Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“The question of why you’re here—how we’re all here—really does consume you,” I said slowly. “I could see it on every page of Darwin’s book.”

Matthew studied his wine. “It’s the only question worth asking.”

His voice was soft, but his profile was stern, with its sharp lines and heavy brow. I wanted to smooth the lines and lift his features into a smile but remained seated while the firelight danced over his white skin and dark hair. Matthew picked up his book again, cradling it in one set of long fingers while his wineglass rested in the other.

I stared at the fire as the light dimmed. When a clock on the desk struck seven, Matthew put down his book. “Should we join Ysabeau in the salon before dinner?”

“Yes,” I replied, squaring my shoulders slightly. “But let me change first.” My wardrobe couldn’t hold a candle to Ysabeau’s, but I didn’t want Matthew to be completely ashamed of me. As ever, he looked ready for a boardroom or a Milan catwalk in a simple pair of black wool trousers and a fresh selection from his endless supply of sweaters. My recent close encounters with them had convinced me they were all cashmere—thick and luscious.

Upstairs, I rooted through the items in my duffel bag and selected a gray pair of trousers and a sapphire blue sweater made out of finely spun wool with a tight, funnel-shaped neck and bell-shaped sleeves. My hair had a wave in it thanks to my earlier bath and the fact that it had finished drying scrunched under my head on the sofa.

With the minimum conditions of presentability met, I slid on my loafers and started down the stairs. Matthew’s keen ears had picked up the sound of my movements, and he met me on the landing. When he saw me, his eyes lit up and his smile was wide and slow.

“I like you in blue as much as I like you in black. You look beautiful,” he murmured, kissing me formally on both cheeks. The blood moved toward them as Matthew lifted my hair around my shoulders, the strands falling through his long white fingers. “Now, don’t let Ysabeau get under your skin no matter what she says.”

“I’ll try,” I said with a little laugh, looking up at him uncertainly.

When we reached the salon, Marthe and Ysabeau were already there. His mother was surrounded by newspapers written in every major European language, as well as one in Hebrew and another in Arabic. Marthe, on the other hand, was reading a paperback murder mystery with a lurid cover, her black eyes darting over the lines of print with enviable speed.

“Good evening, Maman,” Matthew said, moving to give Ysabeau a kiss on each cold cheek. Her nostrils flared as he moved his body from one side to the other, and her cold eyes fixed on mine angrily.

I knew what had earned me such a black look.

Matthew smelled like me.

“Come, girl,” Marthe said, patting the cushion next to her and shooting Matthew’s mother a warning glance. Ysabeau closed her eyes. When they opened again, the anger was gone, replaced by something like resignation.

“Gab es einen anderen Tod,” Ysabeau murmured to her son as Matthew picked up Die Welt and began scanning the headlines with a sound of disgust.

“Where?” I asked. Another bloodless corpse had been found. If Ysabeau thought she was going to shut me out of the conversation with German, she’d better think again.

“Munich,” Matthew said, his face buried in the pages. “Christ, why doesn’t someone do something about this?”

“We must be careful what we wish for, Matthew,” Ysabeau said. She changed the subject abruptly. “How was your ride, Diana?”

Matthew peered warily at his mother over Die Welt ’s headlines.

“It was wonderful. Thank you for letting me ride Rakasa,” I replied, sitting back next to Marthe and forcing myself to meet Ysabeau’s eyes without blinking.

“She is too willful for my liking,” she said, shifting her attention to her son, who had the good sense to put his nose back in his paper. “Fiddat is much more biddable. As I get older, I find that quality admirable in horses.”

In sons, too, I thought.

Marthe smiled encouragingly at me and got up to fuss at a sideboard. She carried a large goblet of wine to Ysabeau and a much smaller one to me. Marthe returned to the table and came back with another glass for Matthew. He sniffed it appreciatively.

“Thank you, Maman,” he said, raising his glass in tribute.

“Hein, it’s not much,” Ysabeau said, taking a sip of the same wine.

“No, not much. Just one of my favorites. Thank you for remembering.” Matthew savored the wine’s flavors before swallowing the liquid down.

“Are all vampires as fond of wine as you are?” I asked Matthew, smelling the peppery wine. “You drink it all the time, and you never get the slightest bit tipsy.”

Matthew grinned. “Most vampires are much fonder of it. As for getting drunk, our family has always been known for its admirable restraint, hasn’t it, Maman?”

Ysabeau gave a most unladylike snort. “Occasionally. With respect to wine, perhaps.”

“You should be a diplomat, Ysabeau. You’re very good with a quick non-answer,” I said.

Matthew shouted with laughter. “Dieu, I never thought the day would come when my mother would be thought diplomatic. Especially not with her tongue. Ysabeau’s always been much better with the diplomacy of the sword.”

Marthe snickered in agreement.

Ysabeau and I both looked indignant, which only made him shout again.

The atmosphere at dinner was considerably warmer than it had been last night. Matthew sat at the head of the table, with Ysabeau to his left and me at his right. Marthe traveled incessantly from kitchen to fireside to table, sitting now and again to take a sip of wine and make small contributions to the conversation.

Plates full of food came and went—everything from wild mushroom soup to quail to delicate slices of beef. I marveled aloud that someone who no longer ate cooked food could have such a deft hand with spices. Marthe blushed and dimpled, swatting at Matthew when he tried to tell stories of her more spectacular culinary disasters.

“Do you remember the live pigeon pie?” He chortled. “No one ever explained that you had to keep the birds from eating for twenty-four hours before you baked it or the inside would resemble a birdbath.” That earned him a sharp tap on the back of his skull.

“Matthew,” Ysabeau warned, wiping the tears from her eyes after a prolonged bout of laughter, “you shouldn’t bait Marthe. You have had your share of disasters over the years, too.”

“And I have seen them all,” Marthe pronounced, carrying over a salad. Her English got stronger by the hour, as she switched into the language whenever she talked in front of me. She returned to the sideboard and fetched a bowl of nuts, which she put between Matthew and Ysabeau. “When you flooded the castle with your idea for capturing water on the roof, for one,” she said, ticking it off on her fingers. “When you forgot to collect the taxes, two. It was spring, you were bored, and so you got up one morning and went to Italy to make war. Your father had to beg forgiveness from the king on his knees. And then there was New York!” she shouted triumphantly.

The three vampires continued to swap reminiscences. None of them talked about Ysabeau’s past, though. When something came up that touched on her, or Matthew’s father, or his sister, the conversation slid gracefully away. I noticed the pattern and wondered about the reasons for it but said nothing, content to let the evening develop as they wished it to and strangely comforted to be part of a family again—even a family of vampires.

After dinner we returned to the salon, where the fire was larger and more impressive than before. The castle’s chimneys were heating up with each log thrown into the grate. The fires burned hotter, and the room almost felt warm as a result. Matthew made sure that Ysabeau was comfortable, getting her yet another glass of wine, and fiddled with a nearby stereo. Marthe made me tea instead, thrusting the cup and saucer into my hands.