Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I moved to one of the deep chairs by the fireplace, my feet on the brass fender that surrounded the hearth, as I reexamined the pencil drawing—accurate to the last detail—depicting the events of this afternoon. The aged card, the note from Gwyneth, and the official missive from the Congregation rested in a pile on my lap.

“Who drew that?” Becca had come to look over my shoulder, silent as a panther and curious as a cat.

“I don’t know,” I replied, making room for her in my lap. Becca climbed up and rested in the hollow of my arms. “I think it might have been one of Grandpa Stephen’s relatives.”

Becca’s fingers reached out for the drawing, and I gave it to her so she could take a closer look. She held the edges carefully. Phoebe had been teaching the twins to treat priceless objects with respect, and while Pip could still be dangerously exuberant with a piece of porcelain, Becca was an excellent pupil.

“That’s your ring,” Becca said, “the one that Gammer Ysabeau gave you.”

I nodded, my cheek sliding along Becca’s smooth hair.

“I’m going to draw the next thing that happened,” Becca said, hopping down and returning to the table and her coloring supplies.

I returned to the playing card. It was old, based on the thick, rough card stock that had once been white but was now a mellow ivory tinged with amber. The walker’s clothing was from the seventeenth century, and the high-flying feather in his cap indicated the image dated from the reign of Charles I or Charles II, as did the lace-trimmed cuffs and collar. The glue that held the image to the card was brittle and yellowed. The item gave off a homemade air, as though someone had been doing a craft project between 1629 and 1685 with scissors, a glue pot, and a pile of old playing cards and pamphlets.

As for the significance of the card itself, I wasn’t sure. Was this a one-off image, something intended to be kept in a document box or between the pages of a book and mounted to card stock for durability? Did the hexafoil signify the curious card was a magical talisman of some kind? Or did it belong to a larger deck?

I found myself wanting to follow the solitary walker to his unknown destination as though the answers might be found at the end of the road. Though his route was not signposted, my feet itched to step into the prints made by his heavy soles and match his progress stride for stride.

Go home, the walker seemed to say, urging me to accept Gwyneth’s invitation. There are answers there.

I studied the card as if it were one of my alchemical manuscripts, hunting for anything I might have overlooked. I spotted a faded letter, and another. There was a faded number, too, along the top margin. I picked up my cellphone and took a photograph, then fiddled with the settings until a negative version of the card appeared on the small screen. This was a trick I’d learned in the archives, and it often saved me from having to reserve time with the ultraviolet light that revealed faded or obliterated writing.

Happily, the trick worked. With the help of magnification and a few more tweaks I was able to read the old inscriptions. Written in a copperplate from around 1700 were the words The Dark Path and the number 47.

Puzzled, I sat back against the chair’s plump cushions. Playing card decks had fifty-two cards, but not a card titled The Dark Path — nor were they usually numbered above ten. Tarot decks had seventy-eight cards, but only the first twenty-two cards of the major arcana were numbered sequentially. As this was numbered 47, the card couldn’t be from a tarot deck, either.

Before I could take my thinking any further, the doorbell clanged. Then the door banged open.

Pip was home. Whether the house was empty or full, whether he was with a creature holding a key or not, Pip couldn’t resist turning the crank of Marcus’s doorbell, which released a blare of tinny sound capable of raising the dead. A low murmur of voices followed, then Ardwinna’s sharp bark and Apollo’s answering chortle as the animals raced to meet the new arrivals.

“Hi, Mom!” Pip bellowed. “We’re home!”

“Daddy!” Becca’s voice was loud and piercing as she left the table to follow the dog and griffin. “Did you see the dead raven?”

“Yes, moonbeam. Where’s your mother?” Matthew replied from somewhere in the middle of the house.

“She’s in the library.” It was Becca’s turn to shout. “Mom! Daddy’s home. Pip, too. And Uncle Chris and Aunt Miriam!”

“Hey, Diana!” Chris called. “I’d like to give those witches on the Congregation something really scary to worry about—a pissed-off godfather!”

“Where is it?” Matthew asked from the library threshold. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing like Becca’s, stood up in agitated patches and his brows were dangerously low over his gray-green eyes.

I picked up the Congregation’s letter from the nearby table and extended it to him.

Matthew knelt by my chair, searching my face for signs of distress.

“We will figure this out, mon coeur, ” he said, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing it into his cool flesh. “You will not have to spellbind the children. We can go to Sept-Tours, rather than the Old Lodge. No one will disturb us there, and Baldwin and Fernando will have something to say to the Congregation about the fate of our children. We’ll be safe.”

My parents had thought I’d be safe in Madison with Sarah, and I had been—for a time.

I wanted more than temporary security for Becca and Pip.

“What happened to that raven?” Chris asked, arriving a few steps behind Matthew.

Pip shot past him to give me a kiss. Becca was right on her brother’s heels, headed toward the library table.

“It was bringing me a message, Uncle Chris, and then it hit the pavement. See!” Becca waved the pencil drawing from Gwyneth Proctor and her own drawing of a flat raven outlined in vivid red. “Mommy said it was an accident. I’m not sure, though. I should have asked her friend.”

“Wait.” Chris performed an Oscar-worthy double take. “You got a message from a bird? Are you enrolled in a school of witchcraft and wizardry now?”

“That was an owl, Uncle Chris,” Becca replied. “This message came from a raven.”

But the message was not the only thing the ravens had brought to New Haven. They’d brought Becca a ring, too. I was surprised to see it was no longer on her finger, given how tightly it had clung to her skin earlier. Where had it gone?

“Were you expecting a message from the dead, Diana?” Miriam asked, slipping into the room at her usual, unhurried pace. She was an ancient vampire, and capable of great speed, but she was temperamentally averse to haste. “That’s what ravens usually carry.”

“No,” I muttered under my breath, “but I got one anyway.”

My quiet words captured the full attention of the adults.

“We got several messages today,” I explained. “One from Venice, one from the raven, and one from the Proctors.”

“The Proctors?” Matthew’s face went blank as he processed this revelation. “I thought all of your nearest relations were dead?”

“So did I.” Sarah had told me so, repeatedly.

“Three messages,” Miriam said thoughtfully. “All of them magical. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“My aunt Hortense swore that bad things come in threes,” Chris said, his voice ominous.

“So do Newton’s laws of motion,” I said, wanting to squash this superstitious talk as quickly as possible.

“Pigs, too,” Pip chimed in, presenting evidence from his own area of expertise. “And bears. And French hens.”

“And musketeers,” Becca added, a piece of paper in each hand. She charged at her father.

“Careful, Becca!” I cried, afraid she might damage the delicate drawing. I rose to my feet, and the old playing card tumbled to the floor along with Gwyneth’s note.

Matthew’s eyes fixed on the fallen items. “What are they?”

“A message from my great-aunt Gwyneth Proctor. She’d like me to come home.” My voice was even as I made the startling announcement.

Matthew’s eyes met mine, storm-dark and gleaming. I picked up the cards and handed them to my husband.

“Home?” Chris said. “You are home.”

“Gwyneth’s home. In Ipswich,” I said, my gaze not wavering from Matthew as he studied my great-aunt’s message, though my voice broke on the word home. “A place called Ravenswood.”

“What about the Congregation?” Chris asked with a frown. “Shouldn’t you be going to Venice?”

“What about England?” Pip cried, horrified at the prospect of a change to his careful summer plans.

“What about me?” Becca demanded. “The ravens said I needed to go home, too.”

“Nothing’s decided,” I said lightly, even though I was fully committed to going to Massachusetts. “Let’s talk about it after dinner. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry. Who needs a glass of wine?”

The twins, distracted by the prospect of a warm meal, took charge of Tamsy and the animals and led the way to the kitchen. Chris and Miriam lingered behind in the library, as did Matthew.

“Ipswich?” Matthew’s eyebrows rose. “You’re going to Boston’s North Shore on the basis of a six-word note from a great-aunt you’ve never met?”

But it was more than that, and he knewit.

“After dinner,” I promised. “We can talk about it after dinner.”

Once we were all gathered in the kitchen, everybody took up their usual Friday-night dinner responsibilities. It was a tradition for us to come together at the end of the week and have a family meal. While Matthew prepared the food, the rest of us fed the animals, cleared off the table, turned on the speaker to listen to one of Chris’s playlists, and set six places with all the plates, cutlery, napkins, and glassware necessary to cater to a hungry mob. Becca plopped Tamsy in her high chair, and the doll surveyed the whirl of activity around her with the superior attitude of an aristocrat watching servants at work.

Around the doll’s neck, suspended from the coral beads that she had come to us with, was the missing bone ring. Praying that no one would ask questions about this fresh addition to Tamsy’s wardrobe, I poured a healthy slug of wine for each of the adults and took a gulp of my own to steady my nerves.

Soon, the comforting scent of cassoulet filled the kitchen. Matthew had been making pots of hearty French food once or twice a week all semester and feeding me and the children out of them one ladleful at a time. Ratatouille, potée auvergnate, beef and chicken stewed in wine—each one was delicious and different. Chris had started calling Matthew Julia and had arrived for one of our Friday-night suppers with a ruffled apron and a block of butter instead of his usual offering of wine and flowers.

We got through Matthew’s delicious concoction—which Pip accurately called fart stew —and two bottles of red wine without incident, except for a few petty squabbles about portion size, the amount of French mustard Pip wanted spooned into his dish, Becca’s desire for a slug of the blood she still liked to drink on special occasions, and one very loud expression of gas from the direction of the twins. Becca and Pip kept up an endless stream of lighthearted chatter and shared important neighborhood news, such as the arrival of kittens at the house on the corner, and all we adults had to do was follow their lead. Matthew drank a whole bottle of Burgundy himself.

By the time I served ice cream and espressos for dessert, my husband was casting hard, speculative glances in my direction, his patience now exhausted. Once the bowls and tiny cups were empty, I tried to hustle the children upstairs to bed so that we didn’t argue in front of them. Something told me Matthew wasn’t going to be amenable to the plan I’d cobbled together over dinner.

“I can’t go to bed yet, Mommy,” Becca protested, carrying her empty bowl to the dishwasher. “I have to take care of the raven first.”

“Your father will do it,” I said, making sure that Ardwinna had fresh water and one of the deep sinks was partially filled so that Apollo could give himself his nightly bath.

“No!” Becca’s sharp cry was fueled by a surfeit of sugar. “I have to do it, Mom. I promised the raven’s friend that I would bury her.”

I put my hands on my hips, trying to judge my daughter’s level of commitment to this lunacy.

“And your maman knows that our word is a solemn oath,” Matthew said, rising from his chair and swinging his long-legged daughter into the air before setting her down, light as a feather. “Let’s do it properly, oui ?”

“ Oui, ” Becca said gravely.

“Can I come?” Pip asked his sister. “Cuthbert, too?” The battered blue rabbit with the long ears was already tucked into his elbow.

Becca considered her brother’s request. “I think that would be okay.”

“Mind if I tag along? I’ve never been to a raven funeral before,” Chris said.

“The funeral already happened, Uncle Chris. The other ravens took care of that. This is just the burial,” Becca explained. “Ravens don’t have hands. They needed my help with the shovel.”

“Oh.” Chris looked at Matthew and me, his eyebrows lifted. “Point noted.”

“And me?” Miriam asked, though she knew the answer already, for Becca never refused the ancient vampire anything. Like Phoebe, Miriam was one of Becca’s role models and close confidantes.

“Are you coming, Mommy?” Becca stopped by the door to the backyard. “You were there for the funeral, so it’s okay if it’s too hard for you to say goodbye again.”

“I think I’ll just stay behind and clear up the kitchen,” I said, mindful of all that would need to be done if I went to Ravenswood tomorrow. “You go ahead. But it’s straight up to bed after that.”

“Yes, Mom,” the twins intoned in unison.

While washing the dishes, I kept my eye on the proceedings outside. In the garden shed, Matthew and Becca found a suitable shovel to scrape the raven’s remains off the pavement.

Miriam conferred with Becca about where the bird should be buried, and after much deliberation they decided on a spot under the canopy of the majestic tree outside the library window. It was one of the few specimens to have made it through the blight of Dutch elm disease, and my neighbors told me that in case of fire I should let the house burn and save the tree instead.

Miriam and Chris dug a hole for the bird while Matthew, Becca, and Pip went off to the front yard to retrieve the corpse. When the three of them returned, Becca led the burial cortege, carefully holding the shovel with the raven before her. Pip, in charge of Cuthbert and Tamsy, followed in the role of chief mourner. Matthew brought up the rear of the procession, his hands folded before his heart in a gesture of prayer.

Apollo, sensing that a ritual was afoot involving another winged creature, pecked at the doorknob. I let him and Ardwinna out and stood by the open door, watching as Becca came to a halt under the elm’s spreading limbs.

“Bye-bye, black bird,” Rebecca said sorrowfully, standing next to the shallow grave. She tipped the shovel and the bird tumbled into the hole, its body stiff and its feathers gleaming. “I’ll visit you when we get back. Sweet dreams.”

Our daughter had managed to organize a touching memorial in a matter of minutes using a combination of one of her favorite songs, a promise, and a few words from our family’s nighttime ritual. My eyes filled at Becca’s empathy for the dead bird, and her determination to give the creature a proper send-off.

“ Pack up all my cares and woe, ” Chris sang in his rich bass, picking up on the mood of the ceremony as well as a snatch of the same song Becca had woven into her goodbye. “ Here I go, wingin’ low. Bye, bye, blackbird. ”

“ Where somebody waits for me, Sugar’s sweet, so is she. ” Miriam joined in, her pure soprano soaring above Chris’s resonant tones. “ Bye, bye, blackbird. ”

“ Make my bed and light the light, I’ll arrive late tonight. ” Matthew added his voice to the choir on the next lines, providing a baritone note. He rested his hand lightly on Becca’s bowed head. “ Blackbird, bye, bye. ”

I dashed a tear from my cheek. In the silence that followed, a few early fireflies flickered in the garden as if they, too, wanted to contribute to the occasion.

“Here, Becca.” Pip handed Tamsy to his sister for emotional support.

Becca buried her face in the doll’s streaming red hair, her sniffs audible in the quiet.

Chris and Miriam shoveled earth over the raven as the others watched. Once the bird was encased in its tomb, everyone waited for Becca to signal that she was ready togo.

“It’s okay now.” Becca took a deep breath and waved at the small mound of freshly turned earth. “Bye-bye, black bird. See you soon.”

I stood aside as the burial party reentered the house, unexpectedly moved by the poignant sight of a raven being put to rest.

—

“My plan makes perfect sense,” I told Matthew, once we’d tucked the children in, read the obligatory bedtime stories, and returned to the library to join Miriam and Chris. “You’ll take the children to England—or Sept-Tours if you’d rather. I’ll go to Ravenswood to meet Gwyneth Proctor. She must know something about why the ravens came. Then I’ll go straight to Venice to tell the Congregation to leave our children alone. I’ll join you at the Old Lodge as soon as I can.”

Chris put down his glass of bourbon and looked at me in disbelief. Miriam paused in her efforts to remove the cork from a bottle of Vouvray. The pair exchanged glances, then voiced their opposition to this cockamamie plan. Matthew crossed his arms, leaned against the library fireplace, and gave me the latest in a series of uncomfortable stares.

“Exactly what happened here today that’s made you rethink our summer plans?” Matthew asked. “Not to mention abandoning your research proposal, and the countdown to departure that you started back in April?”

“Let’s see.” I put down my wineglass, the impact making a dull thud on the table. “A swarm of ravens descended on the house, one of them died, Becca talked to another, we got a letter from the Congregation, and I received a picture and a playing card from a branch of my family tree I thought had died out! Call me crazy, but I think a change of vacation plans may be in order!”

“You mean a conspiracy of ravens,” Miriam said. “It’s an omen, clearly. Where’s the picture?”

Matthew held it up and Miriam took it from his fingers.

“What kind of omen?” I asked, worried. Miriam had been born back in the days when consulting auguries was part of daily life. Dead birds couldn’t signify anything good, but an omen was on an entirely different level.

“The kind that comes wrapped in a prophecy.” Miriam pointed to the date the picture had been drawn. “This says 1972—almost half a century ago. But the ravens didn’t come until today.”

“It says Rebecca and Diana on the back,” I said. “I would have thought it was a picture of Mom and me, except for Ysabeau’s ring.”

“So it’s a double prophecy,” Miriam commented. “You weren’t born until 1976. Someone with the initials MFP foresaw it all: your birth, and Becca’s, Matthew, and the ravens, too.”

“Whoever it was, I’m guessing that P stands for Proctor,” I said. “A close relative of Gwyneth’s perhaps?”

“How is it possible you know so little about your father’s family?” Miriam asked me in disbelief. “Weren’t you ever curious?”

This question troubled me, too, and my voice took on a defensive edge.

“The Proctors were never part of my life. We never spent any holidays with them before my parents died—or afterward, either. I don’t remember there being any Proctors at the memorial service we had for Mom and Dad,” I replied. “Dad never mentioned his family, so I suppose I never questioned their absence. Sarah said the only Proctors left were far-distant cousins.”

“Families aren’t always reliable when it comes to their own history,” Matthew said. “Perhaps this isn’t the first time one of your father’s kin reached out to you. Previous attempts might have been met with silence.”

“I’m sure neither Gwyneth nor any other Proctor ever tried to contact me.” To believe otherwise would mean that Sarah and Emily had been keeping another huge secret from me while I was growingup.

Though I sounded certain, a memory niggled at the edge of an oubliette left by my parents’ spellbinding. Had Em mentioned the Proctors, once upon a time? Before I could chase down the elusive thought, Matthew spoke.

“When, exactly, did Rebecca talk to the raven?” The look Matthew gave me was not gentle like snowflakes but as penetrating as a falling icicle.

“After the world turned gray and the other raven plummeted to the pavement,” I replied, supplying additional details of the encounter. “When the bird bled out, the color returned to the world. All the ravens settled in the trees—except the one who delivered the message to Becca. I think he was their leader.”

I’d never witnessed our daughter talk to birds before, but she had so many imaginary friends I might have missed it. The sight of that single raven, hopping along the path toward her, kindled another spark of curiosity. Why had Becca been able to communicate with the bird, when I could not?

“So magic was already at work when Rebecca made her oath.” Matthew swore and sat besideme.

“What kind of magic?” Miriam asked.

“I’m not sure.” My left hand tingled and I shoved it under my thigh. “But the ravens were caught up in it. They sang the most mournful song after Becca spoke with their leader. It was like nothing I’ve heard before. The whole swarm—”

“Conspiracy,” Miriam correctedme. “Or an unkindness, if you prefer.”

“—unkindness behaved as though a family member had died,” I finished. “Becca said that the raven who spoke with her was the dead bird’s friend.”

“Did you ever observe this kind of behavior in your research, Matthew?” Miriam asked.

My husband had done research on wolves, not birds. Confused, I waited for his response.

“Ravens form mating pairs, just like vampires and wolves,” Matthew replied. “They grieve when their mate is gone, and their social group often participates in the mourning. In Norway, I witnessed wolves howling along to the ravens’ lament when a member of their group passed.”

I frowned. “You make it sound like ravens and wolves have some kind of relationship.”

“They work together in the wild,” Matthew said, nodding. “They play together, help each other locate prey, and even share kills. It’s an unusual example of cross-species cooperation.”

“Speaking of which,” Chris said, “we’ll need that spirit of teamwork to take on the Congregation. They’re coming to test Becca and Pip—dead raven or not. Maybe we should focus on that and not some spooky omen!”

“What if they’re connected?” I asked. Even a human like Chris had to see that the whole of the afternoon’s events was far greater than the sum of its parts.

“Maybe they are,” Chris conceded, “but right now I think we should work on a greater level of trust between the vampires, witches, and humans in this room. And I’d like some credit as a prophet myself. I knew something like this was going to happen—not that any of you listened to me.”

Miriam shook her head in warning, but Chris plowedon.

“We can’t let anyone, and especially not the Congregation, learn something about Becca and Pip that we haven’t already discovered and come to terms with,” he continued, becoming more forceful with every word. “It’s long past time to run genetic tests on them, and get a sense of what powers and abilities the twins might have inherited before somebody else beats us to it.”

“We’ve been over this, Chris.” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but the dark vein in his temple was ticking dangerously. “Diana and I want Rebecca and Philip to develop their talents and skills naturally—without laboratory findings shaping our ideas about what they might become.”

Chris flung his hands up in exasperation. “You may not have noticed, Matthew, but there are a lot of smart, observant humans in New Haven. They know you and Diana are different, even if they can’t articulate how. Pip grew an inch in the past month, and Becca is well on her way to mastering trigonometry. You can’t keep the twins inside the Addams family mansion until they’re eighteen, hoping nobody picks up on their advanced development.”

Not only did Chris watch a lot of television, he wasn’t fond of Marcus’s house.

“Pip and Rebecca go to school,” I pointed out, defensive at the notion that the twins were housebound.

“You think Maria Montessori is going to make them appear like average folk?” Chris snorted.

“It’s a Waldorf school, actually,” I said, gritting my teeth. “We felt that the focus on developing curiosity and channeling the imagination was a better fit for Becca and Pip.”

“Pip has a pet griffin, D,” Chris said. “And Becca is turning into some combination of Alan Turing and Dr. Doolittle. I don’t think you have to worry about their imaginations.”

“With respect, Christopher,” Matthew said, “this is really none of your business.”

“With respect, Matthew, that is utter bullshit,” Chris replied, his voice rising. “Miriam and I are their godparents.”

Along with half of the family. Still, Chris and Miriam had sworn to protect and defend the children. They had a right to speak their minds when it came to ensuring the best possible futures for them.

“We are not testing the children now.” Matthew’s tone said do not press your luck. “When they are eighteen, they can decide for themselves if—and when—they want to be research subjects.”

“And the Congregation has agreed to your schedule?” Miriam asked pointedly. “Because I’m with Chris on this. It’s time we knew the truth.”

Matthew sipped his wine rather than responding.

My glance fell on the old bar cabinet where we’d arranged a group of family photos. A picture of Ysabeau and Philippe during happy times at the 1924 Paris Olympics shared the space with a snapshot of my parents’ wedding. My maternal grandparents hovered in the background, beaming with joy. There was a marvelous picture of Phoebe throwing her wedding bouquet into a crowd of well-wishers gathered in Freyja’s garden, a laughing Marcus by her side. Several photos of Sarah and Em were there, too, along with a photo of Jack and Fernando, wreathed in smiles, on a beach in Portugal. And there were pictures of the twins as well, captured in the active, happy moments of early childhood: Pip’s first tricycle ride, a trip to a farm to meet the animals, Becca and I playing patty-cake, Matthew reading them a bedtime story.

My father was the only representative of the Proctor family among the photos. He’d never explained why his parents weren’t in any of their wedding pictures, and I’d later assumed they must have been dead by the time he and Mom got married. When I was old enough to ask questions, my father, too, was dead. My great-aunt Gwyneth must have known where to find me for some time, but she hadn’t reached out until now. Some intricate plan was unfolding, and though Gwyneth might not have been the architect of it, she was somehow instrumental to its workings.

“Gwyneth Proctor is the key to all of this,” I said, half to myself. “It’s her message that matters. She knew that the ravens were headed this way. She must have known about the Congregation, too. My great-aunt has more to divulge, or she wouldn’t have invited me to Ravenswood.”

“A Proctor relative would be a godsend, genetically,” Chris said, pitched forward in excitement. “Her blood could answer so many questions about the kids’ DNA.”

“Not now, Chris,” Miriam warned, putting a restraining hand on his knee. Nevertheless, he persisted.

“And it would shed light on the gray areas in Diana’s genome that we still don’t understand.” Chris’s excitement mounted at the prospect of even more DNA findings. “Gwyneth can’t be the only Proctor in Ipswich. There must be more. Can I come with you?”

The thought of arriving at Ravenswood with a bucket of cheek swabs and Chris Roberts in tow was too much.

“No one is going with me,” I said firmly. “Gwyneth invited me to Ravenswood. Whatever she has to say, it’s a family matter. She isn’t likely to share it with others listening in on the conversation.”

“ We are going to Ipswich with you,” Matthew said grimly.

Chris gave Matthew a high five.

“Not you,” Matthew said sternly, dashing Chris’s hopes. “Rebecca, Philip, and I will go. This supposed relative could be luring you into a trap.”

Supposed relative? Trap?

“There’s no vast conspiracy of creatures impersonating members of my family,” I said, taking on the first of Matthew’s absurd comments. “Gwyneth Proctor must be in her nineties. I doubt she’s sprinkling a bag of breadcrumbs between Connecticut and Massachusetts to lure me into some malicious web.”

Matthew’s expression told me that he wouldn’t put anything past Gwyneth Proctor. I smothered a frustrated reply.

“You have to put the twins first, Matthew,” I said, conviction making my voice rise. “And if you won’t go to England without me, that means staying here, in New Haven. The twins shouldn’t be anywhere near Ravenswood until we know more.”

“She’s right, Matthew.” Miriam was an unexpected, but welcome, ally.

“I won’t be long,” I said more gently. “A few days at most.”

“Very well,” Matthew said reluctantly. “I’ll stay here with the children while you interrogate Gwyneth Proctor.”

Matthew was making it sound like a military operation, not a family reunion.

“But you must promise me you’ll leave immediately if you sense something is wrong, and stay in touch while you’re there. We’ll decide what to do about the Congregation and our summer plans when you get back,” he continued.

It’s time you came home. Gwyneth’s strange invitation whispered through my mind.

I didn’t know where the road to Ipswich would take me, or what I would find once I arrived. But I was eager to follow the mysterious walker in his plumed hat and buckled shoes.

“I won’t be gone long,” I repeated to reassure him. “Just until Monday or Tuesday, at the latest. I pro—”

Matthew silenced me with a glance. “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep, ma lionne. ”

—

That night, under the dark of the moon, I made promises with my body that Matthew was not willing—or able—to silence. With every gentle touch and press of my lips to his flesh, I promised more.

More intimacy, free from secrets kept too long.

More trust, free from the fear that made life feel impossible.

More love, unimaginably more love, to fill the remaining days we would share.

Matthew responded to my promises with his own.

That not even deeply hidden secrets would threaten our love.

That nothing was impossible, so long as we faced the challenge together.

That nothing would keep us from living every moment to the fullest.

The moonless night wrapped us in velvet when we were at last sated and at peace. I stole into Matthew’s arms, stretched along the length of him. My husband’s familiar contours were comforting in their coolness, accustomed as I was to the temperature of a vampire’s body.

“I won’t be gone long,” I murmured once more, pressing another kiss into the muscles over his heart.

Matthew didn’t say a word but gathered me closer as I fell into a dream-filled sleep.