Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“Much as I’d like to spend a few hours with you in here—alone—dinner is almost ready,” he protested, though there was a calculating gleam in his eyes.

“There’s plenty of time. Sarah said I’m ready to take you timewalking. We’re going back to our first night in the house.”

Matthew thought for a moment, and his eyes brightened further. “Was that the night the stars came out—inside?”

I kissed him in answer.

“Oh.” He looked shyly pleased. “What should I do?”

“Nothing.” This would be the hardest thing about timewalking for him. “What are you always telling me? Close your eyes, relax, and let me do the rest.” I grinned wickedly.

He laced his fingers through mine. “Witch.”

“You won’t even know it’s happening,” I assured him. “It’s fast. Just pick up your foot and put it down again when I tell you. And don’t let go.”

“Not a chance,” Matthew said, tightening his grip.

I thought about that night, our first alone after my encounter with Satu. I remembered his touch against my back, fierce and gentle at the same time. I felt the connection, immediate and tenacious, to that shared moment in our past.

“Now,” I whispered. Our feet rose together.

But timewalking with Matthew was different. Having him along slowed us down, and for the first time I was aware of what was happening.

The past, present, and future shimmered around us in a spiderweb of light and color. Each strand in the web moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, sometimes touching another filament before moving gently away again as if caught by a breeze. Each time strands touched—and millions of strands were touching all the time—there was the soft echo of an original, inaudible sound.

Momentarily distracted by the seemingly limitless possibilities before us, we found it easy to lose sight of the twisted red-and-white strand of time we were following. I brought my concentration back to it, knowing it would take us back to our first night in Madison.

I put my foot down and felt rough floorboards against my bare skin.

“You told me it would be fast,” he said hoarsely. “That didn’t feel fast to me.”

“No, it was different,” I agreed. “Did you see the lights?”

Matthew shook his head. “There was nothing but blackness. I was falling, slowly, with only your hand keeping me from hitting bottom.” He raised it to his mouth and kissed it.

There was a lingering smell of chili in the quiet house, and it was night outside. “Can you tell who’s here?”

His nostrils flared, and he closed his eyes. Then he smiled and sighed with happiness. “Just Sarah and Em, and you and me. None of the children.”

I giggled, drawing him closer.

“If this house gets any more crowded, it’s going to burst.” Matthew buried his face in my neck, then drew back. “You still have your bandage. It means that when we go back in time, we don’t stop being who we are in the present or forget what happened to us here.” His cold hands crept under the hem of my turtleneck. “Given your rediscovered talents as a timewalker, how accurate are you at gauging the passing of time?”

Though we happily lingered in the past, we were back in the present before Emily finished making the salad.

“Timewalking agrees with you, Matthew,” Sarah said, scrutinizing his relaxed face. She rewarded him with a glass of red wine.

“Thank you, Sarah. I was in good hands.” He raised his glass to me in salute.

“Glad to hear it,” Sarah said drily, sounding like my ghostly grandmother. She threw some sliced radishes into the biggest salad bowl I’d ever seen.

“Where did that come from?” I peered into the bowl to hide my reddened lips.

“The house,” Em said, beating the salad dressing with a whisk. “It enjoys having so many mouths to feed.”

Next morning the house let us know it was anticipating yet another addition.

Sarah, Matthew, and I were discussing whether my next timewalk should be to Oxford or to Sept-Tours when Em appeared with a load of laundry in her arms. “Somebody is coming.”

Matthew put down his paper and stood. “Good. I was expecting a delivery today.”

“It’s not a delivery, and they’re not here yet. But the house is ready for them.” She disappeared into the laundry room.

“Another room? Where did the house put this one?” Sarah shouted after her.

“Next to Marcus.” Em’s reply echoed from the depths of the washing machine.

We took bets on who it would be. The guesses ranged from Agatha Wilson to Emily’s friends from Cherry Valley who liked to show up unannounced for the coven’s Halloween party.

Late in the morning, there was an authoritative knock on the door. It opened to a small, dark man with intelligent eyes. He was instantly recognizable from pictures taken at celebrity parties in London and television news conferences. Any remaining doubts about his identity were erased by the familiar nudges against my cheekbones.

Our mystery houseguest was Matthew’s friend Hamish Osborne.

“You must be Diana,” he said without pleasure or preamble, his Scottish accent lending length to the vowels. Hamish was dressed for business, in a pin-striped charcoal suit that had been tailored to fit him exactly, a pale pink shirt with heavy silver cuff links, and a fuchsia tie embroidered with tiny black flies.

“I am. Hello, Hamish. Was Matthew expecting you?” I stepped aside to let him in.

“Probably not,” Hamish said crisply, remaining on the stoop. “Where is he?”

“Hamish.” Matthew was moving so quickly I felt the breeze behind me before hearing him approach. He extended his hand. “This is a surprise.”

Hamish stared at the outstretched hand, then turned his eyes to its owner. “Surprise? Let’s discuss surprises. When I joined your . . . ‘family firm,’ you swore to me this would never arrive.” He brandished an envelope, its black seal broken but still clinging to the flaps.

“I did.” Matthew dropped his hand and looked at Hamish warily.

“So much for your promises, then. I’m given to understand from this letter, and from my conversation with your mother, that there’s some kind of trouble.” Hamish’s eyes flickered to me, then back to Matthew.

“Yes.” Matthew’s lips tightened. “But you’re the ninth knight. You don’t have to become involved.”

“You made a daemon the ninth knight?” Miriam had come through the dining room with Nathaniel.

“Who’s he?” Nathaniel shook a handful of Scrabble tiles in his cupped hand while surveying the new arrival.

“Hamish Osborne. And who might you be?” Hamish asked, as if addressing an impertinent employee. The last thing we needed was more testosterone in the house.

“Oh, I’m nobody,” Nathaniel said airily, leaning against the dining-room door. He watched Marcus as he passed by.

“Hamish, why are you here?” Marcus looked confused, then saw the letter. “Oh.”

My ancestors were congregating in the keeping room, and the house was stirring on its foundations. “Could we continue this inside? It’s the house, you see. It’s a little uneasy, given you’re a daemon—and angry.”

“Come, Hamish.” Matthew tried to draw him out of the doorway. “Marcus and Sarah haven’t demolished the whiskey supply yet. We’ll get you a drink and sit you by the fire.”

Hamish remained where he was and kept talking.

“While visiting with your mother, who was far more willing to answer my questions than you would have been, I learned that you wanted a few things from home. It seemed a shame for Alain to make such a long trip, when I was already going to come and ask you what the hell you were up to.” He lifted a bulky leather briefcase with soft sides and a formidable lock, and a smaller, hard-sided case.