Chapter 26

Chapter 26

M atthew dripped water across the bedroom floor as he left the shower in pursuit of his clothes, toweling off his hair and swiping at the moisture that clung to his skin. I made no secret of my enjoyment as I watched him get dressed.

“Hmm.” I sighed happily as his muscles flexed and his torso twisted. “I like this new alarm clock way more than the one with the bells.”

Matthew caught my eye and laughed. “Flatterer.”

“All part of a wife’s job,” I said.

“What are your plans for the day?” Matthew asked, pulling a gray T-shirt over his dark head.

“I am not going to do anything, ” I said, wiggling my toes in anticipation. It had been a busy, stressful summer. Gwyneth was still putting me through my magical paces, and back-to-school messages were popping up on my computer screen with alarming banners of obligations to come. “Rest. Eat. Play with the children—if they ever come home again, that is.”

Pip was at a stargazing sleepover. Becca spent the night with her cousin Abigail, who had a historical doll from the same series as Tamsy and an equally impressive array of period-appropriate accessories. The children were already experiencing nostalgia for their “Best Summer Ever” even though there were weeks of enjoyment still to come. Becca and Pip were determined to cram as many clams, cousins, and boating excursions as they could into what remained of their vacation.

I brushed aside the looming prospect of the twins’ Congregation examination in September. I, too, wanted to enjoy the weeks between now and then as fully as possible.

“How about you?” I asked, propping myself up to get a better view of Matthew’s backside.

“Miriam sent some new reports.” One of Matthew’s long legs went into his jeans, then the other. He pulled them up around his trim hips.

“And?” New information on the Proctor DNA was coming in regularly now that Matthew had sampled half of Essex County and interviewed everyone who would let a vampire into their house.

“And I haven’t looked at them yet,” Matthew teased. He climbed onto the bed and flopped onto his back so that I could cuddle into his shoulder. “Impatience really is a Proctor trait. I’m going to have to see if I can find the gene that controls it.”

After a satisfying tussle and a full body search for the offending bit of DNA code, I was wide-awake and ready for breakfast. Matthew and I took our morning drinks onto the porch. I rocked and watched the play of sunshine on the water while Matthew sipped at his coffee and read the latest news from Yale on his computer.

“Combining DNA and family history is yielding results,” Matthew said. “We knew that you had genetic markers for particular magical abilities when we tested your DNA in Oxford, but those identifications were based on general patterns. It was a bit like knowing that a specific line of genetic code is what makes your eyes blue. Now that we have the Proctor DNA to analyze, we’re able to winnow down which of your ancestors might have passed that magical trait to you.”

Knowing your grandmother also had blue eyes was nice. Knowing she was a genius with wizard bolts? That was priceless information.

“Any luck figuring out the identity of the first family timewalker?” I asked, happy that my tea was beginning to wash the cobwebs of sleep from my brain. Without it, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to follow the arabesques Matthew’s mind made when he was engaged with his research.

“Not yet,” Matthew said, “but it’s early days. There are a lot of Proctors who were prone to what’s described in the records as ‘wandering.’ That might be an indication of timewalkers—members of the family known for disappearing for a few hours and then returning without explaining where they’d been.”

“Granny Dorcas said John Proctor was a wanderer.” I laughed. “I just thought that meant he liked to take walks.”

Matthew grinned. I was delighted by his current happiness. Since we’d opened Mom’s memory bottle, and he’d heard her speak his name, Matthew was enjoying being at Ravenswood as much as the children and me, from its bird-filled mornings to the quiet whisper of the water through the marsh at night.

“Gwyneth doesn’t have the time-traveling gene,” Matthew said. “It’s possible Tally might have had it—but he’s such a mysterious fellow it’s hard to know whether his here-today-gone-tomorrow reputation was due to his career as a spy or his magical talents.”

“And Morgana?”

“Gwyneth says not. She never had children, so I can’t be sure,” Matthew replied. “The stories I’ve heard about their mother, Damaris Proctor, suggest she was a timewalker, though. Your great-grandmother liked to give small but priceless Roman bronzes to her friends to mark special occasions.”

“Don’t tell Phoebe,” I said, laughing. “We’ve got a beautiful, drama-free day ahead of us. Let’s enjoy it.”

—

I hadn’t known then that I was tempting fate. Nor had the black bird oracle given me any reason to suspect what was to come. But the moment the mail truck showed up at the Old Place that afternoon, I was uneasy.

Gwyneth and Sarah were back from the garden club when it arrived. The coming of the mail was a highlight of Gwyneth’s day, and there were always notes from faraway friends in it, as well as cheerful catalogues and print editions of various local papers. Gwyneth liked to have her afternoon tea while she went through her post. Today she took the mail from the box on the ridge, riffled through it, and froze.

I had braced myself to receive the summons from Venice requiring me to appear and explain what had happened on Isola della Stella during the feast of Redentore. Why did it have to be today, on this best of all summer days?

“The Congregation,” I said, meeting her halfway.

“Not the Congregation,” Gwyneth said, holding up a creamy envelope. “Just the witches.”

I took the letter from Gwyneth and flipped it over, expecting to see the impression of Sidonie’s familiar personal seal. Instead, I saw the witches’ crescent moon pressed into green-and-black wax.

“Maybe Sidonie is afraid of losing face with the vampires and daemons if they learn how an inexperienced witch broke into their chambers,” Gwyneth suggested.

“Inexperienced?” My eyebrows rose.

“When it comes to higher magic, you are still wet behind the ears, Diana Bishop,” Gwyneth replied, putting me in my place. “Perhaps Tinima suggested they handle the matter internally instead. She has a reputation for being an excellent politician.”

I cracked the wax seal and slid the witches’ message from the envelope.

Dear Professor Bishop, the letter began. I read the rest of its message aloud.

“Following the charges made by Margaret Skelling, Ipswich Coven (f. 1634), formerly part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony Coven (f. 1629), we are scheduling a mandatory evaluation of your talents for higher magic, pursuant to the following guidelines (see enclosed).”

A copy of the Rules and Regulations Regarding Required Testing of All Children Born into Higher Magic Families or Exhibiting Higher Magic Tendencies—another verbose title that would have made Robert Fludd proud—was still stuck inside the envelope. I shook it out before continuing.

“We have launched an investigation into why your talent for higher magic, as displayed on the night of 14 July 2017 and witnessed by our member Tinima Toussaint, was not recognized prior to this summer, and we look forward to learning how you concealed those talents while acting as the de Clermont representative to this governing body.”

The answer was quite simple: It was all thanks to Peter Knox’s obsession with my mother. I continued.

“To expedite matters, and make this process as efficient as possible, we will examine you and your children, Philip Bishop-Clairmont and Rebecca Bishop-Clairmont, over the course of a single day. We propose to come to New Haven on a date of your choosing that will not impinge on your teaching obligations, or the children’s school calendars, ideally in the month of August. Please advise regarding your preferred time. We remain, yours sincerely, et cetera.

“I suppose I should have seen this coming,” I said, “with or without the black bird oracle.”

We returned to the barn to break the news to Sarah and Matthew.

“The Congregation is coming to New Haven sooner than expected,” I said, holding up the summer’s most recent special delivery. “They want to test my aptitude for higher magic, as well as the children’s abilities.”

“Ridiculous,” Sarah said, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee. She slammed the carafe back onto the warming stand. “What a waste of time. You broke into their damned headquarters and walked out with a bag of their memory bottles! Of course you have a talent for higher magic.”

“It’s just a formality, Sarah,” I said, hoping to reassure her (and myself) that there was nothing to worry about. “And it’s way better than facing a Congregation tribunal.”

“I guess,” Sarah replied, unconvinced.

“I only wish we didn’t have to wait until we go back to New Haven,” I grumbled, my mood souring further. “Now that Janet’s been expelled from the Congregation, I suppose it will be Sidonie or Tinima who does the honors.” I shuddered at the thought of either of the witches strolling around Memorial Quad.

“It would always have been Sidonie or Tinima,” Gwyneth replied. “Witches aren’t allowed to assess their own family members anymore. Too much grade inflation.”

“If you don’t want them in New Haven, tell them to come here,” Sarah said, “to Ravenswood.”

It was not her house—or mine—but the suggestion was intriguing. I looked to Matthew, wanting his reaction.

“Would that be allowed, Gwyneth?” Matthew wondered.

“We’d need the approval of the coven membership,” Gwyneth replied, a note of caution in her voice.

“We aren’t likely to get that,” I said, “not with Meg Skelling agitating the atmosphere.”

“I wonder,” Gwyneth said, her voice thoughtful. “A date after Lammas might work. Julie should choose which one. She has a knack for picking auspicious wedding days.”

In May, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that I would be eager to bring the twins’ examination date forward from September—but a lot had happened since then.

“Let’s see what the cards say,” Gwyneth said, rising to her feet with a determined light in her eyes. “I think it’s time for a Proctor spelling bee.”

—

“You’ve never been to a spelling bee!” Grace was astonished.

“Not since third grade, when I won the Madison Elementary School contest,” I said, stacking cookies on a plate.

“Not that kind of spelling bee.” Grace chuckled. “At a Proctor spelling bee, the family comes together to ask the oracles for guidance. Then we compare notes and figure out what spells we need to cast to manifest the best outcome.”

“It’s a sign the Proctors are at DEFCON One,” Ike said, flashing one of his wide grins.

“Is all this really necessary?” I was going to pass the witches’ test with flying colors, and there was no way to predict or prevent what the Congregation witch might do to assess the twins.

“Necessary? No. But the Proctors like to set themselves up for success,” Ike replied.

“Besides, we haven’t had a family spelling bee in ages,” Julie said, rubbing her hands together with excitement. She did a quick head count. “We’re eight, including Sarah.”

“Me?” Sarah’s eyes widened. “I’m not an oracle.”

“Do you have any tarot cards with you?” Put-Put was holding a leather envelope, soft and supple.

Sarah nodded. “Always.”

“Then you’ll do,” Put-Put said. “Where is Matthew, Gwynie? We need more coffee.”

Matthew appeared with a fresh pot.

“There you are,” Put-Put said. “You can be our ninth. The goddess prefers an uneven number at a spelling bee.”

“I’m not an oracle, or even a witch, Putnam,” Matthew protested.

“No, but you’ve begotten them,” Put-Put said. “Get the man a deck of cards, Junior. Sit down and learn things, Matthew.”

Matthew did what he was told as the rest of the gathering reached into pockets, purses, and fanny packs for their cards. Ike put an old deck of playing cards in front of Matthew that had been used for an oracle in the trenches of World War I and still smelled of explosives.

“Let’s shuffle,” Put-Put said. “Then we can let the oracles do their thing and have a sandwich.”

We moved the cards through our fingers. Matthew’s deft handling of them gave away one of his past lives as a gambler. The room soon fell silent except for the swoosh of the cards.

Put-Put was the first to release his cards on the table, where they formed the serpentine layout of the Dark Path.

Matthew was next, and put three cards face up before him in the past-present-future spread. He wasn’t a witch but had been watching me handle the black bird oracle and had learned some of the basics. Sarah, seated next to him, laid out her tarot in a traditional Celtic cross arrangement.

The other oracles required more time to deliver their messages. When everyone’s cards were finally on the table, two spreads appeared more than once: the Dark Path, and the complicated spiral of the Labyrinth. As for my own cards, they had positioned themselves in an identical arrangement to Matthew’s, shedding light on past, present, and future.

I looked at the images before me. The Skeleton. Salt. A Flight of Herons.

Change. Strong boundaries. Cleverness and patience.

The Proctors surveyed the table, looking for synchronicities and patterns. Cards shot into the air as options were considered and discarded, rearranging themselves to illuminate new possibilities.

In the end, the plan we concocted had the virtue of being utterly transparent, and so simple a child could executeit.

All I was required to do was lay my cards on the table before the Ipswich coven, along with a single memory bottle.

—

Ann, Meg, and Katrina arrived at Ravenswood later that afternoon to hear our request for a change of venue. Gwyneth and I met the coven representatives in the Old Place, and we took seats under the wisteria’s leafy canopy. It was well past flowering, but it provided welcome shade on this warm day. Gwyneth had Katrina’s tea ready, properly made according to her liking, as well as a rotund Brown Betty pot filled with her own favorite oolong.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” I said, once everyone had a cup or mug in hand. “I need your help.”

Ann looked surprised; Meg, suspicious.

“That’s what a coven is for.” Katrina’s lenses were tinted pale yellow today. “What’s on your mind, Diana?”

“The Congregation witches want to examine me to determine if I have a talent for higher magic,” I replied. “They want to test the twins at the same time. They’ll be seven this autumn.”

“The higher magic aptitude test is given to children, not adults.” Ann frowned. “Besides, they already know you chose the Dark Path at the Crossroads.”

“It seems the Congregation wants to go by the spellbook when it comes to Diana,” Gwyneth said.

“I don’t blame them,” Meg muttered.

“Nor doI.”

My prompt acquiescence startled her.

“There have been so many procedural irregularities—not to mention my former status as a vampire representative on the Congregation—that they want to dot every i and cross every t, ” I said.

Gwyneth handed the Congregation’s letter to Ann, who read it swiftly.

“Meg!” Ann was shocked at the letter’s reference to one of her witches. “You broke your vow of confidentiality and shared particulars of the Crossroads with other witches!”

“She did what she thought was best, Ann,” I said, wanting to avoid any further mention of bloodcraft. “Given that the witches refer to the coven in their message, I wondered if you would be willing to request a change of venue and date, so that the twins and I could be examined here, at Ravenswood.”

Ann looked to Katrina. “What do you think?”

Katrina scattered a handful of bones on the table. She studied their arrangement. “There’s more to this request than a missing signature on a form.”

“There always is with my family.” I sighed. There was no good way to tell the witches what had happened on Isola della Stella, so I simply blurted out the truth. “I burgled Celestina and took items from the witches’ memory palace.”

“You did what ?” Ann cried.

“Memory bottles?” Katrina asked, intrigued.

“Yes, all of them filled with the recollections of potential adepts when they were examined on Isola della Stella,” I said. “I don’t think the Congregation has a right to keep them.”

I picked up the bubble of blown glass with Meg’s name and number on it. “These are yours.”

Meg’s normally narrowed eyes widened.

“I saw it on the shelf as I was leaving,” I explained. “I’d already taken as many bottles as I could that belonged to my own family. I hope you don’t mind that I took yours as well.”

“You opened it?” Meg said, wary of my gift.

I shook my head. “I thought about it. But they belong to you, just as my memories of the Crossroads belong to me.”

Meg’s cheeks turned red. Her fingers reached for the bottle, brushing against mine.

“How many bottles do the witches keep on Isola della Stella?” Ann asked.

“Hundreds,” I said. “Thousands? I don’t know for sure. Only the chosen few witches who sit at the Congregation table ever have a chance to see them. I think that’s wrong, too.”

“I agree with you,” Ann said, her voice rough. “Meg? Katrina?”

“Agreed,” Katrina said promptly.

It took Meg a little longer to decide. Finally, she nodded.

Ann looked relieved. “Let me run it by Hitty first, but if she gives me the go-ahead I’d like to put it to the membership soon.”

“How soon?” Gwyneth asked.

“So long as Hitty doesn’t rule it out, I suspect she’ll let me conduct a vote via the phone tree. Once they’ve heard the specifics of the situation, I have no doubt that the membership will decide that it’s in our collective interest for the examination to take place here in Ipswich, where Diana’s home coven can be available for support if necessary.”

“Home coven?” I repeated blankly. “I’m a visitor.”

“Are you?” Gwyneth asked.

This was another decision that I needed to make myself, without asking Matthew to weigh in on the matter.

“No,” I said softly. “I’m not a visitor. But I’m not a member of the Ipswich coven, either.”

“You will be if you want me to write this letter to the Congregation,” Ann said sharply.