Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“Rebecca walked straight into Stephen’s arms even though people said it was a bad idea for two witches with their talents to be together. And she refused to listen when people told her to stay out of Nigeria.”

“All the more reason that Diana should listen now,” Em said. “You’ve only known him for a few weeks. Come back home and see if you can forget about him.”

“Forget about him?” It was ridiculous. “This isn’t a crush. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

“Leave her alone, Em. We’ve had enough of that kind of talk in this family. I didn’t forget about you, and she’s not going to forget about him.” Sarah let out her breath with a sigh that carried all the way to the Auvergne. “This may not be the life I would have chosen for you, but we all have to decide for ourselves. Your mother did. I did—and your grandmother did not have an easy time with it, by the way. Now it’s your turn. But no Bishop ever turns her back on another Bishop.”

Tears stung my eyes. “Thank you, Sarah.”

“Besides,” Sarah continued, working herself into a state, “if the Congregation is made up of things like Domenico Michele, then they can all go to hell.”

“What does Matthew say about this?” Em asked. “I’m surprised he would leave you once you two had decided to break with a thousand years of tradition.”

“Matthew hasn’t told me how he feels yet.” I methodically unbent a paper clip.

There was dead silence on the line.

Finally Sarah spoke. “What is he waiting for?”

I laughed out loud. “You’ve done nothing but warn me to stay away from Matthew. Now you’re upset because he refuses to put me in greater danger than I’m already in?”

“You want to be with him. That should be enough.”

“This isn’t some kind of magical arranged marriage, Sarah. I get to make my decision. So does he.” The tiny clock with the porcelain face that was sitting on the desk indicated it had been twenty-four hours since he left.

“If you’re determined to stay there, with those creatures, then be careful,” Sarah warned as we said good-bye. “And if you need to come home, come home.”

After I hung up, the clock struck the half hour. It was already dark in Oxford.

To hell with waiting. I lifted the receiver again and dialed his number.

“Diana?” He was clearly anxious.

I laughed. “Did you know it was me, or was it caller ID?”

“You’re all right.” The anxiety was replaced with relief.

“Yes, your mother is keeping me vastly entertained.”

“I was afraid of that. What lies has she been telling you?”

The more trying parts of the day could wait. “Only the truth,” I said. “That her son is some diabolical combination of Lancelot and Superman.”

“That sounds like Ysabeau,” he said with a hint of laughter. “What a relief to know that she hasn’t been irreversibly changed by sleeping under the same roof as a witch.”

Distance no doubt helped me evade him with my half-truths. Distance couldn’t diminish my vivid picture of him sitting in his Morris chair at All Souls, however. The room would be glowing from the lamps, and his skin would look like polished pearl. I imagined him reading, the deep crease of concentration between his brows.

“What are you drinking?” It was the only detail my imagination couldn’t supply.

“Since when have you cared about wine?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Since I found out how much there was to know.” Since I found out that you cared about wine, you idiot.

“Something Spanish tonight—Vega Sicilia.”

“From when?”

“Do you mean which vintage?” Matthew teased. “It’s 1964.”

“A relative baby, then?” I teased back, relieved at the change in his mood.

“An infant,” he agreed. I didn’t need a sixth sense to know that he was smiling.

“How did everything go today?”

“Fine. We’ve increased our security, though nothing was missing. Someone tried to hack in to the computers, but Miriam assures me there’s no way anyone could break in to her system.”

“Are you coming back soon?” The words escaped before I could stop them, and the ensuing silence stretched longer than was comfortable. I told myself it was the connection.

“I don’t know,” he said coolly. “I’ll be back when I can.”

“Do you want to talk to your mother? I could find her for you.” His sudden aloofness hurt, and it was a struggle to keep my voice even.

“No, you can tell her the labs are fine. The house, too.”

We said good-bye. My chest was tight, and it was difficult to inhale. When I managed to stand and turn around, Matthew’s mother was waiting in the doorway.

“That was Matthew. Nothing at the lab or the house was damaged. I’m tired, Ysabeau, and not very hungry. I think I’ll go to bed.” It was nearly eight, a perfectly respectable time to turn in.

“Of course.” Ysabeau stepped out of my way with glittering eyes. “Sleep well, Diana.”

Marthe had been up to Matthew’s study while I was on the phone, and sandwiches, tea, and water were waiting for me. She’d loaded the fireplace with logs to burn through the night, and a handful of candles shed their golden glow. The same inviting light and warmth upstairs would be in the bedroom, too, but my mind would not shut off, and trying to sleep would be futile. The Aurora manuscript was waiting for me on Matthew’s desk. Sitting down at my computer, I avoided the sight of his winking armor and switched on his space-age, minimalist desk light to read.

“I spoke aloud: Give me knowledge of my end and the measure of my days, so I may know my frailty. My lifetime is no longer than the width of my hand. It is only a moment, compared to yours.”

The passage only made me think of Matthew.

Trying to concentrate on alchemy was pointless, so I decided to make a list of queries regarding what I’d already read. All that was needed was a pen and a piece of paper.

Matthew’s massive mahogany desk was as dark and solid as its owner, and it exuded the same gravitas. It had drawers extending down both sides of the space left for his knees, the drawers resting on round, bun-shaped feet. Just below the writing surface, running all around the perimeter, was a thick band of carving. Acanthus leaves, tulips, scrolls, and geometrical shapes invited you to trace their outlines. Unlike the surface of my desk—which was always piled so high with papers, books, and half-drunk cups of tea that you risked disaster whenever you tried to work on it—this desk held only an Edwardian desk pad, a sword-shaped letter opener, and the lamp. Like Matthew, it was a bizarrely harmonious blend of ancient and modern.

There were, however, no office supplies in sight. I grasped the round brass pull on the top right-hand drawer. Inside, everything was neat and precisely arranged. The Montblanc pens were segregated from the Montblanc pencils, and the paper clips were arranged by size. After selecting a pen and putting it on the desk, I attempted to open the remaining drawers. They were locked. The key wasn’t underneath the paper clips—I dumped them on the desk, just to be sure.

An unmarked sheet of pale green blotting paper stretched between the desk pad’s leather bumpers. In lieu of a legal pad, that would have to do. Picking up my computer to clear the desk, I knocked the pen to the floor.

It had fallen under the drawers and was just out of reach. I crawled into the desk’s kneehole to retrieve it. Worming my hand under the drawers, my fingers found the thick barrel just as my eyes spotted the outline of a drawer in the dark wood above.

Frowning, I wriggled out from under the desk. There was nothing in the deep carving circling the desktop that released the catch on the concealed drawer. Leave it to Matthew to stash basic supplies in a drawer that was difficult to open. It would serve him right if every inch of his blotter was covered with graffiti when he returned home.