Deborah Harkness - A Discovery of Witches

“Were you alone?” Matthew’s voice turned sharp.

“No, no, of course not,” I said hurriedly. “Marthe and your mother were there. They just couldn’t get near me. There was a lot of water, Matthew. Wind, too.”

“What made it stop?” he asked.

“Ysabeau.”

Matthew gave his mother a long look.

“She sang to me.”

The vampire’s heavy lids dropped, shielding his eyes. “Once she sang all the time. Thank you, Maman.”

I waited for him to tell me that she used to sing to him and that Ysabeau hadn’t been the same since Philippe died. But he told me none of those things. Instead he wrapped me up in a fierce hug, and I tried not to mind that he wouldn’t trust me with these parts of himself.

As the day unfolded, Matthew’s happiness at being home was infectious. We moved from lunch to his study. On the floor in front of the fireplace, he discovered most of the places that I was ticklish. Throughout, he never let me behind the walls he’d so carefully constructed to keep creatures away from his secrets.

Once I reached out with invisible fingers to locate a chink in Matthew’s defenses. He looked up at me in surprise.

“Did you say something?” he asked.

“No,” I said, drawing hastily away.

We enjoyed a quiet dinner with Ysabeau, who followed along in Matthew’s lighthearted wake. But she watched him closely, a look of sadness on her face.

Putting on my sorry excuse for pajamas after dinner, I worried about the desk drawer and whether my scent would be on the velvet that cushioned the seals, and I steeled myself to say good night before Matthew retreated, alone, to his study.

He appeared shortly afterward wearing a pair of loose, striped pajama bottoms and a faded black T-shirt, with no shoes on his long, slender feet. “Do you want the left side or the right?” he asked casually, waiting by the bedpost with his arms crossed.

I wasn’t a vampire, but I could turn my head fast enough when it was warranted.

“If it doesn’t matter to you, I’d prefer the left,” he said gravely. “It will be easier for me to relax if I’m between you and the door.”

“I . . . I don’t care,” I stammered.

“Then get in and slide over.” Matthew took the bedding out of my hand, and I did as he asked. He slid under the sheets behind me with a groan of satisfaction.

“This is the most comfortable bed in the house. My mother doesn’t believe we need to bother with good mattresses since we spend so little time sleeping. Her beds are purgatorial.”

“Are you going to sleep with me?” I squeaked, trying and failing to sound as nonchalant as he did.

Matthew put his right arm out and hooked me into it until my head was resting on his shoulder. “I thought I might,” he said. “I won’t actually sleep, though.”

Snuggled against him, I placed my palm flat on his heart so that I would know every time it beat. “What will you do?”

“Watch you, of course.” His eyes were bright. “And when I get tired of doing that—if I get tired of doing that”—he dropped a kiss on each eyelid —“I’ll read. Will the candles bother you?”

“No,” I responded. “I’m a sound sleeper. Nothing wakes me up.”

“I like a challenge,” he said softly. “If I’m bored, I’ll figure out something that will wake you up.”

“Do you bore easily?” I teased, reaching up and threading my fingers through the hair at the base of his skull.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said with a wicked grin.

His arms were cool and soothing, and the feeling of safety in his presence was more restful than any lullaby.

“Will this ever stop?” I asked quietly.

“The Congregation?” Matthew’s voice was worried. “I don’t know.”

“No.” My head rose in surprise. “I don’t care about that.”

“What do you mean, then?”

I kissed him on his quizzical mouth. “This feeling when I’m with you—as if I’m fully alive for the first time.”

Matthew smiled, his expression uncharacteristically sweet and shy. “I hope not.”

Sighing with contentment, I lowered my head onto his chest and fell into dreamless sleep.

It occurred to me the next morning that my days with Matthew, thus far, had fallen into one of two categories. Either he steered the day along, keeping me safe and making sure nothing upset his careful arrangements, or the day unfolded without rhyme or reason. Not long ago what happened in my day had been determined by carefully drawn-up lists and schedules.

Today I was going to take charge. Today Matthew was going to let me into his life as a vampire.

Unfortunately my decision was bound to ruin what promised to be a wonderful day.

It started at dawn with Matthew’s physical proximity, which sent the same shock of desire through me that I’d felt yesterday in the courtyard. It was more effective than any alarm clock. His response was gratifyingly immediate as well, and he kissed me with enthusiasm.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” he grumbled between kisses. “I feared I would have to send to the village for the town band, and the only trumpeter who knew how to sound reveille died last year.”

Lying at his side, I noticed he was not wearing the ampulla from Bethany.

“Where did your pilgrim’s badge go?” It was the perfect opportunity for him to tell me about the Knights of Lazarus, but he didn’t take it.

“I don’t need it anymore,” he’d said, distracting me by winding a lock of my hair around his finger and then pulling it to the side so he could kiss the sensitive flesh behind my ear. “Tell me,” I’d insisted, squirming away slightly.

“Later,” he said, lips drifting down to the place where neck met shoulder.

My body foiled any further attempts at rational conversation. We both behaved instinctually, touching through the barriers of thin clothing and noting the small changes—a shiver, an eruption of gooseflesh, a soft moan—that promised greater pleasure to come. When I became insistent, reaching to seize bare flesh, Matthew stopped me.

“No rushing. We have time.”

“Vampires,” was all I managed to say before he stopped my words with his mouth.

We were still behind the bed curtains when Marthe entered the room. She left the breakfast tray on the table with an officious clatter and threw two logs on the fire with the enthusiasm of a Scot tossing the caber. Matthew peered out, proclaimed it a perfect morning, and declared that I was ravenous.

Marthe erupted into a string of Occitan and departed, humming a song under her breath. He refused to translate on the grounds that the lyrics were too bawdy for my delicate ears.

This morning, instead of quietly watching me eat, Matthew complained that he was bored. He did it with a wicked gleam in his eyes, his fingers restless on his thighs.

“We’ll go riding after breakfast,” I promised, forking some eggs into my mouth and taking a scalding sip of tea. “My work can wait until later.”

“Riding won’t fix it,” Matthew purred.

Kissing worked to drive away his ennui. My lips felt bruised, and I had a much finer understanding of the interconnectedness of my own nervous system when Matthew finally conceded it was time to go riding.

He went downstairs to change while I showered. Marthe came upstairs to retrieve the tray, and I told her my plans while braiding my hair into a thick rope. Her eyes widened at the important part, but she agreed to send a small pack of sandwiches and a bottle of water out to Georges for Rakasa’s saddlebag.

After that, there was nothing left but to inform Matthew.

He was humming and sitting at his desk, clattering on his computer and occasionally reaching over to thumb through messages on his phone. He looked up and grinned.