Chapter 17

Chapter 17

I t took days to recover from the Proctors’ Midsummer celebration. Soon, Matthew and I had settled into our new normal at Orchard Farm, our bags no longer half-packed in readiness for a speedy exit. The suitcases went into the attic, and the laundry machine went into overdrive to keep up with the soggy clothes that accumulated with terrifying speed on the mudroom floor. Becca and Pip were ecstatic, running around Ipswich with their cousins and socializing with other magical families. Setting aside the plans we’d made for the summer—plans made long before we received the Congregation’s letter, an embassy of ravens, and an invitation from Ravenswood—made the remaining months of our summer sparkle with renewed possibilities.

For Becca and Pip, these opportunities expanded by the hour as they learned how to dig for clams, supervised Matthew’s renovation of the tree houses, and had lengthy conversations with Granny Dorcas about a wide range of topics, including headless horsemen and how to use handfuls of rosemary and sage to repel the green flies.

Julie dropped by Orchard Farm on the first day of July while we were still at breakfast. She brought with her fresh prospects for delight: magic camp registration forms and an invitation for the twins.

“Where is everybody?” Julie’s voice floated through the screen door, along with the sound of canine feet scrabbling against the porch with excitement. “Some watchdog you are, Ardwinna. Here. Have a muffin. It’s blueberry. Full of antioxidants.”

Somewhere in the Eastey family tree there was a daemon—maybe two. I was sure ofit.

“Come on in!” I called, gathering a fork and plate. Matthew was scrambling eggs this morning, and I was sure my cousin was going to want some.

Julie squelched into the kitchen, her knee-length shorts rolled up and her sneakers oozing with moisture and muck as though she’d waded here across the marsh. Despite her apparent route, she’d kept hold of a tiered cake plate, on which there was an assortment of muffins and cupcakes.

“I’ve brought the camp waivers for you to sign, as well as the registration forms,” Julie said, using her mother’s spell to conjure the papers out of thin air. “Here. They should be dry. Ooh, those look yummy. Are they for me? Is there ketchup?”

Matthew handed her a steaming plate with eggs, sausage, and fried mushrooms. Julie gave him a kiss on the cheek in return and settled down at the kitchen table with the twins and their entourages.

“Are you excited about camp?” Julie asked the twins. She and Gwyneth had applauded our decision to let the children attend the organized afternoons, where young witches were trained in proper magical etiquette and instilled with empathy for humans and other creatures.

Both nodded enthusiastically, unable to speak around the muffins they’d snagged from the cake stand.

“A daemon family from Rhode Island is sending their kids up here again, they had such a good time,” Julie said, digging into her breakfast. “Becca and Pip will be the first campers with vampire blood. Isn’t that exciting?”

Matthew took possession of the health-and-safety waivers. He was no doubt going to make sure that there were no suspicious rules that would indicate the camp management harbored anti-vampire sentiment.

“How would you like to go sailing?” Julie asked Becca and Pip. “The sun’s out—for now—and the waters are calm.”

The twins whooped with glee at the prospect of hours at sea with their beloved Julie.

“In a real boat?” Becca was game for anything that smacked of adventure.

“Is there another way to sail?” Julie asked, mopping up the last of her eggs with a bit of bread. “ Good Juju is anchored out by The Nestling. She’s too big to come closer to shore and I left the dinghy on board.”

The dinghy was fittingly called Bad Juju.

“We’ll have to wade out to her,” Julie warned, “if you want to take her for a spin.”

“Can we?” Pip said, jumping off his chair. “Can we, Mommy? Can we plee—”

“Philip Michael Addison.” Matthew couldn’t abide pleading, and the number of names he used indicated how far he thought the children had gone over the line. In this case, Matthew had stopped at three out of four, which meant Pip was on very thin ice.

Pip and Becca pressed their lips together to silence anything that their father might interpret as undue pressure. My mind was already made up, however. Fresh air and a new perspective would do them both good. And the peace and quiet that would descend over Ravenswood in their absence would bolster my sanity.

“Of course you can go sailing with Aunt Julie,” I said, after exchanging a look with Matthew and receiving a reluctant nod of agreement.

“Will we see the ghost ship?” Pip had heard Julie’s tale of the wrecked vessel caught on the rocks at the end of the neck, and the loss of all the lives aboard.

“It’s the waxing moon! This is no time for spotting ghosts on deck,” Julie exclaimed, dashing Pip’s hopes. “They hide down below to avoid moonburn. You’ll have to wait until the moon is dark again. That’s when the captain raises the sails.”

“Go get changed,” I said, pointing upstairs. It was too early in the morning for talk of ghostly mariners and spectral ships. “You don’t want Aunt Julie to miss the tide.”

“Wait!” Julie reached into the back of her shorts to remove two damp T-shirts. “Wear these.”

The shirts were hot pink and emblazoned with crew in black lettersacross the back. On the front was the name of Julie’s nautical pride and joy.

Pip and Becca clattered upstairs and soon returned to the kitchen, bursting like small explosives with further questions. Becca had Tamsy, who was dressed for a romp outdoors, with her skirts tucked up to show her ankles and a sturdy apron tied around her waist to keep her gown clean. Her feet were bare, and Becca had tied a wide-brimmed hat under her chin. Both children had their sneakers slung over their shoulders, the laces tied together.

“Good idea, Tamsy,” Julie said, studying the twins to make sure they were outfitted properly for a day on the water. “We all need to protect ourselves from the sun—especially those of us with vampire blood. I’ve got sunscreen, and two baseball caps.” Julie swung her own hat onto her head, tightening the cord so it wouldn’t blow off in the breeze. She inspected Becca’s shoelaces. “And we need to work on knots while we’re out. If you tie up the Good Juju ’s lines like that, we’re sunk.”

Julie conjured up her lightship basket, the preferred tote of Ipswich witches. From it, she pulled out two children’s caps, one pink and one blue. Embroidered on each was the griffin emblem of the nearby Crane Estate.

“Look, Apollo!” Pip cried, waving his new hat at his familiar. “It’s you!”

The griffin preened his feathers and thumped his tail in approval.

“We’ll see you later, Diana,” Julie said. She tucked a few of the cupcakes into her basket. “Thanks for breakfast, Matthew.”

The twins ran straight for the marsh. Apollo used his wings to soar over the shallow water toward the bobbing masts of the sailboat anchored off The Nestling.

“I forgot his disguising spell,” I worried, thinking of the tour boats that plied the nearby shore.

“Don’t worry,” Julie said. “The seagulls around here are unusually large. He’ll blend right in.”

Gwyneth came out of the Old Place to see the crew off, chuckling as Becca and Pip splashed their way into the marsh. Julie followed, her lightship basket balanced on her head to keep their cupcakes and ham sandwiches dry.

Matthew and I heaved sighs of relief and took Ardwinna out to the barn. She had elected not to go out on the Good Juju, preferring to sit by Granny Dorcas, where she would be petted and cosseted.

I gratefully accepted my third cup of tea from Matthew and settled at the worktable with the black bird oracle, running the cards through my fingers to receive today’s guidance. One eye was on Gwyneth, however, who was working on a bespoke ritual oil designed to help me work safely with Shadow. She was bent over a small iron pot with three legs that resembled a cauldron. My aunt had begun with a powerful rose oil made last summer. To that she’d already added birch bark, wintergreen, spikenard, and an infusion of eyebright. These had been simmering over a low witchlight for the past twenty-four hours.

“What’s that?” I asked, curious about what Gwyneth was adding to her concoction.

“Mugwort.” Gwyneth used a dropper to add some more to her mixture. “We’ll mix in the dragon’s blood tomorrow, and then let it steep for three weeks.”

Gwyneth set aside a large mason jar for the purpose. A bit of obsidian, a shard of clear quartz, lavender flowers, rose petals, and an old compact mirror rested on the bottom of the glass container, ready to add their magic to the mix.

I shuffled the black bird oracle a few more times, but my attention kept drifting toward the other end of the table, where Matthew sat, a stack of papers at his elbow. They were marked with grids and letters, like one of John Dee’s magic squares.

“What are those?” I asked, picking up my tea and joining him. Now that I was closer, I could see that the letters were in strange, repeating strings like EeCcDd and VvBbDd.

“Mendelian Punnett squares,” Matthew said. “I thought I’d track inherited traits among the Proctors. These help to map their appearance over generations, though they’re not very good with multiple variables.”

Matthew was using old-school genetics—the same techniques my ancestors would have relied on—to make sense of recurring patterns in the family’s magic.

“Wouldn’t we need genetic testing to really understand them?” This was the thorny issue that kept Matthew and Chris at loggerheads.

“Not necessarily,” Matthew replied. “Diana mentioned you have a family tree, Gwyneth.”

“I can’t leave my pot,” Gwyneth said testily, stirring the contents of her cauldron with a long-handled silver spoon. “Diana knows where it is. She can get it for you.”

I dug around in a Victorian-era umbrella stand and soon produced the family tree. When I unfurled it on the table, anchoring its curving edges with my oracle deck and a mug filled with pencils and pens, Matthew’s eyes widened in surprise. The silver boxes on the Proctor pedigree stood out from the names picked out in green, blue, or brown, and the fine black lines that connected them.

“The colors all mean something,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table.

“Twins,” Matthew said, immediately recognizing the significance of the silver boxes.

“A set in every other generation,” I observed. “Regular as Swiss trains.”

“Twins can run in families, but not like that. It’s too neat,” Matthew replied, driving his fingers through his hair to encourage his brain cells to work harder.

Matthew found Gwyneth’s name, written in ink the color of strong tea. So was Grandpa Tally’s, though their sister’s name, Morgana, was written in blue.

“Does the brown ink indicate witches gifted with higher magic, while the blue ink highlights those with the power of prophecy?” I asked my aunt.

“Yes,” she replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Green ink signifies a knotter—a weaver. Goddess knows what we should have used for you, Diana. Something rainbow-colored, like the tails on those vile plastic unicorns?”

My name was written in black ink, as were the names of the twins, as though our magical identities had still been shrouded in Darkness when the tree was last amended.

“We’ll have to mark Pip out in green, and Becca in blue,” I said, ready to make my mark on the old scroll.

Matthew put out a hand to stop me, his irritation clear.

“We agreed not to make decisions for Rebecca and Philip,” he said. “This is exactly why I don’t want the children genetically tested, or their magical talents labeled by the Congregation.”

“Matthew’s right,” Gwyneth said. “They thought I was an oracle, like Morgana. Then I hit puberty, and it was clear that I might be able to use the cards to see the future, but it was Morgana who had the real gifts. We will have to wait and see what the goddess has in store for the twins.”

My aunt joined us at the table, and we studied the family tree together.

“The pattern explains why you are a chimera, too,” Matthew said, looking up from the tree.

“Gwyneth and I thought so,” I agreed. “The goddess had to break one of her universal laws.”

“Thereby making you a doubly powerful witch, and preserving a place for both Rebecca and Philip,” Matthew said.

“I’m impressed, Matthew,” Gwyneth remarked. “I didn’t think you’d be able to glean so much from the family tree.”

“It’s a start,” he replied, hesitant, “but it only shows Diana’s direct line of descent and the incidence of oracles, weavers, and adepts in higher magic. Look at Margaret Proctor. She gave birth to James Proctor in 1740, when she was thirty-seven. He might have been her last child, but I doubt James was her first.”

Matthew was right. The family tree, extensive though it was, represented only a limited outline of the Proctor lineage.

“There’s no possible way to include all the Proctors on a single tree. It would be as long as the Amtrak line from Boston to D.C., and as wide as the transcontinental railroad.” Gwyneth moved toward the shelves. She returned with a leather-bound book. “There are more detailed family records here, in the Proctor grimoire.”

Matthew opened the tome and was soon absorbed in his efforts to understand the family’s lineage. I was envious that he was able to pore over the precious volume before me. Soon he was making his own genealogical chart, with all the siblings of my direct ancestors, on a long piece of butcher paper used for wrapping up dried herbs and flowers.

“I’ll just go back to my cards,” I murmured.

“Hmm,” Matthew said, not looking up from his notes and grids, eager to find a way to map out the patterns of magic that emerged.

I was just settling down again when an earsplitting whistle cut through the air.

“Who can that be?” Gwyneth said, tetchy at another interruption.

“Were you expecting one of the Mather boys?” I asked as Gwyneth passed by, her silver spoon held in front of her like a wand.

Ardwinna cocked her head. Her ears perked up and she dashed for the open barn door, barking frantically.

“Yo! Where are you, squirt?” called a familiar voice.

It wasn’t one of the Mathers.

“Oof.” The sound was muffled by nearly a hundred pounds of ecstatic dog. “I missed you, too, Ardwinna.”

“They’re in the barn,” said an unmistakable soprano. “Down, Ardwinna. I’m wearing new tights.”

“It’s Chris and Miriam,” I said, shocked. “Matthew’s colleagues from Yale.”

“Who invited them?” Gwyneth was still out of sorts.

“I did.” Matthew looked down at his watch. “I’m sorry, Gwyneth. They weren’t supposed to arrive until after dinner. I was going to tell you at lunch.”

“It seems that Ravenswood has accepted you as a member of the Proctor family, Matthew,” Gwyneth said dryly. “I’m going to have to review my wards and adjust them accordingly.”

My heart rose as Chris and Miriam stepped out of the sunshine and into the barn. I flew at Chris and flung my arms around him.

“Sorry we’re early. Chris was afraid Matthew would change his mind,” Miriam apologized. “You smell different, Diana.”

“Nice to see you, too, Miriam.” I gave Chris one last squeeze and released him. “Gwyneth, meet Chris Roberts and Miriam Shephard. This is my great-aunt Gwyneth Proctor.”

“The witch who sent the oracle card.” Miriam extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you. Do you have somewhere I could put these?” She lifted two Styrofoam cases marked biohazard.

Granny Dorcas woke from her nap and yelped in horror.

“Hi, I’m Chris.” My friend walked toward her with a genial smile. “You must be Diana’s grandmother.”

I am her great-great-great-great-great— Granny Dorcas ran out of fingers. Never mind. Who let a human into the barn?

Chris stuck his hands into his pockets and shrugged. Granny Dorcas fixed her gaze on Miriam.

Another blood-letch, too. She chewed on her pipe in consternation. Who’s next? The Archbishop of Canterbury?

“Is that—” Miriam asked, pointing.

Don’t point at me, blood-letch! Granny Dorcas removed the pipe stem from her teeth and jabbed it toward Miriam. It’s very, very rude.

“A ghost. Yes,” Matthew said hurriedly, putting his bulk between Miriam and my grandmother. “Miriam meant no insult, Granny Dorcas. She was dazzled by the sight of you, and wonderstruck at seeing a ghost. Many vampires harbor a secret wish to meet the walking dead.”

Hmph. Granny Dorcas stroked her elf lock, entranced by the idea that anyone would find her so desirable after so many years. A minuscule creature with the wings of a dragonfly fell from her hair, bent double with laughter, and rolled across the uneven floorboards.

“Here. This poor little guy broke free.” Chris swooped up the fairy by the wings and offered it to Dorcas. “Wow. So you’re a ghost. Cool. Have you met my great-aunt Hortense? Tall woman? Likes hats? Absolutely terrifying? Died about ten years ago?”

“Be careful!” Gwyneth warned. “Fairies—”

“Ow!”

The fairy had embedded his needlelike teeth in Chris’s thumb. Chris tried to shake him off, but the winged sprite had no intention of lettinggo.

“Bite.” I tickled the fairy between the wings until he released his hold. Granny Dorcas caught him and returned the tiny creature to her matted head of hair.

“So,” Chris said, sucking on his thumb. “Where’s my first victim?”

As usual, Chris was supremely unflapped by the presence of magic, ghosts, fairies, and other marvelous things. He was a scientist, and faced greater mysteries every day. Or so he claimed. I would wait and see what he thought of the shades in the wood with their mechanical limbs.

“What are you talking about?” Gwyneth demanded.

“Matthew said he needed help gathering DNA samples,” Chris said.

I lowered myself onto a stool. Chris and Miriam’s arrival had been a surprise; Matthew’s apparent change of heart was nothing less than a miracle.

“We brought cheek swabs, equipment for blood draws, and a sequencer,” Miriam said, looking around the barn. “But it’s not going to fit in this shed. There’s not enough space to prepare and isolate samples, and I doubt the electricity is up to the job.”

“Shed?” Gwyneth’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon, Miriam, but this is my workshop and alchemical laboratory. There will be no sequencer in it, thank you very much.”

“Slow down, Miriam,” Matthew told his colleague.

“It’s impossible to go any slower without shifting into reverse,” Miriam retorted. “If I’d known all it would take to make you see the light about the twins’ DNA was a family picnic, I would have arranged the biggest barbecue in Connecticut.” She shuddered. “Revolting things.”

“Why don’t we sit?” I suggested. Brokering a truce between five research scholars and a ghost was not going to be easy. “I’ll make tea and—”

“Whoa. Is that Diana’s family tree?” Chris asked Matthew, transfixed by the scroll on the worktable.

“It’s the Proctor family tree, yes,” Gwyneth said, her tone as starched as one of Matthew’s white shirts. “My sister drew it up, and we’ve been sure to keep it updated over the years.”

“I’ve just started to expand upon it, adding people beyond Diana’s direct ancestors.” Matthew followed Chris to the table. “I plan on visiting members of the family to record their magical characteristics, and those of their parents and siblings. Some of them might agree to give a DNA sample, and then—”

“Jackpot,” Chris said, gathering up the Punnett squares. “Jesus, Matthew. I haven’t seen one of these since junior high.”

“You can’t just wander around Essex County with a tape recorder and a bucket of cheek swabs, interviewing Proctors!” Gwyneth told Matthew. “It’s just not done!”

“Telepathy. Cartomancy. Bone dancing.” Chris shuffled through Matthew’s grids. “These are all your dad’s people, Diana?”

I nodded.

“And some of them are still alive?”

I nodded again.

“Well, well.” Chris exchanged a glance with Miriam. “Looks like Matthew found a few of Diana’s missing links.”

It’s like Salem Town on market day in here, Granny Dorcas complained. I can’t think for all the chatter.

Granny Dorcas was right. I banged the lid of Gwyneth’s favorite seething pot against the stove. It crashed like a cymbal.

Once the room quieted, I spoke.

“Everybody. Sit. Down. Now. We shall start at the beginning,” I said.

It required three full siphons of coffee, a pot of tea, and a shot of brandy for Gwyneth before Matthew managed to explain his new determination to understand the Proctor family’s magic with nineteenth-century logic, twenty-first-century tools, and four hundred years of family archives.

Miriam and Chris, Matthew explained, would be back in New Haven analyzing DNA while he remained in Ipswich and correlated the results with the family lore.

“Who will assist you?” Miriam said. “You need someone to take notes, and manage the samples.”

“I will,” Gwyneth said. “I’m the only person who knows where Cousin Gladys lives, and you are definitely going to want to interview her.”

“What about Diana?” Matthew frowned. “Your plate is already full, Gwyneth.”

“Diana needs to do a bit more independent work. It will be fine,” my aunt replied.

Will ye be able to tell if Thorndike Proctor’s daughter was baseborn? Granny Dorcas asked, poking Matthew in the back to get his attention. There were rumors, but never any proof.

“I don’t think we can determine that without the body or some of her mother’s DNA, ma’am.” Chris accorded Granny Dorcas the respect due to someone of her age and importance, even if she was dead.

Your science isn’t worth much, if it’s less knowledgeable than the Ipswich gossips. Still, if you need the body… Granny Dorcas mused.

Before Dorcas offered to unearth the unfortunate woman, I intervened.

“Let’s talk about that another day,” I said hastily, stopping Chris and Matthew from delivering an introductory lecture on genetics that would make sense to someone born in the seventeenth century. So far, Granny Dorcas was managing with lots of analogies to breeding heifers, but the comparison was wearing thin.

“It’s getting late, and the twins will soon be home,” I continued, glancing at my watch. “What, exactly, is your plan, Matthew?”

“To take every sample of DNA, and amass every bit of oral history, I can,” Matthew said simply. “Then, I’m going to spend day and night trying to understand the Proctor lineage and its magic.”

“What about Pip and Becca?” Chris asked. “When are we going to test them?”

“With all this new data, there is no need to analyze the children’s DNA.” Matthew’s tone was clear and unequivocal.

Chris swore, Miriam stalked away so that she could vent her frustrations elsewhere, and Gwyneth looked surprised.

“Matthew’s right,” I said, taking his hand in mine. “We’ve got my genetic data. Matthew’s and Sarah’s, too. The information Matthew gathers this summer will make some of my genetic anomalies clearer, even if it doesn’t solve every riddle.”

Chris was listening.

“None of us can clearly see the future, no matter how hard we try, and DNA alone can’t determine what the future holds for Becca and Pip,” I continued. “But I truly believe that some combination of my history and your science can provide clues.”

“That’s a positively medieval attitude, Diana,” Miriam said thoughtfully. “I like it.”

Chris cocked his head. “You’ve changed,D.”

“I came to Ravenswood and shed my old skin in favor of one that fits,” I replied.

“I’m glad you realized that size extra-small doesn’t suit you. It doesn’t look good on most people, come to think of it,” Chris said with a grin. “When you try to shrink yourself, or believe one size fits all, you aren’t the only one who’s uncomfortable. It makes the rest of us uneasy, too. Especially Becca and Pip.”

“Wait until you see them, Chris.” My eyes filled with happy tears. “They are so free here, able to be who and what they are.”

“Sounds like everyone’s got a lot to learn from the Proctors, and I don’t just mean genetically,” Chris said.

A clatter of oars and the cries of displaced herons alerted us that the twins were back from their boating excursion. The barn doors were still open and we had a clear view of the children’s joy as they ran to be reunited with their godparents.

“Aunt Miriam!” Becca cried.

“Uncle Chris!” Pip said.

“There he is!” Chris said, adopting the hands-on-knees position of a veteran football player. “Give me what you’ve got, Pip.”

Pip bowled into Chris, knocking his godfather backward onto the barn floor.

“Careful!” I warned. Chris may have been athletic, but he was still human.

Miriam and Becca’s greeting was cooler, but no less sincere. “Hey,” Miriam said, holding up her hand.

“Hey,” Becca replied, slapping it and then twirling around twice.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Uncle Chris,” Pip said.

“You didn’t, squirt,” Chris assured him, rubbing his elbow. “I just have a tender spot here. But what makes you strong?”

“Your tender spots,” Pip replied.

This was a topic of frequent conversation between Chris and the twins—that vulnerability was a superpower, not a sign of weakness.

“Like this one?” Chris tickled Pip under the arms. Pip squirmed and giggled. “And this one?” Chris reached for the back of Pip’s knees but my son’s vampire blood kicked in, and he eluded Chris’s attempts to catch him by running out of the barn. Chris leaped up, hot on his heels.

When Chris finally succeeded in catching Pip, he slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He returned across the meadow with Pip flapping his arms and kicking his legs and Apollo imitating him.

Tike, who was carrying the oars for the Bad Juju, passed the pair of them with an indulgent grin. Julie was behind him with hats, life jackets, and of course her lightship basket.

“This is Chris!” Pip shouted. “Say hi, Tike. He’s really cool. Like your dad.”

“My goodness, another vampire!” Julie said, glancing at Miriam. “Do you want something to drink? Not blood, obviously, but we have wine and coffee.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Miriam said. “Do you need a hand with all that?”

“Please,” Julie said, slinging the life jackets over Miriam’s shoulders. “I’m Julie. You must be a friend of Matthew’s.”

“I’m Miriam. The one making an idiot of himself is Chris,” Miriam said. “We work with Matthew at Yale.”

“Oh, good,” Julie said. “Maybe you can give him something to do. If he fixes one more thing on this farm, we’re going to have to sell it. Gwyneth isn’t used to all the machines working at the same time.”

A familiar van pulled into the Old Place and trundled down the hill.

“Your father’s here!” Julie called to Tike.

My cousin emerged from the van wearing a camouflage cap emblazoned with the letter H. Chris took one look at him and his jaw dropped.

“Mather?” Chris said, setting Pip down on his feet.

“Roberts?” Ike called. “Is that you?”

After a bloodcurdling howl and a rapid drumming of feet, the two men ran at each other, locking horns like two charging rhinoceroses before embracing.

“What was that?” I asked Miriam.

“Male-bonding ritual,” she explained wearily. “I’ve seen a thousand versions of it. They’re unmistakable.”

Matthew’s idea of male bonding consisted of drinking too much wine, debating philosophy, and playing games of chess and verbal one-upmanship, but perhaps he was unusual.

“My God, you haven’t changed!” Ike said, swatting Chris with his cap. “Same scrappy seventeen-year-old I met at football camp at Harvard in the summer of ’92. How do you know Diana?”

“Colleagues at Yale.” Chris ran his hands over his head in his typical gesture of sheepishness. “You?”

“Cousins,” Ike said, giving him another swat. “Wait until Put-Put finds out you’re here.”

“Your grandfather is still alive?” Chris looked at Ike in amazement. “He was ancient when I left Harvard.”

“Goes to every home football game,” Ike said proudly. “My mom’s still with us, too.”

“Good genes,” Miriam said, thoughtful.

“This is Miriam,” Chris said, putting his arm around her. Even draped in life jackets, her shoulders were narrow enough to fit easily inside his embrace. “I can’t live without her.”

Intrigued by this comment, Ike studied the vampire. Miriam gave him a wicked smile, and Ike laughed in return.

“Come on, Uncle Chris.” Pip tugged at his hand. “I want you to see the tree house. And then I want to take Aunt Miriam into the woods. And then—”

“Whoa, tiger,” Chris said. “Give me a minute to unpack and get Miriam a snack, okay?”

“Can I have a snack, too?” Becca asked, her stomach giving an audible gurgle.

“Do you mind if Chris and Miriam stay with us tonight, Aunt Gwyneth?” I asked, aware of the chaos associated with having two more houseguests around the place.

“Not at all,” Gwyneth said thoughtfully, her eyes pinned on Matthew. “They’re family, too.”