Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

Matthew pulled out of the Old Lodge’s grounds and onto the road. He concentrated on his driving while the car’s smooth movements rocked me gently.

“Why did you call me?” Matthew asked abruptly, interrupting my reveries.

“Because of Knox and Ashmole 782,” I said, flickers of panic returning at his sudden shift in mood.

“I know that. What I’m asking is why you called me. Surely you have friends—witches, humans—who could help you.”

“Not really. None of my human friends know I’m a witch. It would take days just to explain what’s really happening in this world—if they stuck around long enough for me to finish, that is. I don’t have friends who are witches, and I can’t drag my aunts into this. It’s not their fault I did something stupid and sent the manuscript back when I didn’t understand it.” I bit my lip. “Should I not have called you?”

“I don’t know, Diana. On Friday you said witches and vampires couldn’t be friends.”

“On Friday I told you lots of things.”

Matthew was quiet, giving his full attention to the curves in the road.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” I paused, considering my next words carefully. “But there is one thing I know for sure. I’d rather share the library with you than with Knox.”

“Vampires are never completely trustworthy—not when they’re around warmbloods.” Matthew’s eyes focused on me for a single, cold moment.

“Warmbloods?” I asked with a frown.

“Humans, witches, daemons—everyone who’s not a vampire.”

“I’ll risk your bite before I let Knox slither into my brain to fish for information.”

“Has he tried to do that?” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but there was a promise of violence in it.

“It was nothing,” I said hastily. “He was just warning me about you.”

“So he should. Nobody can be what he’s not, no matter how hard he tries. You mustn’t romanticize vampires. Knox may not have your best interests at heart, but he was right about me.”

“Other people don’t pick my friends—certainly not bigots like Knox.” My fingers began to prickle as my anger mounted, and I shoved them under my thighs.

“Is that what we are, then? Friends?” Matthew asked.

“I think so. Friends tell each other the truth, even when it’s difficult.” Disconcerted by the seriousness of the conversation, I toyed with the ties on my sweater.

“Vampires aren’t particularly good at friendship.” He sounded angry again.

“Look, if you want me to leave you alone—”

“Of course not,” Matthew interrupted. “It’s just that vampire relationships are . . . complicated. We can be protective—possessive, even. You might not like it.”

“A little protectiveness sounds pretty good to me about now.”

My answer brought a look of raw vulnerability to Matthew’s eyes. “I’ll remind you of that when you start complaining,” he said, the rawness quickly replaced with wry amusement.

He pulled off Holywell Street into the arched gates of the lodge. Fred glanced at the car and grinned before looking discreetly away. I waited for Matthew to open the door, checking the car carefully to make sure that nothing of mine was left there—not even a hair elastic—so as not to drive him back to Scotland.

“But there’s more to all this than Knox and the manuscript,” I said urgently when he handed me the mat. From his behavior you would think there weren’t creatures closing in on me from every direction.

“It can wait, Diana. And don’t worry. Peter Knox won’t get within fifty feet of you again.” His voice was grim, and he touched the ampulla under his sweater.

We needed time together—not in the library, but alone.

“Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow?” I asked him, my voice low. “We could talk about what happened then.”

Matthew froze, confusion flitting over his face along with something I couldn’t name. His fingers flexed slightly around the pilgrim’s badge before he released it.

“I’d like that,” he said slowly.

“Good.” I smiled. “How’s half past seven?”

He nodded and gave me a shy grin. I managed to walk two steps before realizing there was one matter that needed to be resolved before tomorrow night.

“What do you eat?” I whispered, my face flushing.

“I’m omnivorous,” Matthew said, his face brightening further into a smile that made my heart skip a beat.

“Half past seven, then.” I turned away, laughing and shaking my head at his unhelpful answer. “Oh, one more thing,” I said, turning back. “Let Miriam do her own work. I really can take care of myself.”

“So she tells me,” Matthew said, walking around to the driver’s side of the car. “I’ll consider it. But you’ll find me in Duke Humfrey’s tomorrow, as usual.” He got into the car, and when I showed no sign of moving, he rolled down his window.

“I’m not leaving until you’re out of my sight,” he said, looking at me in disapproval.

“Vampires,” I muttered, shaking my head at his old-fashioned ways.

Nothing in my culinary experience had taught me what to feed a vampire when he came for dinner.

In the library I spent most of the day on the Internet looking for recipes that involved raw foods, my manuscripts forgotten on the desk. Matthew said he was omnivorous, but that couldn’t be true. A vampire must be more likely to tolerate uncooked food if he was used to a diet of blood. But he was so civilized he would no doubt eat whatever I put in front of him.

After undertaking extensive gastronomical research, I left the library at midafternoon. Matthew had held down Fortress Bishop by himself today, which must have pleased Miriam. There was no sign of Peter Knox or Gillian Chamberlain anywhere in Duke Humfrey’s, which made me happy. Even Matthew looked in good humor when I trotted down the aisle to return my manuscripts.

Passing by the dome of the Radcliffe Camera, where the undergraduates read their assigned books, and the medieval walls of Jesus College, I went shopping along the aisles of Oxford’s Covered Market. List in hand, I made my first stop at the butcher for fresh venison and rabbit, and then to the fishmonger for Scottish salmon.

Did vampires eat greens?

Thanks to my mobile, I was able to reach the zoology department and inquire about the feeding habits of wolves. They asked me what kind of wolves. I’d seen gray wolves on a long-ago field trip to the Boston zoo, and it was Matthew’s favorite color, so that was my answer. After rattling off a long list of tasty mammals and explaining that they were “preferred foods,” the bored voice on the other end told me that gray wolves also ate nuts, seeds, and berries. “But you shouldn’t feed them!” the voice warned. “They’re not house pets!”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, trying not to giggle.

The grocer apologetically sold me the last of the summer’s black currants and some fragrant wild strawberries. A bag of chestnuts found its way into my expanding shopping bag, too.

Then it was off to the wine store, where I found myself at the mercy of a viticultural evangelist who asked if “the gentleman knew wine.” That was enough to send me into a tailspin. The clerk seized upon my confusion to sell me what ended up being a remarkably few French and German bottles of wine for a king’s ransom. He then tucked me into a cab to recover from the sticker shock during the drive back to college.

In my rooms I swept all the papers off a battered eighteenth-century table that served as both desk and dining room and moved it closer to the fireplace. I set the table carefully, using the old porcelain and silver that was in my cupboards, along with heavy crystal glasses that had to be the final remainders of an Edwardian set once used in the senior common room. My loyal kitchen ladies had supplied me with stacks of crisp white linen, which were now draped over the table, folded next to the silver, and spread on the chipped wooden tray that would help me carry things the short distance from the kitchen.