Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“Drink,” she instructed, her eyes attentive. Ysabeau watched me drink, too, and gave Marthe a long look. “It will help you sleep.”

“Did you make this?” It tasted of herbs and flowers. Normally I didn’t like herbal tea, but this one was fresh and slightly bitter.

“Yes,” she answered, turning up her chin at Ysabeau’s stare. “I have made it for a long time. My mother taught me. I will teach you as well.”

The sound of dance music filled the room, lively and rhythmic. Matthew adjusted the position of the chairs by the fireplace, clearing a spot on the floor.

“Vòles dançar amb ieu?” Matthew asked his mother, holding out both hands.

Ysabeau’s smile was radiant, transforming her lovely, cold features into something indescribably beautiful. “Тc,” she said, putting her tiny hands into his. The two of them took their places in front of the fire, waiting for the next song to start.

When Matthew and his mother began to dance, they made Astaire and Rogers look clumsy. Their bodies came together and drew apart, turned in circles away from each other and then dipped and turned. The slightest touch from Matthew sent Ysabeau reeling, and the merest hint of an undulation or a hesitation from Ysabeau caused a corresponding response in him.

Ysabeau dipped into a graceful curtsy, and Matthew swept into a bow at the precise moment the music drew to its close.

“What was that?” I asked.

“It started out as a tarantella,” Matthew said, escorting his mother back to her chair, “but Maman never can stick to one dance. So there were elements of the volta in the middle, and we finished with a minuet, didn’t we?” Ysabeau nodded and reached up to pat him on the cheek.

“You always were a good dancer,” she said proudly.

“Ah, but not as good as you—and certainly not as good as Father was,” Matthew said, settling her in her chair. Ysabeau’s eyes darkened, and a heartbreaking look of sadness crossed her face. Matthew picked up her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Ysabeau managed a small smile in return.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said, coming to me.

“I don’t like to dance, Matthew,” I protested, holding up my hands to fend him off.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said, taking my right hand in his left and drawing me close. “You contort your body into improbable shapes, skim across the water in a boat the width of a feather, and ride like the wind. Dancing should be second nature.”

The next song sounded like something that might have been popular in Parisian dance halls in the 1920s. Notes of trumpet and drum filled the room.

“Matthew, be careful with her,” Ysabeau warned as he moved me across the floor.

“She won’t break, Maman.” Matthew proceeded to dance, despite my best efforts to put my feet in his way at every opportunity. With his right hand at my waist, he gently steered me into the proper steps.

I started to think about where my legs were in an effort to help the process along, but this only made things worse. My back stiffened, and Matthew clasped me tighter.

“Relax,” he murmured into my ear. “You’re trying to lead. Your job is to follow.”

“I can’t,” I whispered back, gripping his shoulder as if he were a life preserver.

Matthew spun us around again. “Yes you can. Close your eyes, stop thinking about it, and let me do the rest.”

Inside the circle of his arms, it was easy to do what he instructed. Without the whirling shapes and colors of the room coming at me from all directions, I could relax and stop worrying that we were about to crash. Gradually the movement of our bodies in the darkness became enjoyable. Soon it was possible for me to concentrate not on what I was doing but on what his legs and arms were telling me he was about to do. It felt like floating.

“Matthew.” Ysabeau’s voice held a note of caution. “Le chatoiement.”

“I know,” he murmured. The muscles in my shoulders tensed with concern. “Trust me,” he said quietly into my ear. “I’ve got you.”

My eyes remained tightly closed, and I sighed happily. We continued to swirl together. Matthew gently released me, spinning me out to the end of his fingers, then rolled me back along his arm until I came to rest, my back tight against his chest. The music stopped.

“Open your eyes,” he said softly.

My eyelids slowly lifted. The feeling of floating remained. Dancing was better than I had expected it to be—at least it was with a partner who’d been dancing for more than a millennium and never stepped on your toes.

I tilted my face up to thank him, but his was much closer than expected.

“Look down,” Matthew said.

Turning my head in the other direction revealed that my toes were dangling several inches above the floor. Matthew released me. He wasn’t holding me up.

I was holding me up.

The air was holding me up.

With that realization the weight returned to the lower half of my body. Matthew gripped both elbows to keep my feet from smashing into the floor.

From her seat by the fire, Marthe hummed a tune under her breath. Ysabeau’s head whipped around, eyes narrowed. Matthew smiled at me reassuringly, while I concentrated on the uncanny feeling of the earth under my feet. Had the ground always seemed so alive? It was as if a thousand tiny hands were waiting under the soles of my shoes to catch me or give me a push.

“Was it fun?” Matthew asked as the last notes of Marthe’s song faded, eyes gleaming.

“It was,” I answered, laughing, after considering his question.

“I hoped it would be. You’ve been practicing for years. Now maybe you’ll ride with your eyes open for a change.” He caught me up in an embrace full of happiness and possibility.

Ysabeau began to sing the same song Marthe had been humming.

“Whoever sees her dance,

And her body move so gracefully,

Could say, in truth,

That in all the world she has no equal, our joyful queen.

Go away, go away, jealous ones,

Let us, let us,

Dance together, together.”

“Go away, go away, jealous ones,” Matthew repeated as the final echo of his mother’s voice faded, “let us dance together.”

I laughed again. “With you I’ll dance. But until I figure out how this flying business works, there will be no other partners.”

“Properly speaking, you were floating, not flying,” Matthew corrected me.

“Floating, flying—whatever you call it, it would be best not to do it with strangers.”

“Agreed,” he said.

Marthe had vacated the sofa for a chair near Ysabeau. Matthew and I sat together, our hands still entwined.

“This was her first time?” Ysabeau asked him, her voice genuinely puzzled.

“Diana doesn’t use magic, Maman, except for little things,” he explained.

“She is full of power, Matthew. Her witch’s blood sings in her veins. She should be able to use it for big things, too.”

He frowned. “It’s hers to use or not.”

“Enough of such childishness,” she said, turning her attention to me. “It is time for you to grow up, Diana, and accept responsibility for who you are.”

Matthew growled softly.

“Do not growl at me, Matthew de Clermont! I am saying what needs to be said.”

“You’re telling her what to do. It’s not your job.”

“Nor yours, my son!” Ysabeau retorted.

“Excuse me!” My sharp tone caught their attention, and the de Clermonts, mother and son, stared at me. “It’s my decision whether—and how—to use my magic. But,” I said, turning to Ysabeau, “it can’t be ignored any longer. It seems to be bubbling out of me. I need to learn how to control my power, at the very least.”

Ysabeau and Matthew continued to stare. Finally Ysabeau nodded. Matthew did, too.