Book two of The ALL SOULS trilogy, by Deborah Harkness (a summary by Pat Evert)
- Part I – Woodstock: The Old Lodge
After journeying so far into Matthew’s past, my body felt as though it might come apart with a puff of wind. Even in 1590 the Old Lodge was familiar to him. For the first time in my life, I was absolutely delighted to be a witch. As a historian I studied the past. Because I was a witch, I could actually visit it. We had come to 1590 to school me in the lost arts of magic, yet there was so much more that I could learn here. “Diana, this is my dear friend Christopher Marlowe.” Marlowe was indeed in love with my husband. The witch within me had awakened during our journey to the past. There was no telling what other magic had been unleashed. I thumped Matthew’s chest. “For not telling me who your friends are! The great playwright Christopher Marlowe. George Chapman, poet and scholar. Mathematician and astronomer Thomas Harriot, if I’m not mistaken. And the Wizard Earl is waiting downstairs!” This legendary group of radicals, philosophers, and free-thinkers. “Just who are you, Matthew?” Matthew Roydon was the most shadowy figure associated with the mysterious School of Night. 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. We’d fallen into a hornet’s nest of Elizabethan intrigue. “We’re here for only two reasons, Diana: to find you a teacher and to locate that alchemical manuscript if we can.” Matthew had thought it would be wiser to locate Ashmole 782 in the past than to try to unlock the spell for a second time in the modern world.
We soon met two more of Matthew’s friends; Henry Percy and Walter Raleigh. Raleigh was Matthew’s equal—in intelligence, power, perhaps even in ruthlessness. “You keep too many secrets and have too many enemies to take a wife. And yet you’ve done so anyway.” Walter looked amazed. “Diana is from the New World.” Matthew paused, “From the New World to come.” “My magic, and my family’s long history with it, meant nothing to me. You must understand what it is like to want to go beyond the restrictions of your birth.” “Diana may not have been trained in the craft of a witch, but she is far from ignorant. She is a scholar, too.” Matthew said proudly, “with a passion for alchemy. But Diana found a lost book at the university.” The members of the School of Night pitched forward in their seats. “It contains secret information about the world of creatures.” “The Book of Mysteries that is supposed to tell of our creation?” Kit looked amazed. “You’ve never been interested in those fables before, Matthew. In fact, you’ve dismissed them as superstition.” “I believe in them now, Kit. Diana’s discovery brought enemies to her door.” Matthew’s influence over the likes of Walter Raleigh and Kit Marlowe was still unexpected. “Is there anything they wouldn’t do for you, Matthew?”
That was my name now. Diana Roydon, wife of the most obscure figure associated with the mysterious School of Night. “How can you pretend to be someone new, someone else, over and over again?” I wondered. Matthew had done this countless times over the centuries as he pretended to die only to reemerge in a different country, speaking a different language, known by a different name. Educated in the finest Renaissance style, the members of the School of Night were able to move between ancient and modern languages with alarming speed. All of them knew Aristotle backward and forward. As for Matthew, gone was the thoughtful scientist brooding over his test results and worrying about the future of the species. I’d fallen in love with that Matthew but found myself doing so all over again with this sixteenth-century version. In modern Oxford or France, Matthew had always seemed slightly sad. But he was happy here in Woodstock, even when I caught him looking at his friends as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real. My third eye blinked open, surprising me with sudden awareness. I could discern not only the black-red intensity of the atmosphere around Matthew but also Tom’s silvery light and Henry’s barely perceptible green-black shimmer, each as individual as a fingerprint. Now, after walking through several centuries, I knew that apparent simplicity masked the knots of possibility that tied an unimaginable number of pasts to a million presents and untold potential futures.
Matthew was right. Now that we were in 1590, my magic was changing. I was seeing the bright threads of time and the colorful auras that surrounded living creatures. A witch, Widow Beaton, visited us to see if she could help Diana with her powers. Diana could not summon her powers.
The Matthew Roydon who had been in sixteenth-century Chester vanished because he was displaced by the Matthew who’d traveled here from modern-day Oxfordshire. When we left, the sixteenth-century Matthew, presumably, would reappear. Time wouldn’t allow both Matthews to be in the same place at the same moment. We had already altered history without intending to do so. I felt sick. In 1590, Matthew was a member of the Congregation, and the Congregation was our enemy. A priest and two witnesses came to interrogate Diana with the Malleus Maleficarum. It was the most influential witch-hunting manual ever produced, and a title that struck terror into a witch’s heart. Diana’s instincts were telling her to flee. “This is never going to end. We came for help, but even here I’m hunted.”
The fact that Matthew was working for the Knights of Lazarus, not just Elizabeth, exponentially increased the danger. It wasn’t just witches who were hunted down and executed in Elizabethan England—so were traitors, creatures with unusual powers, and people of different faiths. You’re good at uncovering secrets. I’m good at keeping them,” Matthew said simply. Scientist. Vampire. Warrior. Spy. Another piece of Matthew fell into place, and with it I better understood his ingrained habit of never sharing anything—major or minor—unless he was forced to do so. In my own time, it was Matthew’s father, Philippe, who was dead. But this was 1590, which meant he was alive. Gallowglass brusquely picked up the tale. “With the news from Scotland and your sudden disappearance. When we couldn’t find a trace of you—hell, Matthew, we had no choice but to tell Philippe you had vanished. It was that or raise the alarm with the Congregation. You must go to Sept-Tours. He won’t rest until he claims your body for burial or you are standing before him, alive. Matthew’s new wife is facing witchcraft accusations at home. And his father has recalled him to France. “If Matthew is going to France, I’m going with him.” Matthew’s eyes held mine. He nodded. “Yes. Diana and I will go home. Together.” I knew of Philippe’s capture and captivity in World War II, but few details of what he’d suffered at the hands of the Nazis who had wanted to determine how much pain a vampire could endure. “Maybe the goddess wanted us back in 1590 for more than just my benefit. Seeing Philippe again may reopen these old wounds of yours—and heal them.”
- PART II: Sept-Tours and the Village of Saint-Lucien
Hamish had been right to warn me that Matthew would not be the same man here. Under Matthew’s smooth surface, a profound metamorphosis was taking place. Six days spent riding across France had taught me people were suspicious of strangers, fearing the arrival of another marauding band of soldiers, a fresh hell of bloodshed and violence, a new lord to please. Philippe de Clermont was, quite simply, the most breathtaking creature I had ever seen—supernatural. No one could look at Philippe de Clermont and think he was mortal flesh. The de Clermont family was a menagerie of formidable beasts. In Matthew’s presence I was always reminded of wolves. With Ysabeau it was falcons. Gallowglass had made me think of a bear. Philippe was akin to yet another deadly predator. “I have lived a long time, madame, and have known many creatures. You are not from this time, nor the past, so you must be from the future. “There was nowhere we could go that would be beyond the Congregation’s reach, except the past.” The vampire fixed his attention on his son. “This is a dangerous game you are playing, Matthew, one with everything to lose and very little to gain. You knowingly brought this woman—a woman you claim is your mate and a witch by blood—into this madness. No.” Philippe shook his head vehemently. “You may think you can brazen it out, but I will not put the family at risk by provoking the Congregation and ignoring the terms of the covenant.” Don’t bring your troubles into the past where they don’t belong.”
First it had been Ysabeau who’d wished me out of her son’s life. Baldwin had made no effort to hide his disdain. Matthew’s friend Hamish was wary of me, and Kit openly disliked me. Now it was Philippe’s turn. “Where did you get that?” Philippe was gazing at the ring on the third finger of my left hand. Ysabeau’s ring. “She would never have given my ring to another, not while we both lived.” “She lives, Philippe.” “And Ysabeau gave my ring to a witch? How extraordinary. It looks well on her, though,” Philippe said. “Giving a woman your whole life is meaningless without giving her your whole heart as well. “Ysabeau accepted Diana as her daughter,” he said. But Philippe would not be so easily swayed. “Since you are not mated, no permanent damage has been done. I will send to Lyon for a witch to help Diana better understand her power.”
It wasn’t me or the idea of sex that made him hesitate to consummate our marriage. “Your fondness for me may be nothing more than a way of alleviating your fear of the unknown, or satisfying your desire to embrace this world of creatures that you’ve denied for so long.” “You’re living on your own terms for the first time, yet you’re ready to swap one set of restraints for another. My entire being will be focused on you. No one deserves that kind of ruthless attention, least of all the woman I love.”
“It is too bad that Matthew is a Christian. His God is never satisfied. He confesses his sins and atones again and again—for his life, for who he is, for what he has done. He is always looking backward, and there is no end to it.” I went to Saint-Lucien’s house of worship at eleven on Monday morning, hoping to find it empty. But Matthew was there, as Philippe had promised. “You built this.” “Part of it” said Matthew. “Today is Lucas’s birthday,” Matthew said at last. His hand rose and pointed to a spot on the floor between him and Joseph. “He’s buried there, with his mother. Part of me died when Lucas did. It was the same for Blanca. Her body followed a few days later, but her eyes were empty and her soul already flown.” Matthew could wait to consummate our marriage but hadn’t been able to resist Blanca’s charms. It hurt to know that Matthew was still so deeply attached to his dead wife and son. But at least now I had an explanation for why he shied away from me: this deep sense of guilt and grief that he’d been carrying for so many centuries. “I tried to give my own life, too. But God didn’t want it. I’d been thinking about joining Lucas and Blanca for weeks, but I was worried that they would be in heaven and God would keep me in hell because of my sins,” Matthew said. “Philippe has despised me ever since. He thinks me weak—far too weak to marry someone like you.” Here at last was the key to Matthew’s feeling of unworthiness. “I took Hugh’s life. The Nazis drove him insane with pain and deprivation. God help me, I did what he asked.” Matthew shook his head. “I drank every drop of his blood, so Philippe wouldn’t have to watch as his life force was spilled.” Matthew had freed his father from torment, but only after first sharing everything Philippe had suffered. “I’m a killer, Diana. I’ve killed thousands.” Ysabeau cannot look at me without remembering my father’s death. Now I have to face you, too.” “I love all of you, Matthew: warrior and scientist, killer and healer, dark and light. Philippe believes in you. So do I. Those 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.” Philippe had received word from Lyon, “A witch will arrive shortly to help you, just as Matthew wished.”
“Matthew is in a blood rage. We manjasang are closer to nature than other creatures—pure predators. “Not all of our kind are prone to it. The sickness is in Ysabeau’s blood. Matthew and his son Benjamin have the affliction, too. And he could pass it down to any children we might have. Matthew does not belong to himself when the rage is upon him, and it can make him act against his true nature. The manjasang make families through death and blood.” Philippe smudged his blood upon my forehead and finished at my brow. “With this mark you are dead, a shade among the living without clan or kin.” My witch’s third eye tingled with the cool sensation of vampire blood. “With this mark you are reborn, my blood-sworn daughter and forever a member of my family. Come Saturday, you and Matthew will be married. “You have found a woman who is worthy of you, with courage and hope to spare, Matthaios. Know this, too: You are equally worthy of her. Stop regretting your life. Start living it.”
“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.” Vampires reproduce through resurrection, not procreation. “The gods like to surprise us when we grow complacent. It’s their favorite form of entertainment.” This was the man I loved, and my heart stilled for just a moment whenever his gaze settled on me. “For your wedding gift, I wish I had a spell that could make you see yourself as others do.”
“Even old men can change their minds.” Philippe’s grin flashed. “And I always get what I want in the end.” We formed a procession, moving through the twilight in the direction of the church. Someone must have been up in the bell tower, and once they was spotted us, the bells began to ring. I faltered as we came to the church. The entire village had assembled outside its doors, along with the priest. We’d been married by vampire custom when we mated and again by common law when Matthew had put Ysabeau’s ring on my finger in Madison. Now we were married a third time. The priest blessed our marriage. The entire village wished us well. There was food, and dancing.
“We vampires are unchanging. Our lives do not wax or wane, and, like gold, our bodies resist corruption from death or disease.” “We’d have to go to England even without Cecil’s summons. Champier’s friends have noticed he’s missing. “I wanted to be sure to thank you before we left—and not just for the wedding. You fixed something in Matthew that was broken. It is I who should be thanking you, Diana. The family has been trying to mend Matthew’s spirit for more than a thousand years. If I’m remembering correctly, it took you less than forty days. Perhaps it is necessary to embrace the darkness in order to love him,” Philippe continued. “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.”
Ysabeau discovered a note from Philippe in a book in her library. “They were with him for the holidays.”
‘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.’”
“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.”
“Thank you, Diana,” Ysabeau whispered into the night, “for giving him back to me.”
- Part III – London: The Blackfriars
Matthew showed me a secret storeroom where they compile their history. “We remember what other creatures want to forget, and that makes it possible for the Knights of Lazarus to protect those in our care. Some of the secrets go back to the reign of the queen’s grandfather. Most of the older files have already been moved to Sept-Tours for safekeeping. I’m no longer that man who turned a blind eye to all this suffering—and I don’t want to become him again. Diana. You’re—” He stopped. “Pregnant. I thought so,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s impossible.” He looked stunned. “Everything about us is impossible. You’re going to be a wonderful mother” was his prompt response. “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. I arched my back in an effort to increase the contact between us, and Matthew stilled. With my spine bowed, he was poised at the entrance to my womb. And in that brief, forever moment, father, mother, and child were as close as any three creatures could be.
We had made friends with Mary, the countess of Pembroke. But she was unable to recommend us a witch. We were being watched. Someone suspected that all was not as it seemed on Water Lane. Matthew, a vampire as well as the queen’s servant and a member of the Congregation, couldn’t be involved with finding a witch to serve as my magical tutor. And with a baby on the way, finding one quickly had taken on a new significance.
Chandler was a witch. After crossing most of London, I’d finally located one of my own people. “The queen will have my hide when she discovers that the man died before revealing his secrets, but I no longer care. Like most humans, Elizabeth finds it easy to turn a blind eye when it suits her,” Matthew said. “Who was he?” “A witch,” Matthew said flatly. “His neighbors reported him for having a poppet with red hair.
Father Hubbard summoned Matthew and the witch. “Andrew Hubbard is a vampire. He rules London. Not just the vampires. Witches and daemons, too. He became a vampire when the plague first came to London. It had killed nearly half the city by 1349. Hubbard survived the first wave of the epidemic, caring for the sick and burying the dead, but in time he succumbed. And someone saved him by making him a vampire. Hubbard gathers up lost souls,” Matthew continued. “There were too many to count in those days. He took them in—orphans, widows, men who had lost entire families in a single week. Those who fell ill he made into vampires, rebaptizing them and ensuring they had homes, food, and jobs. Hubbard considers them his children. Hubbard tastes their blood. He claims it reveals the content of their souls.
The fourteen-year-old witch stood before us in the parlor. “I need a place, and Father Hubbard said—.” “Her aunt was a fine midwife and a powerful witch,” Annie Undercroft said proudly. I went to countess Mary’s laboratory for our weekly alchemical experiments. “You and I have an easier time with our husbands than other women do, Diana. We have our books and the leisure to indulge our passions, thank God. Most do not. Were I a man, I would be on my estates now, or paying court to Her Majesty like Henry, or seeing to matters of state like Matthew. Instead I am here in my laboratory with you. Weighing it all in the balance, I believe we are the better off. The countess had a wedding gift for Matthew and I – two lockets, beautiful miniatures fit perfectly inside a frame and gave the effect of a pair of portraits.
“The witch will not come to the house of a notorious wearh and spy,” Matthew reported. We are to go to her house near St. James’s Church on Garlic Hill.” “My aunt, Susanna Norman,” Annie whispered. “She has to be Sophie’s great-grandmother many times over.” I tried to move and break the egg into the bowl without using my hands. There was a crack, then a beak and the peeping of an unexpected new chick.
The box contained two oval miniatures. “Holy Christ.” Marcus Whitmore looked like he’d seen a ghost. The price doesn’t matter. “Give the man his miniatures, Phoebe.” It was Sylvia. Our obligation was to get the highest possible price for their pieces. We’ve done that. “To be honest,” Marcus said, “my grandmother doesn’t need to make a return on her investment. And Ysabeau would prefer it if no one else knows who they are. I shouldn’t be so forward. But I can’t help imagining what you’re like when that icy control melts.” Phoebe gasped. Marcus took her hand. His lips pressed against her flesh as he stared into her eyes “Until tomorrow.”
Goody Alsop was so old and thin that her skin clung to the bones of her hands and wrists. The witch’s voice was strangely hearty for someone so frail, however, and intelligence snapped in her eyes. “I have waited a long time for you, Diana. Yes, child. Diana is indeed a weaver. We weavers are rare creatures. That is why the goddess sent you to me. Weavers hide because once we were sought out and murdered, just like your father’s knights. Not everyone approved of our power. It wasn’t the wearhs or the daemons who hunted us down, but other witches,” Goody Alsop said calmly. “They fear us because we are different. Fear breeds contempt, then hate. It is a familiar story. Once witches destroyed whole families lest the babes grew to be weavers, too. So it was a witch and not a wearh who injured you,” Goody Alsop said softly. “What has the world come to that one witch would do such a thing to another?” The idea that Peter Knox and his cronies in the Congregation might suspect me of harboring such a secret sent my blood racing. “The goddess has given you her blessing to borrow the powers you need but not to command any of them absolutely.” “So that’s why these abilities come and go. They were never really mine.” Goody Alsop was different. This was one witch whose friendship and help I wanted to have. “I should be relieved to have the truth at last,” I said.
Assembling the twenty-six most powerful witches in London was no small feat. The Rede did not take place as I had imagined—it unfolded over several days in shops, taverns, and parlors all over the city. They quietly assessed my strengths and shortcomings. The Rede had made its ruling. “Come, Diana, and meet your teachers” said Goody Alsop. “Marjorie is gifted with remembering. Not only will I help you find the right words so that another witch might use the spells you devise, but I’ll teach you how to be at one with those words so that none can ever take them from you.” “I am Elizabeth Jackson,” said the elderly woman. “Elizabeth is a gifted seer. She will teach you the art of scrying.” My third eye shot open in alarm. With that extra sight, I could see the nimbus of light that surrounded her. This must be Catherine Streeter. “That is the reason you cast a forspell—to face your deepest fears so that you can work your magic freely.
I awoke to an empty bed and blood-soaked sheets. “We have all lost babes, Diana,” Goody Alsop said sadly. “It is a pain most women know.” Now you’re married to a witch,” I said. “And everything looks different.” “Yes. I’m caught between what I once believed and what I now hold most dear, what I once proudly defended as gospel truth and the magnitude of what I no longer know.”
My third eye opened, the room was filled with filaments of magic. Threads, as though the world is nothing more than a tapestry. “Weavers learn how to release the ties that bind and use the rest. Because you are a weaver, you will want to mend what is broken. Leave your thoughts free and your mind empty. Let the power do as it will.” The witches around the circle braced themselves to meet the unknown. My life these past months had taught me that the unexpected was more likely than not. “It’s a firedrake. Perhaps she will find a way to tame her. Let the power move through you.” In a matter of seconds, I was standing beneath a full-grown tree, one that was flowering and fruiting at the same time. The firedrake’s feet gripped at the tree’s uppermost branches. The goddess took a step backward. “You gave your life to me, Diana Bishop. It is now time to make use of it.” All that was left of the firedrake was a tingling sensation in my ribs that told me somehow she was inside me, waiting until I needed her. Very few witches can move between this world and the next. Life—and death. You can be in both worlds. “I’m afraid of what I might find out about myself. What if I become someone else and you don’t like her?”
Three hours later I was talked out and exhausted from dredging up memories of my childhood—the feeling of being watched, Peter Knox’s visit to the house, my parents’ death. Goody Alsop sent me off with assurances that they would soon have a plan.
“I see the problem now. Diana is not fully present unless she is protecting someone or when forced to face her fears,” Catherine observed. There was a hierarchical order to the knots. But only weavers could make the intricate knots that involved as many as nine distinct crossings and ended with the two free ends of the cord magically fused to make an unbreakable weaving. “With knot of one, the spell’s begun,” I murmured. “With knot of two, the spell be true. With knot of three, the spell is free.” The ends together they fused to form the weaver’s unbreakable knot. “With knot of four, the power is stored. With knot of five, the spell will thrive. With knot of six, this spell I fix.”
“I found Mistress Roydon’s manuscript. It is in the most obvious place imaginable, hiding in plain sight. Dr. Dee, the queen’s astrologer has it.” We’d sent a letter ahead warning Dee of our intention to visit him. We were on the brink of being able to answer so many questions: why this book was so sought after, if it could tell us more about how we creatures had come into being. And of course Matthew believed that it might shed light on why we otherworldly creatures were going extinct in our modern times. Dee owned more books than any of the Oxford or Cambridge colleges. So Dee had once possessed Ashmole 782 after all. And his daemonic helper, Edward Kelley, could read the text. Jane believes that Edward stole the book away, replacing it with another. “If you would permit me to take this book, I could try to have it put back where it belongs—and have your book restored to its rightful owner.” “I would be forever in your debt, sir,” Dee said, agreeing to the deal without further negotiation.
In Mary’s laboratory thin streaks of red began to work their way up the tree’s skeletal trunk. Then golden leaves sprouted from the branches. “My blood made the structure of the tree, and your blood made it bear fruit,” I said slowly. If anything could tell us about the mysterious transformation that occurred when witch and wearh combined their blood, it would be Ashmole 782’s strange pictures and mysterious text.
“We are called to court before her Majesty.” “Tell me, Shadow, what business did you have with Dr. Dee? I will tell you my business with Dr. Dee and see if it loosens your tongue. I want Edward Kelley back in England.” “Edward Kelley is a daemon. His alchemical work lies perilously close to magic. If you go the way of King James and start persecuting the daemons, witches, and wearhs among your subjects, you will suffer for it, and so will the realm. I propose we make an agreement—I will see to it that Edward Kelley returns to England so that you can lock him in the Tower and force him to deliver up the philosopher’s stone—if he can. In return you will harbor as many of the Berwick witches as I can get out of Edinburgh until King James’s madness has run its course.” Three days later on the feast of St. Brigid, we set sail on our long journey to see the Holy Roman Emperor, find a treacherous English daemon, and, at long last, catch a glimpse of Ashmole 782.
The Independent, 1 February 2010. The manuscript, experts believe, the Countess of Pembroke wrote during the winter of 1590/91.
Verin de Clermont was alarmed. She first called Matthew, he wasn’t there. She called Gallowglass. It had been easier to believe than the alternative: that her father’s impossible tale of a time-spinning witch was true. “The witch isn’t his real daughter,” Verin said quickly. Philippe de Clermont had been very specific with his daughter and grandson. They were to watch for signs: stories of a young American witch with great power, the name Bishop, alchemy, and then a rash of anomalous historical discoveries. The long awaited time had come. Gallowglass tried to keep his distance, but sometimes he had to interfere. Gallowglass readied himself for the call of duty to fulfill his long-ago promise to defend the de Clermonts no matter what the cost. He’d been shipwrecked once on this stretch of Australia’s coast. He was fond of the sites where he’d been washed ashore, a merman coming aground in a tempest to find he could live on solid ground after all. He reached for his cigarettes. Like riding a motorcycle without a helmet, smoking was a way of thumbing his nose at the universe that had given him immortality with one hand but with the other taken away everyone he loved. He had always possessed a healthy respect for magic, even before he met Diana Bishop. There were powers abroad on the earth and the seas that no creature understood, and Gallowglass knew well enough to look the other way when they approached.
- Part IV – The Empire: Prague
“The city is a safe haven for every creature in Central Europe who fears for his safety—daemon, vampire, or witch. But the witches are especially welcome in Rudolf’s court, because he covets their knowledge. And their power.” The emperor commanded, “Bring the book. And the witch.”
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of appointments—with the emperor’s jeweler, the emperor’s instrument maker, and the emperor’s dancing master. Each encounter took me deeper into the heart of the huddle of buildings that composed the imperial palace. It was thanks to this occult chain of relationships forged by women, that Matthew and I found ourselves in the Kelleys’ second-floor parlor at midnight. He was not just daemonic—he was unstable. “What business do you have with me, Roydon?” Edward Kelley gripped his staff tighter. “He is here on behalf of the queen, Edward,” Joanna said. “Tell me what I must do to get rid of you,” he said bluntly. “The queen wants you,” Matthew said, equally blunt. “We want Dee’s book. Bacon called it The True Secret of Secrets.” Then I realized: He was planning on striking me. An unintelligible sound broke free from my mouth, and when I held out my hand, Kelley’s staff flew straight into it. My arm transformed into a branch for a moment before returning to its normal outlines. I gathered up my cloak, wanting to be as far away from the daemon as fast as possible.
“Meshuggener Edward told the emperor that this ancient book contained the secrets of immortality,” Loew continued. But the text was written in a language no one understood, except for the alchemist.” “Someone removed several pages from it before I saw it in Oxford. It was impossible to figure out the text’s meaning because the words were racing around looking for their lost brothers and sisters.” “You make it sound as though this book is alive,” Rabbi Loew said. “I think it is,” I confessed. The book recognized me. It was . . . hurting somehow, as though it had lost something essential.” Abraham and I looked at each other, witch to witch, but neither of us could bear it for long. My skin was tingling all over. “My dreams did not tell me that she was the wife of an alukah, however.” Abraham waved his hands at Yosef, but the golem stared unblinking at the firedrake sprawled against the wall. “I mixed clay with some of my own blood and put it on the rope like flesh. The next morning Yosef was sitting by the fireplace.” “You brought the clay to life,” I said, looking at the enraptured golem. “The book must come to you, or you will lose it forever. The book will come to you, if only you ask for it.” “My magic isn’t something to manage. It’s me. And I’m not going to hide myself from you. That’s not what love is. I’m not afraid of your power, or your strength, or anything else about you,” I said. “What are you afraid of, Matthew?”
Our eyes met and locked. I had never seen Matthew look the way he did at that moment—vulnerable, hopeful, beautiful, free. There were no secrets between us now, no emotions guarded. It was the simplest, purest form of magic in the world. Matthew was already woven into my soul. He was now woven into my body, just as I was woven into his.
Matthew’s ritual taking of his mate’s blood from a vein near the heart and my new ritual of the witch’s kiss that gave me access to his thoughts provided us with a deeper intimacy. These two searing moments of absolute honesty removed not only Matthew’s greatest worry but mine: that our secrets would somehow destroy us. And even when we didn’t make love, we talked in the open, easy way that lovers dream of doing.
In performing a play at the palace, the emperor was enthralled. “I was greatly entertained, La Diosa—much more than I expected to be. You may ask Zeus for a reward,” Rudolf said. “Whatever you wish. Name it and it shall be yours.” The room’s idle chatter stopped. In the silence I heard Abraham’s words: The book will come to you, if only you ask for it. “I would like to see Roger Bacon’s alchemical book, Your Majesty.”
Edward Kelley entered, clutching a leather-bound volume to his chest. As soon as I saw it, I knew. My entire body was tingling while the book was still across the room. I stared at the book in front of me, hardly daring to believe that the moment had come when I would at last see Ashmole 782 whole and complete. The first, missing page of Ashmole 782 was a glorious illumination of a tree. The tree’s trunk was knotted and gnarled, thick and yet sinuous. Branches sprang from the top, twisting and turning their way across the page and ending in a defiant combination of leaves, bright red fruit, and flowers. It was like the arbor Dianæ that Mary had made using blood drawn from Matthew and me. When I bent closer, my breath caught in my throat. The tree’s trunk was not made of wood, sap, and bark. It was made of hundreds of bodies—some writhing and thrashing in pain, some serenely entwined, others alone and frightened. At the bottom of the page, written in a late-thirteenth-century hand, was the title Roger Bacon had given it: The True Secret of Secrets. I turned the page. Here was the image sent to my parents, the one the Bishop house had saved for so many years: the phoenix enfolding the chemical wedding in her wings, while mythical and alchemical beasts witnessed the union of Sol and Luna. The third missing page turned out to be two alchemical dragons, their tails intertwined and their bodies locked in either a battle or an embrace—it was impossible to tell which. A rain of blood fell from their wounds, pooling in a basin from which sprang dozens of naked, pale figures. The next page was the baby girl with the two roses. What was unexpected was that every inch of space around her was covered in text. It was an odd mix of symbols and a few scattered letters. I still couldn’t read it. It was as though the text were trying to tell a story involving thousands of creatures. There were fine yellow and white threads tying Kelley to Ashmole 782, like— A double helix. The book, its musty smell was on my fingers. It was strong, gamy, like— Flesh and blood. Curling threads bound me to the book, too—only mine were white and lavender. Matthew was bound to it by curling strands of red and white. “We won’t leave Prague without the manuscript. I’ll go back and get it, I promise. But first we are going home. You must have the children ready to leave the moment I get back.” That book may be the answer to everything. There are dead wearhs in that book. Witches and daemons, too, I warrant. Whoever could have imagined that the lost Book of Life would stink to high heaven of death?
Like most manuscripts, Ashmole 782 was made of vellum—specially prepared skin that had been soaked in lime to remove the hair, etc. The difference here was that the creatures used to make the vellum were not sheep, calves, or goats but daemons, vampires, and witches. “But it has hundreds of pages,” I said in disbelief. The thought of someone flaying so many daemons, vampires, and witches and making vellum from their skins was incomprehensible. “Which means the book contains hundreds of distinct pieces of DNA.” “But Dracula is a human myth—one meant to spread fear about vampires. You should know better than to believe these human stories, Auntie. They’ve never got more than a speck of truth in them.”
Matthew and Gallowglass returned from the palace covered with blood, dirt, and soot—and bearing Ashmole 782. “The first three pages are gone.” The book that had been whole just hours before was now broken, the text racing across the page. “So you’re ready to go back?” Matthew asked. There was a spark of something in his eye. He smothered it quickly. Was it excitement? Dread? I nodded. “It’s time.” “But this book contains so much more—and we still don’t know what the words say. If this were to fall into the wrong hands in our own time — It could be used to destroy us all,” Matthew finished. “After all my searching, I discover that I am who I always was: Matthew de Clermont. Husband. Father. Vampire. And I am here for only one reason: To make a difference.”
“What do you know, Gerbert?” Knox didn’t like the vampire, but they had been allies for years. Both men understood that cataclysmic change was coming to their world. “I’m going to Sept-Tours. It’s time that vampire pays for his sins—and those of his mother and father, too.” Together they had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of witches. Let the vampires worry about placating Baldwin. Knox had justice on his side. “Don’t forget the sins of his lover,” Gerbert said, his voice vicious. “I miss my Juliette. Diana Bishop owes me a life for the one she took. They are all gathering there, you know. The witches. The vampires. There are even a few daemons inside. They are calling themselves the Conventicle. Marcus sent a message to the vampires on the Congregation demanding that the covenant be repealed.”
- Part V – London: The Blackfriars
“No wonder the emperor is so eager to keep Kelley. The philosopher’s stone will cure him and make the issue of his successor moot. He will live on forever, without fear.” “Nothing will bring your youth back, Lizzie, or resurrect those you have lost,” Matthew said implacably. Matthew’s expression was forbidding. Lion and wolf regarded each other across the table. “Very well. You don’t have the emperor’s book, and I do not have Kelley or the stone. We must all learn to live with disappointment.
“Is that true, witch? Kit says you bound my brother against his will.” Louisa swung me around. “You know who I am?” Louisa’s dark eyebrows rose. “Matthew doesn’t keep secrets from me. We are mates. Husband and wife, too. Your father presided over our marriage.” Thank you, Philippe. “Liar!” Louisa screamed. Her pupils engulfed the iris as her control snapped. It was not just drugs that I would have to contend with but blood rage, too. “I want her dead.” “As do I.” Louisa turned her bottomless black eyes on me. “And so we will compete for her. Whoever wins may do with her as she—or he—will to make her atone for the wrongs she has done my brother. Do you agree, my darling boy?” Then I remembered the baby, and my panic returned. I couldn’t endanger our child.
“You are making a terrible mistake, Louisa,” I warned, struggling against my bonds. Matthew had told me about his sister in modern Oxford. She was as vicious as she was beautiful. The point of Ysabeau’s diamond scratched lightly against my cheek, drawing blood. Louisa had broken my finger wrenching it off and was now wearing it herself. What should we do? I asked the firedrake. Her response was to snap her wings, extending them fully. They slid between my ribs, through the flesh, and emerged on either side of my spine. The firedrake stayed where she was, her tail wrapped protectively around my womb. The force of her wings snapped the thick wooden pole at my back, and the barbs on their scalloped edges sliced through the rope that bound my wrists. Something sharp and clawlike cut through the bindings around my ankles, too. I rose twenty feet up into the air as Kit and Louisa entered the firedrake’s disorienting gray cloud. I circled above Kit and Louisa. Blood trickled from my wrists and feet. Wherever the red beads fell, a black shoot grew. Soon a palisade of slender black trunks surrounded the dazed daemon and vampire. Louisa tried to pull them from the ground, but my magic held.
Beware the witch with the blood of the lion and the wolf, for with it she shall destroy the children of night.
“She is my mate,” Matthew explained, his tone deadly. “And she is with child. The child is mine.” Hancock worked Ysabeau’s ring from her finger and tossed it to Matthew. “I believe that belongs to your wife.”
“You are not this man, Matthew. You never were. You’re still trying to prove that you’re not worth loving?” As on the night I’d waited for him to take my vein, time stretched out to infinity while Matthew wrestled with himself. Now, as then, I could do nothing to speed the process or help him choose life over death. “Matthew, I don’t want our children to be born under this same shadow, hating and fearing who they are. Let Gallowglass take responsibility for your sister. Allow Hubbard to tend to Kit. And try to forgive them.”
We had to return to our present. I worked with Goody Alsop, perfecting the knots I would use to weave the spell that would carry us into the future. “Coffee?” I asked, wondering how something that had not yet come to England could possibly be scenting the air around St. Paul’s. Matthew grabbed the poor man’s hand. With one knee the vampire pressed his prey against the bookstall, the flat of his sword against the man’s neck. I did a double take. “Daddy?” I whispered. It couldn’t be. I stared at him incredulously, my heart hammering with excitement and shock. “Hello, Miss Bishop,” my father replied, glancing up from Matthew’s sharp-edged blade. “Fancy meeting you here.”
My father and I couldn’t stop looking at each other—he caught me up in a fierce hug. “It’s really you. You sound just like your mom,” he said, holding me at arm’s length to study my features. “So you’re the vampire,” my father said. “We met in September 2009 at Oxford. In the Bodleian Library. I can timewalk like you. I brought Matthew with me.”
The next day, I found my father sitting in the parlor of our empty apartments with Ashmole 782 open in front of him. “Jack gave it to me. He calls it ‘Mistress Roydon’s book of monsters.’ Why do you and Matthew need it so badly?” “Creatures are disappearing, Dad. The daemons are getting wilder. Vampire blood is sometimes incapable of transforming a human. And witches aren’t producing as many offspring. We’re dying out. Matthew believes that this book might help us understand why,” I explained. “There’s a lot of genetic information in the book—skin, hair, even blood and bones.”
“Stop trying to fix things, honey,” my father said before I could utter a word. This is my one chance to talk to you as an adult, Diana, and I’m not going to mince words because they make you—or him—uncomfortable. For two control freaks, you certainly are stirring up a world of trouble. You’ve been here for seven months. You’ve conceived a child. The longest I’ve ever spent in the past is two weeks. You aren’t timewalkers anymore. You’ve gone native. You’ve introduced far too many variables for the past to remain as it was. Now you’re going to leave a mess. You’ll probably find one when you get home, too.” My father looked at us somberly. “Did we screw up, Matthew?” I reviewed the past months: meeting Philippe, breaking through Matthew’s defenses, getting to know Goody Alsop and the other witches, finding out I was a weaver, befriending Mary and the ladies of Malá Strana, taking Jack and Annie into our home and our hearts, recovering Ashmole 782, and, yes, conceiving a child.
“Dad, I thought we could go see Goody Alsop. She’s helping me with my spell to return to the future.” “Would you care to share your creature’s name?” Goody Alsop peered at my father’s shoulders, where the faint outlines of a heron could be seen. “You can see Bennu?” my father said, surprised. “Perhaps your Bennu can coax Diana’s firedrake to give up her name. We are happy to have you among us, Master Proctor. London has not had three weavers within her walls in some time. The city is abuzz.” “Think of elemental magic as the warp—the strong fibers that make up the world—and spells as the weft. They’re both part of a single tapestry. It’s all one big system, honey. And you can master it, if you set aside your fear.” “This is serious, Dad.” “It doesn’t have to be.” My father let that sink in. “You don’t like the unknown, Diana, but sometimes you’ve got to embrace it. Messy? So is life. Stop trying to be perfect. Try being real for a change.” I relaxed just a fraction, and my ribs softened, opening away from my spine like the leaves of a book. My firedrake escaped the bony confines at the first opportunity, flapping her wings as they metamorphosed from gray and insubstantial to iridescent and gleaming. “What is your name?” I whispered. “You may call me Corra.” Time was growing impatient.
“Every weaving is as unique as the weaver who makes it. The goddess does not want us to imitate some ideal of perfection, but to be our true selves.”
Only the painful farewells remained. We sent Annie off with Goody Alsop. Kit, George, and Walter left next, with gruff good-byes and hands clamped on Matthew’s arm to wish him well. He stood and put his hand on Jack’s head for a moment in a silent blessing. We changed horses three times and were at the Old Lodge before sunrise. “I won’t be making any more attempts to save witches, certainly.” “You made a difference here, Matthew,” I said, sliding my arm around his waist. Now we need to sort things out in our present.” Matthew hooked his arm through mine to anchor me. “Let’s go meet our future. Again.” Apart from Matthew and the clothes on our backs, my weaver’s cords were the only objects we were taking back with us. As the ends of the ninth cord fused together, we picked up our feet and our surroundings slowly dissolved.
Membership in Marcus’s Conventicle had swelled considerably over the past months. Never in her long life had Ysabeau expected to be chatelaine of such a household. Ysabeau brushed past her grandson. “Diana and Matthew are coming home.” The Congregation made it clear they want the book and Nathaniel’s daughter. Emily died so that Sophie and Nathaniel’s child might live. Seeing Margaret grow to womanhood will help. So will this.” Ysabeau dropped the newspaper clipping into the witch’s lap. “Diana and Matthew are coming home.”
- Part VI – New World, Old World
I discovered a root connected to some unseen tree. With that realization I tripped, as over an invisible threshold, and fell into the keeping room of the Bishop House. A tree had erupted from under the grate. Its black trunk filled the chimney. “It’s like the tree from Mary’s alembic.” The tree began to bloom—but not the usual fruit or flowers. Instead a key and a single sheet of vellum sprouted from the branches. “It’s the page from the manuscript,” said Matthew, pulling it free. “That means the book is still broken and incomplete in the twenty-first century. We found our modern clothes on top of the dryer. We found our passports under the car mat.
Matthew’s house in Amsterdam turned out to be a seventeenth-century mansion on the most beautiful stretch of the Herengracht. He had, Matthew explained, bought it right after he left Scotland in 1605. We’d crossed over the border into France. “They’ve been expecting us,” he explained. Sophie, Ysabeau, and Sarah were waiting, motionless, in the middle of the road. Daemon, vampire, witch—and one more. Ysabeau held a baby in her arms. Sophie and Nathaniel’s child was a witch, just as she had foretold. Home, I thought. “Hello, Margaret,” I whispered, breathing in her baby smell. “D-d-d-d.” Margaret grabbed a hank of my hair and began to wave it around in her fist. I turned and held out my free hand to Matthew. Come to your family, I said silently as our eyes connected. Come be with the people who love you. Ysabeau hissed in surprise, “Heartbeats. Yours. And . . . two more?” “Twins run in my family,” I said by way of explanation. Matthew said, gazing upon the land of his father as though he had, at last, come home. “‘In every ending there is a new beginning.’”
Christopher Marlowe penned a verse just before he was murdered:
Black is the badge of true love lost.
The hue of daemons,
And the Shadow of Night.
William Shakespeare changed it to:
Black is the badge of hell
The hue of dungeons and the school of night.
Hidden in Plain Sight 