told me that there wasn’t much of it left in any case. He sliced through my bra, then got the front panel of the pullover off.

Ysabeau gasped as the last shreds fell from my back.

“Maria, Deu maire.” Marthe sounded stunned.

“What is it? What did she do?” The room was swinging like a chandelier in an earthquake. Matthew whipped me around to face his mother. Grief and sympathy were etched on her face.

“La sorcière est morte,” Matthew said softly.

He was already planning on killing another witch. Ice filled my veins, and there was blackness at the edges of my vision.

Matthew’s hands held me upright. “Stay with me, Diana.”

“Did you have to kill Gillian?” I sobbed.

“Yes.” His voice was flat and dead.

“Why did you let me hear this from someone else? Satu told me you’d been in my rooms—that you were using your blood to drug me. Why, Matthew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was afraid of losing you. You know so little about me, Diana. Secrecy, the instinct to protect—to kill if I must. This is who I am.”

I turned to face him, wearing nothing but a towel around my waist. My arms were crossed over my bare chest, and my emotions careened from fear to anger to something darker. “So you’ll kill Satu also?”

“Yes.” He made no apologies and offered no further explanation, but his eyes were full of barely controlled rage. Cold and gray, they searched my face. “You’re far braver than I am. I’ve told you that before. Do you want to see what she did to you?” Matthew asked, gripping my elbows.

I thought for a moment, then nodded.

Ysabeau protested in rapid Occitan, and Matthew stopped her with a hiss.

“She survived the doing of it, Maman. The seeing of it cannot possibly be worse.”

Ysabeau and Marthe went downstairs to fetch two mirrors while Matthew patted my torso with feather-light touches of a towel until it was barely damp.

“Stay with me,” he repeated every time I tried to slip away from the rough fabric.

The women returned with one mirror in an ornate gilt frame from the salon and a tall cheval glass that only a vampire could have carried up to the tower. Matthew positioned the larger mirror behind me, and Ysabeau and Marthe held the other in front, angling it so that I could see both my back and Matthew, too.

But it couldn’t be my back. It was someone else’s—someone who had been flayed and burned until her skin was red, and blue, and black. There were strange marks on it, too—circles and symbols. The memory of fire erupted along the lesions.

“Satu said she was going to open me up,” I whispered, mesmerized. “But I kept my secrets inside, Mama, just like you wanted.”

Matthew’s attempt to catch me was the last thing I saw reflected in the mirror before the blackness overtook me.

I awoke next to the bedroom fire again. My lower half was still wrapped up in a towel, and I was sitting on the edge of one damask-covered chair, bent over at the waist, with my torso draped across a stack of pillows on another damask-covered chair. All I could see was feet, and someone was applying ointment to my back. It was Marthe, her rough strength clearly distinguishable from Matthew’s cool touches.

“Matthew?” I croaked, swiveling my head to the side to look for him.

His face appeared. “Yes, my darling?”

“Where did the pain go?”

“It’s magic,” he said, attempting a lopsided grin for my benefit.

“Morphine,” I said slowly, remembering the list of drugs he’d given to Marthe.

“That’s what I said. Everyone who has ever been in pain knows that morphine and magic are the same. Now that you’re awake, we’re going to wrap you up.” He tossed a spool of gauze to Marthe, explaining that it would keep down the swelling and further protect my skin. It also had the benefit of binding my breasts, since I would not be wearing a bra in the near future.

The two of them unrolled miles of white surgical dressing around my torso. Thanks to the drugs, I underwent the process with a curious sense of detachment. It vanished, however, when Matthew began to rummage in his medical bag and talk about sutures. As a child I’d fallen and stuck a long fork used for toasting marshmallows into my thigh. It had required sutures, too, and my nightmares had lasted for months. I told Matthew my fears, but he was resolute.

“The cut on your arm is deep, Diana. It won’t heal properly unless it’s sutured.”

Afterward the women got me dressed while Matthew drank some wine, his fingers shaking. I didn’t have anything that fastened up the front, so Marthe disappeared once more, returning with her arms full of Matthew’s clothing. They slid me into one of his fine cotton shirts. It swam on me but felt silky against my skin. Marthe carefully draped a black cashmere cardigan with leather-covered buttons—also Matthew’s—around my shoulders, and she and Ysabeau snaked a pair of my own stretchy black pants up my legs and over my hips. Then Matthew lowered me into a nest of pillows on the sofa.

“Change,” Marthe ordered, pushing him in the direction of the bathroom.

Matthew showered quickly and emerged from the bathroom in a fresh pair of trousers. He dried his hair roughly by the fire before pulling on the rest of his clothes.

“Will you be all right if I go downstairs for a moment?” he asked. “Marthe and Ysabeau will stay with you.”

I suspected his trip downstairs involved his brother, and I nodded, still feeling the effects of the powerful drug.

While he was gone, Ysabeau muttered every now and again in a language that was neither Occitan nor French, and Marthe clucked and fussed. They’d removed most of the ruined clothes and bloody linen from the room by the time Matthew reappeared. Fallon and Hector were padding along at his side, their tongues hanging out.