Chapter 25

Chapter 25

T he fallout from our intelligence operation–slash–heist was as serious as I’d feared it would be.

I was formally reprimanded for arriving at Isola della Stella without warning, and entering the witches’ precinct without permission. The Congregation delivered a copy of the Witches Code of Conduct Regarding the Proper Manner to Approach the Members (a title worthy of Robert Fludd) to Ca’ Chiaramonte after breakfast. The witches were at their most prolix in the document, which exceeded ten pages in length. As I had no desire to go back to Isola della Stella—or see Tinima—ever again, I threw the papers away.

Then, in an emergency meeting immediately after the festival of Redentore concluded, the Congregation’s witches compelled Baldwin and Fernando to make assurances regarding my current whereabouts, and promises that I would make myself available for questioning if asked.

Finally, the witches summarily expelled Janet. She got the news on Sunday afternoon just before she left Venice. Janet confessed she was tired of the constant squabbling and the energy it took to stay one step ahead of Sidonie.

“It’s a relief, really. Granny invited me to remain with her at Sept-Tours as long as I’d like,” Janet told me when I accompanied her—along with Ysabeau, Marthe, Alain, Victoire, and an entire showroom of Louis Vuitton luggage—to Santa Lucia, where the party would board the Orient Express en route to Lyon.

“Janet and I shall do our best to stay out of trouble,” Ysabeau told me when we said goodbye. “Unlike Baldwin and Fernando, we make no promises.”

The disdain etched on Ysabeau’s fine features indicated what she thought of those members of the de Clermont family who had acceded to the Congregation’s demands.

Ysabeau was the only creature to emerge from the weekend in Venice not only unscathed but energized. The de Clermont matriarch had been the sensation of the 2017 Festa del Redentore, with one social media account rhapsodizing over the return of classic French elegance, likening Ysabeau’s impact to that of Catherine Deneuve in 1967. As she crossed the station floor in a daring black Balmain suit, her arms filled with bouquets given to her by admirers, the moment was captured in photos that were quickly uploaded to the internet.

Later, I settled into my seat on Baldwin’s jet with mixed emotions. I’d burned whatever precarious bridge to the Congregation I’d enjoyed as a member of the de Clermont family. The witches would not quickly forgive my raid on the memory palace, and they would never entirely forget it. Sidonie’s animosity had deepened, along with her curiosity. Without Janet on the Congregation, Matthew and I had lost a crucial ally. As for Tinima Toussaint, I still did not know what to make of her decision to let me keep the stolen memories, or her seemingly impulsive decision to destroy my mother’s bottle. I put a protective hand on the Bodleian tote, where each family bottle was now individually wrapped in a vintage Hermès scarf from Ysabeau’s collection.

Matthew was waiting for me when I landed at the private airfield northwest of Boston. We embraced silently, relieved to be together again and awkward, too, after what had happened only a few days before in the Proctor labyrinth. At Ravenswood, I was delighted to find Sarah and Gwyneth had not strangled each other. Apollo and Ardwinna greeted me briefly and enthusiastically, then passed out under the chestnut tree from the heat and excitement. The twins were lightly tanned, healthy as horses, and eager to tell me everything that had transpired in their world over the past seventy-two hours. Once the reunions were over and the children were off to the river with Ike, I shared what happened in Venice with the rest of my curious family.

“I can’t believe you managed to leave Isola della Stella with so many bottles!” Gwyneth said after seeing my heavily laden tote bag.

“I can’t believe you didn’t break any,” Sarah said.

I asked Matthew to undertake the delicate job of unpacking the bag. He drew the bottles out of their wrappings, identifying each in turn until a bright assortment of Venetian glass bottles—some round, some tall, some plain, and others with elaborate colors and faceted stoppers—gleamed in the Ipswich summer sunshine.

“The witches must be in partnership with the glassblowers of Murano and Burano,” Matthew said as he put the last of the memory bottles on the table.

“Which is mine?” Gwyneth asked in a shaky voice.

I looked for Gwyneth’s gold-and-black bottle, as well as the green one that belonged to Tally. I placed them in front of my aunt in a reunion of siblings. Gwyneth touched them with reverence, her hands moving possessively over the bottles’ rounded bases, her soothing strokes indicating that all was well now.

“It looks like the oldest bottles you found are from 1936,” Matthew said, scanning the labels to make sure. “How far back does the memory archive go?”

“I didn’t have time to find out,” I explained. “Madame Toussaint discovered me looting the shelves and I had to leave as quickly as possible.”

Matthew knew me well enough to suspect that this cool retelling was not the whole story. It would take me time to find the right words to describe what had happened, and to formulate the questions that remained.

I drew Matthew’s attention away by drawing a rough floor plan of the palace, including the double-helix staircase that led to the floating library filled with memory bottles. I amused Sarah with tales of Ysabeau’s antics in Venice, and showed her some of the pictures that had made it onto social media—none of which showed my mother-in-law’s face in any detail. I told Gwyneth about my surprising encounter with Tinima Toussaint, the newest member of the Congregation.

While I spun my tales and sipped my tea, Matthew’s eyes never left me. I was afraid to meet them, for I was unsure what I might see there. Love? Like? Neither? Both?

The clatter of footsteps and slap of wet life jackets outside the barn announced the children’s return from their fishing trip.

“Look!” Pip ran in with a string of fish. “We caught dinner!”

Matthew and I dutifully admired the slippery trophies.

“What’s in those?” Becca asked, dropping her fishing rod at the sight of what I’d brought home from Venice.

“People’s experiences and memories from long ago,” I said, drawing her into my arms so that she didn’t knock any bottles over in her curiosity.

Ike entered the barn with the tackle. “Whoa. Are those all memory bottles?”

“They are,” I said, making room for him next to me. “Thank you for taking the kids out today.”

“No problem, coz. We had a great time,” he replied.

“I have something for you,” I whispered.

“A souvenir?” Ike looked pleased. “Did you get me a Juventus jersey?”

I laughed. No wonder he and Chris were such good friends. They were cut from the same piece of athletic cloth.

“I’m afraid I was on the wrong side of the boot.” I located the tall, clear bottle with an amber double helix swirled through the glass. I twisted it so the label faced Ike. “This belongs to you and your mom.”

Ike took the bottle as gently as though it were a tiny bird.

“These are Dad’s memories?” Ike asked, wide-eyed.

I’d learned at the Midsummer potluck that Ike had never known his father except through photos and the tales that Lucy and the rest of the Proctor family told to keep the fallen soldier alive. I could only imagine what the memories might mean to a child who had never heard their father’s voice, or felt their father’s arms around them.

“Do you need a hug, Uncle Ike?” Pip was watching my cousin with vampiric intensity.

“I sure do, buddy.” Ike gave Pip the kind of all-enfolding embrace that fathers give to their sons, the memory bottle still clutched in his fingers.

“I didn’t know your father was an adept,” Matthew said softly.

“We don’t talk about it much,” Ike said, releasing Pip. “Put-Put told me Dad had been examined on Isola della Stella in the summer of ’65, but it was a wild time and Dad chose the Marines over the Congregation. 196503. Too many digits for a zip code, too few for a service number. What does it mean?”

“The year, followed by your dad’s class rank,” I explained. “The Congregation’s invitation list was selective—no more than thirteen witches were invited to Isola della Stella to be tested.”

“Third out of thirteen.” Ike shook his head. “That’s my dad. Always the overachiever. And neither he nor any of his classmates came back knowing what happened to them there?”

“Not unless they became members of the Congregation,” I said. “With a seat comes access to the memory palace—and all the secrets there. You can recall anyone’s memories you wish—enemies, friends, families…”

“No wonder ambitious witches compete to be selected,” Gwyneth said. “Imagine wielding so much power over your fellow creatures.”

“Who’s looking out for the welfare of the other adepts, and the candidates who washed out of the program like Naomi?” Ike asked, his expression somber.

“No one,” I said. “Their bottles were consigned to a shelf and forgotten unless one of the Congregation’s witches thought they might be useful.”

“Are there tiny people in the bottles?” Becca asked during the lull in the conversation that followed.

“No, moonbeam. Only memories,” Matthew replied. “These are like the bottles Maman brought back from Granny Sarah’s house. Remember how heavy they were?”

Becca and Pip nodded.

“They were warm,” Pip added.

“And there were sparkles inside.” Becca’s tone turned schoolmarmish. “If we see an empty bottle that’s heavy and warm and sparkly that’s shut tight, we need to let Mommy or Aunt Gwyneth know.”

I hadn’t noticed a warm sparkle in the bottles, but I wasn’t Bright Born and lacked my children’s acute perception.

“That’s right, Rebecca,” Matthew said, bestowing a proud smile on his daughter.

“Who saved all of these from the recycling?” Pip asked, looking askance at all the bottles. “They must have a big house.”

Matthew smothered a smile. The children, like many of their generation, were fervent eco-warriors who knew more about landfills and green energy than I had known about plastic and oil wells at their age.

“The Congregation.” I wanted to be honest with the children, given their impending examination.

Pip scowled. The children were not fans of the Congregation. It had occupied far too much of my time, and now it deprived them of seeing Fernando as often as they would like.

“They put people’s thoughts in jars like Marthe’s pickles and then kept them?” Becca’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I wouldn’t like that. And I wouldn’t want Uncle Baldwin’s memories kept in a jar, either. He tells the best stories, and they always start with ‘I remember when.’?”

“What are you going to do with them?” Ike asked me quietly.

“That’s my question, too,” Sarah said, surprised to be aligned with a member of the Proctor family. “Are you going to pull all the corks out? Or are you just going to stuff them in a different cupboard to be forgotten?”

“We’re certainly not opening them now.” As a historian, I was worried that releasing the memories might damage them in ways we couldn’t anticipate. They were better off where they were.

Gwyneth looked relieved.

“Can we open them tomorrow?” Pip asked.

“Not today, and not tomorrow,” I said firmly.

Not until I had an opportunity to talk to Matthew privately.

—

I waited for a few days before broaching the subject of Venice with Matthew. I’d expected him to be bursting with questions about what I’d seen and what Tinima had been like, but the distance that had widened between us since I took him to the Proctor labyrinth remained. My thoughts kept returning to that night in the wood and the hurt that I’d caused.

One day, when the run to camp went smoothly, the children were happy, the weather was fine, and Gwyneth had a meeting of the local garden club, I decided that it was time to mend fences with my husband. Not even Sarah remained at Ravenswood, as the guest speaker at Gwyneth’s club was a visiting hedgewitch from Vermont who ran a seed-catalogue business and was addressing the topic “Seed Swaps: Preserving Historical Plants and Vegetables While Growing Stronger Communities”—a subject near and dear to her heart.

By late morning, only Matthew and I were left on the property. I was in the kitchen, making perfunctory notes on Gwyneth’s latest alchemical project in my book of shadows. Matthew was in Tally’s office, calling Grace to reserve some lobster for dinner. He’d already called Ike to review the best way to lay seaweed in a lobster pot and received his daily lab update from Miriam. Matthew couldn’t avoid me forever. Sooner or later, he was going to have to return to the kitchen.

When he did, I pounced.

“I wonder if you’d like to witness one of Mom’s memory bottles with me,” I said, keeping my tone casual and my nose buried in my book of shadows.

Matthew’s shoulders stiffened. He turned from the coffee siphon.

“Do you think it’s wise to do that without Gwyneth being here?”

“It’s not Mom’s Congregation memories, but a bottle I found at the Bishop House. Gwyneth examined it and said it’s in good shape and shouldn’t be a problem,” I assured him. Gwyneth’s lessons had focused on how to care for and maintain memory bottles since I returned from Venice.

“Don’t you want to wait for Sarah?” Matthew asked. “Rebecca was her sister. There could be a family memory in the bottle.”

I slid the wax-covered Mateus bottle toward him. “I’m pretty sure this is from one of my parents’ date nights.”

Matthew opened his mouth.

“I doubt we’ll be seeing anything X-rated,” I said, deflecting his next argument. I bit back a sigh of frustration. “If you don’t want to join me, just say no. I’ll go to the barn and do it myself.”

Matthew sat opposite me at the old kitchen table that had no doubt witnessed dozens of difficult conversations between husbands and wives.

“I don’t want to be part of your attempts to work higher magic,” Matthew said.

I wasn’t attempting higher magic—I was mastering it, albeit haltingly and incrementally. I bit back my sharp response. Defensiveness wasn’t going to improve matters betweenus.

“I understand,” I said, and meant it. “It’s your choice. I hope you can understand that I’m going to keep offering, though.”

Matthew shrugged.

“Taking you to the labyrinth in the wood was wrong,” I said. “I won’t make a mistake like that again. I’m still learning and I’ll make other mistakes—but not that one.”

“You think going there alone would have made it all right?” Matthew’s temper flared. “Christ, Diana. Neither of us had any business being there.”

“I disagree.”

Matthew threw his hands up in frustration and sat back in his chair.

“I learned important lessons in the labyrinth that night—lifesaving lessons,” I told him, my own anger coming to a simmer. I was trying to hear Matthew’s concerns. Was he listening to mine? “I underestimated how vulnerable you would be. I admit that. But after what I experienced in Venice, I would do it again—without you.”

“Now that you have a toehold in higher magic, your vulnerability is no longer sufficient reason to turn away from something you don’t understand?” Matthew leaned toward me. “This is the problem with higher magic, Diana. It gives you the false impression that you’re godlike and invincible.”

“I know my limitations better than you do,” I replied. “My strengths and weaknesses, too. Every day I walk on the Dark Path, I discover more about myself—and it’s changing me, Matthew.”

Matthew took his own deep, shuddering breath. I was voicing his deepest fears, and they were difficult for him to hear.

“I do my best to share what I learn, so that you don’t feel you’re losing me,” I continued. “But sometimes, words just aren’t enough. Sometimes, I need you to experience it with me rather than through me as though I were already a memory bottle on a shelf.”

The raw emotion in Matthew’s eyes told me he was hearing me now.

“Mom and Dad’s relationship is a mystery to me,” I confessed. “I don’t understand how they made it work without Mom being able to practice higher magic. I thought maybe looking in on one of their date nights might help. There must have been some reason Mom went to the trouble of saving this particular evening.”

Matthew weighed the alternatives, and his face registered fear, longing, anger, even annoyance. I had no idea what his final decision would be—until he madeit.

“All right, mon coeur, ” Matthew said. “Where do you want to do it?”

“Here, in the kitchen,” I said evenly, though inside I was jumping for joy that he had agreed.

“Is there enough room?” Matthew looked around the crowded space.

“Plenty,” I said, conjuring a witchlight to cut through the wax seal. “You ready?”

Matthew was startled. “Now?”

I nodded. If I gave him time to reconsider, Matthew would come up with a million reasons not to be part of this.

I could give him only one reason he should.

“I love you, Matthew,” I said. “Thank you for doing this. We’re going to figure this out. I promise.”

Before Matthew could warn me not to make a promise I might not be able to keep, I conjured the protective chamber that would keep my mother’s memories from evaporating. The seal was already opened, and the edges of the stopper were above the lip of the bottle. I didn’t need to tug it to dislodge the bit of cork. The force of my mother’s memories sent it rocketing toward the ceiling. It returned to the table with a thud.

That was the last thing I noticed before the past met the present, and the unmistakable scent of my mother’s Diorissimo filled the air.