Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)

by Deborah Harkness

No matter what Matthew said, there was nothing ordinary about them. The School of Night held heretical opinions, sneered at the corrupt court of Queen Elizabeth, and scoffed at the intellectual pretensions of church and university. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know” described this group perfectly. We hadn’t joined a cozy reunion of friends on Halloween night. We’d fallen into a hornet’s nest of Elizabethan intrigue.

No one could fathom why our father had decided to give the Order of Lazarus to me instead. Perhaps it was his final act of madness.” “It was faith,” I said softly, reaching down and lacing my fingers through his. “Philippe believes in you. So do I. These hands built this church. They were strong enough to hold your son and your father during their final moments on this earth. And they still have work to do.” High above there was a beating of wings. A dove had flown through the clerestory windows and lost its way among the exposed roof beams. It struggled, freed itself, and swooped down into the church. The dove landed on the stone that marked the final resting place of Blanca and Lucas and moved its feet in a deliberate circular dance until it faced Matthew and me. Then it cocked its head and studied us with one blue eye.

“It’s a sign of resurrection and hope. Witches believe in signs, you know.”

Marrying amid bloodshed is a de Clermont family tradition,” Philippe said briskly.

“Mark me well, Diana: Lives will be lost because of your love for my son. Some will sacrifice themselves. Others will die because someone must, and it will be for you to decide if it is you or them or someone you love. So you must ask yourself this: What does it matter who deals the deathblow? If you do not do it, then Matthew will.

“We’re not animals but civilized creatures,” I protested. “We should be able to talk about this and settle our differences without bloodshed.” “Once I sat at a table and talked for three hours with a man—a king. No doubt you and many others would have considered him a civilized creature. At the end of our conversation, he ordered the death of thousands of men, women, and children. Words kill just as swords do.”

“You have found a woman who is worthy of you, with courage and hope to spare, Matthaios.” “I know,” Matthew said, taking my hand. “Know this, too: You are equally worthy of her. Stop regretting your life. Start living it.”

“It has been some time since we had a wedding, and winter is a cheerless time of year. We owe it to the village,” was how Philippe brushed aside our protests. Chef, too, was irritated when Matthew suggested that it wasn’t feasible to produce three last-minute feasts while food stores were running low and Christians practiced abstemiousness. So there was a war on and it was Advent, Chef scoffed. That was no reason to refuse a party.

“When I drove Philippe’s dagger into Champier, all I could think of was that he was going to take my thoughts and memories and I wouldn’t be the same person when I returned to our modern lives. But even if we were to go back right this minute, we would already be different people. All the places we’ve gone, the people I’ve met, the secrets we’ve shared—I’m no longer the same Diana Bishop, and you aren’t the same Matthew Clairmont. A baby would change us even more.” “So you want to prevent pregnancy,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure.” “Then the answer is yes. If you’re not sure you want to be a parent, we must use whatever birth control is available.” Matthew’s voice was firm. And so was his chin. “I do want to be a parent. I’m surprised by how much, if you must know.” I pressed my fingers into my temples. “I like the idea of you and me raising a child. It just feels so soon.” “It is soon. So we’ll do what we must to limit the possibility until—if—you are ready. But don’t get your hopes up. The science is clear, Diana: Vampires reproduce through resurrection, not procreation. Our relationship might be different, but we aren’t so special as to overturn thousands of years of biology.” “The picture of the alchemical wedding from Ashmole 782—it is about us. I know it. And Miriam was right: The next step in the process of alchemical transformation after the marriage of gold and silver is conception.” “Conception?” Philippe drawled from the door. His boots creaked as he pushed a...

“The gods like to surprise us when we grow complacent. It’s their favorite form of entertainment.”

Soon Philippe and I came to a hilltop that was flatter than most of the rounded ridges around Sept-Tours. The ground was punctuated with protrusions of stone that struck me as oddly symmetrical. Though ancient and overgrown with vegetation, these weren’t natural outcroppings. They were man-made. Philippe swung down from his horse and motioned for me to do the same. Once I dismounted, he took me by the elbow and guided me through two of the strange lumps and into a smooth expanse of snow-covered ground. All that marred the pristine surface were the tracks of wildlife—the heart-shaped outline of a deer’s hoof, the five-clawed marks of bear, the combination of triangular and oval pads belonging to a wolf. “What is this place?” I asked, my voice hushed. “A temple dedicated to Diana stood here once, overlooking the woods and valleys where the stags liked to run. Those who revered the goddess planted sacred cypress trees to grow alongside the native oak and alder.” Philippe pointed to the thin columns of green that stood guard around the area. “I wanted to bring you here because when I was a child, far away and before I became a manjasang, brides would go to a temple like this before their wedding and make a sacrifice to the goddess. We called her Artemis then.” “A sacrifice?” My mouth was dry. There had been enough bloodshed. “No matter how much we change, it is important to remember the past and honor it.” Philippe handed me a knife and a bag whose contents shifted and chimed....

“It’s just a story,” Matthew whispered, sensing my unease. But it was the stories that creatures told, over and over without knowing what they meant, that were often the most important, just as it was these time-worn rituals of honor, marriage, and family that people held most sacred even though they often seemed to ignore them.

The target was in front of me, but rather than focus on it I closed my eyes as Matthew suggested. As soon as I did, the weight of the air distracted me. It pressed on my arms, my thighs, and settled like a heavy cloak on my shoulders. The air held the tip of the arrow up, too. I adjusted my stance, shoulders widening as they pushed the air aside. A breeze, a caress of movement, pulled a few strands of hair away from my ear in response. What do you want? I asked the breeze crossly. Your trust, it whispered in reply. My lips parted in astonishment, my mind’s eye opened, and I saw the tip of the arrow burning gold with the heat and pressure that had been beaten into it at the forge. The fire that was trapped there wanted to fly free again, but it would stay where it was unless I let go of my fear. I puffed out a soft exhalation, making room for faith. My breath passed along the arrow’s shaft, and I released the bowstring. Held aloft on my breath, the arrow flew. “I hit it.” My eyes remained closed, but I didn’t need to see to know that my arrow had reached its target.

“Fire was trapped in the arrow, and the weight of the air was wrapped around the shaft and the tip.” I opened my eyes.

“Sometimes it seems like the world is full of invisible potential that is just beyond my grasp. Maybe if I were like Thetis and could shift my shape at will, I would know what to do with it all.”

Tonight was Saturnalia, the official beginning of the holiday season at the château. The ecumenical Philippe wanted no one to feel left out and so gave equal time to Roman and Christian traditions. There was even a strand of Norse Yule running through the mix, which I felt sure could be traced to the absent Gallowglass.

“You two can’t be tired of each other’s company so soon!” Philippe boomed from the minstrels’ gallery when we returned. He was wearing a splendid set of antlers atop his head, making him look like a bizarre combination of lion and stag.

It was impossible to resist the holiday spirit, and when supper rolled around, the two of us volunteered to serve the meal to the guests in a ritual of topsy-turvy that made the servants into lords and the lords their servants. My champion Thomas drew the long straw and presided over the celebrations as the Lord of Misrule. He was seated in Philippe’s place on a stack of cushions, wearing the priceless gold-and-ruby crown from upstairs as though it were a stage prop. Whatever harebrained request Thomas made was granted by Philippe in his role as court fool. His favors this night included a romantic dance with Alain (Matthew’s father opted to take the part of the woman), driving the dogs into a frenzy by playing a whistling flute, and making shadow dragons climb up the wall accompanied by the screams of the children.

The clock was unlike any I’d ever seen before. A carved and gilded cabinet surrounded a water barrel. A long copper pipe stretched up from the barrel and dropped water into the hull of a splendid model ship suspended by a rope wound around a cylinder. As the ship grew incrementally heavier from the weight of the water, the cylinder turned and moved a single hand around a dial on the face of the clock, indicating the time. The whole structure was nearly as tall as I was.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking over my shoulder. “Trying to figure out what Matthew and I have to do with alchemy.” My brain felt fuzzy with disuse and lack of sleep. Philippe dropped a handful of small paper triangles, scrolls, and squares onto the table and pulled up a chair. He pointed to one of my sketches. “This is Matthew’s seal.” “It is. It’s also the symbols for silver and gold, the moon and the sun.” The hall had been decorated with spangled versions of these heavenly bodies for Saturnalia. “I’ve been thinking about it since Monday night. I understand why a witch might be symbolized by the crescent moon and silver—they’re both linked to the goddess. But why would anyone use a sun or gold to denote a vampire?” It went against every bit of popular lore. “Because we are unchanging. Our lives do not wax or wane, and, like gold, our bodies resist corruption from death or disease.” “I should have thought of that.” I made some notes. “You have had a few other things on your mind.” Philippe smiled. “Matthew is very happy.” “Not only because of me,” I said, meeting my father-in-law’s gaze. “Matthew is happy to be with you again.” Shadows scudded through Philippe’s eyes. “Ysabeau and I like it when our children come home. They have their own lives, but it doesn’t make their absence any easier to bear.”

revenge is never an adequate remedy for loss.

He found the picture of the Sun King and the Moon Queen jousting on the back of a lion and a griffin,

“A man like Matthew never frees himself of the shadows completely. But perhaps it is necessary to embrace the darkness in order to love him,” Philippe continued. “‘Do not refuse me because I am dark and shadowed,’” I murmured. “I do not recognize the verse,” Philippe said with a frown. “It’s from that alchemical book I showed you earlier—the Aurora Consurgens.

“You are very like that ring, you know,” Philippe said, tapping his finger on the table. “It was another of Ysabeau’s clever messages.” “She wanted you to know she approved of the marriage,” I said, my thumb reaching for the comforting weight. “No. Ysabeau wanted me to know she approved of you. Like the gold from which it is made, you are steadfast. You hide many secrets within you, just as the bands of the ring hide the poesies from view. But it is the stone that best captures who you are: bright on the surface, fiery within, and impossible to break.” “Oh, I’m breakable,” I said ruefully. “You can shatter a diamond by hitting it with an ordinary hammer, after all.” “I’ve seen the scars Matthew left on you. I suspect there are others, too, though less visible. If you did not fall to pieces then, you will not now.” Philippe rounded the table. He kissed me tenderly on each cheek, and my eyes filled.

I turned to leave, then whirled around and flung my arms around Philippe’s massive shoulders. How could such a man ever be broken? “What is it?” Philippe murmured, taken aback. “You will not be alone either, Philippe de Clermont,” I whispered fiercely. “I’ll find a way to be with you in the darkness, I promise. And when you think the whole world has abandoned you, I’ll be there, holding your hand.” “How could it be otherwise,” Philippe said gently, “when you are in my heart?”

‘On the morning of the Christians’ holy celebration, I said farewell to your son. He is happy at last, mated to a woman who walks in the footsteps of the goddess and is worthy of his love,’”

Fate still has the power to surprise us, bright one. I fear there are difficult times ahead for all of us. I will do what I can, in what time remains to me, to ensure your safety and that of our children and grandchildren, those whose blessings we already enjoy and those as yet unborn.’”

“A long, long time ago, there were rumors about creatures who were different—immortal but powerful, too. Around the time the covenant was first signed, some claimed that a witch gave birth to a baby who wept tears of blood like a vampire. Whenever the child did so, fierce winds blew in from the sea.”

“Time has to adjust—and not in the melodramatic way people think, with wars averted and presidential elections changed. It will be little things, like this note, that pop up here and there.” “Anomalies,” Ysabeau murmured. “Philippe was always looking for anomalies in the world. It is why I still read all the newspapers. It became our habit to look through them each morning.” Her eyes closed against the memory. “He loved the sports section, of course, and read the education columns as well. Philippe was worried about what children would learn in the future. He established fellowships for the study of Greek and philosophy, and he endowed colleges for women. I always thought it strange.”

“But enough of these dark matters. You must keep yourself safe, too, so that you can enjoy the future with them. It has been two days since I reminded you that you hold my heart. I wish that I could do so every moment, so that you do not forget it, or the name of the man who will cherish yours forevermore. Philipos.”

caryatids

herms.

“I’m no longer that man who turned a blind eye to all this suffering—and I don’t want to become him again.”

“All that children need is love, a grown-up to take responsibility for them, and a soft place to land.”

“Is it normal to be frightened and fierce and tender all at once?” “Yes—and thrilled and anxious and sick with dread, too,” he said softly.

Matthew’s touches were feather-light while he tracked the minute changes already taking place in my body. He lingered over each centimeter of tender flesh, but his cool attention increased the ache rather than soothing it. Every kiss was as knotted and complex as our feelings about sharing a child. At the same time, the words he whispered in the darkness encouraged me to focus solely on him.

In the candlelit darkness of Christmas morning, I felt the quiet power that came from sharing our love with another creature. No longer a solitary meteor moving through space and time, I was now part of a complicated planetary system. I needed to learn how to keep my own center of gravity while being pulled this way and that by bodies larger and more powerful than I was.

My time with my mother had been too short, but in seven years she had taught me plenty. I remembered her unconditional love, the hugs that seemed to encompass days, and how she was always right where I needed her to be. It was as Matthew said: Children needed love, a reliable source of comfort, and an adult willing to take responsibility for them. It was time to stop treating our sojourn here as an advanced seminar in Shakespeare’s England and recognize it instead as my last, best chance to figure out who I was, so that I could help my child understand his place in the world. But first I needed to find a witch.

“Seven weeks would be fine,” Matthew said, lost in his own thoughts. “Oh, well, that’s good. I’d hate to feel rushed when it comes to something as important as figuring out who I am.” I strode toward him. “Diana, that’s not—” We were standing nose to nose now. “I don’t have a chance of being a good mother without knowing more about the power in my blood.” “This isn’t good—” “Don’t you dare say this isn’t good for the baby. I’m not some vessel.” My temper was at full boil now. “First it was my blood you wanted for your scientific experiments, and now it’s this baby.” Matthew, damn him, stood quietly by, arms crossed and gray eyes hard. “Well?” I demanded. “Well what? Apparently my participation in this conversation isn’t required. You’re already finishing my sentences. You might as well start them, too.” “This has nothing to do with my hormones,” I said. Belatedly it occurred to me that this statement alone was probably evidence to the contrary. “That hadn’t occurred to me until you mentioned it.” “That’s not what it sounded like.” His eyebrow rose. “I’m the same person I was three days ago. Pregnancy isn’t a pathological condition, and it doesn’t eliminate our reasons for being here. We haven’t even had a proper chance to look for Ashmole 782.” “Ashmole 782?” Matthew made an impatient sound. “Everything has changed, and you are not the same person. We can’t keep this pregnancy a secret indefinitely. In a matter of days, every vampire will be able to smell the changes in yo...

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Goody Alsop said, holding up one hand. “Diana has not yet made her weaver’s forspell.” “Forspell?” I asked. Like gatherings and the Rede, this was not a term I knew. “A forspell reveals the shape of a weaver’s talents. Together we will form a blessed circle. There we will temporarily turn your powers loose to find their own way, unencumbered by words or desires,” Goody Alsop replied. “It will tell us much about your talents and what we must do to train them, as well as reveal your familiar.” “Witches don’t have familiars.” This was another human conceit, like worshipping the devil. “Weavers do,” Goody Alsop said serenely, motioning toward her fetch. “This is mine. Like all familiars, she is an extension of my talents.”

“I’m not sure having a familiar is such a good idea in my case,” I said, thinking about the blackened quinces, Mary’s shoes, and the chick. “I have enough to worry about.” “That is the reason you cast a forspell—to face your deepest fears so that you can work your magic freely. Still, it can be a harrowing experience. There have been weavers who entered the circle with hair the color of a raven’s wing and left it with tresses as white as snow,” Goody Alsop admitted.

“But it will not be as heartbreaking as the night the wearh left Diana and the waters rose in her,” Elizabeth said softly. “Or as lonely as the night she was closed in the earth,” Susanna said with a shiver. Marjorie nodded sympathetically. “Or as frightening as the time the firewitch tried to open you,” Catherine assured me, her fingers turning orange with fury. “The moon will be full dark on Friday. Candlemas is but a few weeks away. And we are entering a period that is propitious for spells inclining children towa...

“It’s not just creatures who emit a scent, Mistress Roydon. Did you know that secrets have their own distinct odor?”

“Witches can tell when someone lies. Wearhs can smell a secret like a hound can scent a deer. I will run your secret to ground, Mistress Roydon, no matter how you try to conceal it.”

“Hubbard touched you on the wrist. Only the wrist. Do you know why?” “Because he was trying to get my attention,” I said. “No. He was trying to capture mine. Your pulse is here,” Matthew said, his thumb sweeping over the vein. I shivered. “The blood is so close to the surface that I can see it as well as smell it. Its heat magnifies any foreign scent placed there.” His fingers circled my wrist like a bracelet. “Where was Françoise?”

“And once Sarah and Em hear they’re going to be aunts, you’ll have no problem getting them to give you a blood sample—or to babysit. They both have bad cases of granny lust and have been borrowing the neighbors’ children for years to satisfy it.” That conjured a smile at last.

A silver tree grew from a small seed in the bottom of the flask. Branches had sprouted from the trunk, forking out and filling the top of the vessel with glittering strands. Tiny beads at the ends of the branches suggested fruit, as though the tree were ripe and ready for harvesting. “The arbor Dianæ,” Mary said proudly. “It is as though God inspired me to make it so that it would be here to welcome you. I have tried to grow the tree before, but it has never taken root. No one could see such a thing and doubt the truth and power of the alchemical art.” Diana’s tree was a sight to behold. It gleamed and grew before my eyes, sending out new shoots to fill the remaining space in the vessel. Knowing that it was nothing more than a dendritic amalgam of crystallized silver did little to diminish my wonder at seeing a lump of metal go through what looked like a vegetative process. On the wall opposite, a dragon sat over a vessel similar to the one Mary had used to house the arbor Dianæ. The dragon held his tail in his mouth, and drops of his blood fell into the silvery liquid below. I sought out the next image in the series: the bird of Hermes who flew toward the chemical marriage. The bird reminded me of the illustration of the wedding from Ashmole 782.

Each of the witches of the Garlickhythe gathering brought a unique broom with her to Goody Alsop’s house. Marjorie’s was fashioned from a cherry branch. At the top of the staff, someone had carved glyphs and symbols. Instead of the usual bristles, Marjorie had tied dried herbs and twigs to the bottom where the central limb forked into thinner branches. She told me that the herbs were important to her magic—agrimony to break enchantments, lacy feverfew with the white-and-yellow flowers still attached for protection, the sturdy stems of rosemary with their glaucous leaves for purification and clarity. Susanna’s broom was made from elm, which was symbolic of the phases of life from birth to death and related to her profession as a midwife. So, too, were the plants tied to the staff: the fleshy green leaves of adder’s tongue for healing, boneset’s frothy white flower heads for protection, the spiky leaves of groundsel for good health.

“To be a weaver is to be tied to the world around you and see it in strands and hues. While some ties fetter your magic, others yoke the power in your blood to the four elements and the great mysteries that lie beyond them. Weavers learn how to release the ties that bind and use the rest.”

The strands of magic—all those threads of power that I could borrow but not hold—crept back toward me as if they were made of iron filings and I were a magnet.