“I don’t know, mon coeur, but I think so.” Matthew drew me toward our bedchamber. “Everything will look different in the morning.”
Matthew was right: My father was a bit more relaxed the next day, though he didn’t look as if he’d slept much. Neither did Jack.
“Does the kid always have such bad nightmares?” my father asked.
“I’m sorry he kept you up,” I apologized. “Change makes him anxious. Matthew usually takes care of him.”
“I know. I saw him,” my father said, sipping at the herbal tisane that Annie prepared.
That was the problem with my father: He saw everything. His watchfulness put vampires to shame. Though I had hundreds of questions, they all seemed to dry up under his quiet regard. Occasionally he asked me about something trivial. Could I throw a baseball? Did I think Bob Dylan was a genius? Had I been taught how to pitch a tent? He asked no questions about Matthew and me, or where I went to school, or even what I did for a living. Without any expression of interest on his part, I felt awkward volunteering the information. By the end of our first day together, I was practically in tears.
“Why won’t he talk to me?” I demanded as Matthew unlaced my corset.
“Because he’s too busy listening. He’s an anthropologist—a professional watcher. You’re the historian in the family. Questions are your forte, not his.”
“I get tongue-tied around him and don’t know where to start. And when he does talk to me, it’s always about strange topics, like whether allowing designated hitters has ruined baseball.”
“That’s what a father would talk to his daughter about when he started taking her to baseball games. So Stephen does know he won’t see you grow up. He just doesn’t know how much time he has left with you. “
I sank onto the edge of the bed. “He was a huge Red Sox fan. I remember Mom saying that between getting her pregnant and Carlton Fisk hitting a home run in the sixth game of the World Series, 1975 was the best fall semester of his life, even if Cincinnati did beat Boston in the end.”
Matthew laughed softly. “I’m sure the fall semester of 1976 topped it.”
“Did the Sox actually win that year?”
“No. Your father did.” Matthew kissed me and blew out the candle.
When I came home from running errands the next day, I found my father sitting in the parlor of our empty apartments with Ashmole 782 open in front of him.
“Where did you find that?” I asked, putting my parcels on the table. “Matthew was supposed to hide it.” I had a hard enough time keeping the children away from that blasted compendium.
“Jack gave it to me. He calls it ‘Mistress Roydon’s book of monsters.’ I was understandably eager to see it once I heard that.” My father turned the page. His fingers were shorter than Matthew’s, and blunt and forceful rather than tapered and dexterous. “Is this the book the picture of the wedding came from?”
“Yes. There were two other pictures in it as welclass="underline" one of a tree, another of two dragons shedding their blood.” I stopped. “I’m not sure how much more I should tell you, Dad. I know things about your relationship to this book that you don’t know—that haven’t even happened yet.”
“Then tell me what happened to you after you found it in Oxford. And I want the truth, Diana. It must have been terrible. I can see the damaged threads between you and the book, all twisted and snarled.”
Silence lay heavily in the room, and there was nowhere to hide from my father’s scrutiny. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I met his eyes.
“It was witches. Matthew fell asleep, and I went outside to get some air. It was supposed to be safe. A witch captured me.” I shifted in my seat. “End of story. Let’s talk about something else. Don’t you want to know where I went to school? I’m a historian. I have tenure. At Yale.” I would talk about anything with my father—except the chain of events that started with the delivery of an old photo to my rooms at New College and ended with the death of Juliette.
“Later. Now I need to know why another witch wanted this book so badly she was willing to kill you for it. Oh, yes,” he said at my incredulous look, “I figured that out on my own. A witch used an opening spell on your back and left a terrible scar. I can feel the wound. Matthew’s eyes linger there, and your dragon—I know about her, too—shields it with her wings.”
“Satu—the witch who captured me—isn’t the only creature who wants the book. So does Peter Knox. He’s a member of the Congregation.”
“Peter Knox,” my father said softly. “Well, well, well.”
“Have you two met?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He’s always had a thing for your mother. Happily, she loathes him.” My father looked grim and turned another page. “I sure as hell hope Peter doesn’t know about the dead witches in this. There’s some dark magic hanging around this book, and Peter has always been interested in that aspect of the craft. I know why he might want it, but 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.”
“You’ve married the creature equivalent of Charles Darwin. And is he interested in origins as well as extinction?”
“Yes. He’s been trying for a long time to figure out how daemons, witches, and vampires are related to one another and to humans. This manuscript—if we could put it back together and understand its contents— might provide important clues.”
My father’s hazel eyes met mine. “And these are simply theoretical concerns for your vampire?”
“Not anymore. I’m pregnant, Dad.” My hand settled lightly on my abdomen. It had been doing so a lot lately, without my thinking about it.
“I know.” He smiled. “I figured that out, too, but it’s good to hear you say it.”
“You’ve only been here for forty-eight hours. I don’t like to rush things any more than you do,” I said, feeling shy. My father got up and took me in his arms. He held me tight. “Besides, you should be surprised. Witches and vampires aren’t supposed to fall in love. And they’re definitely not supposed to have babies together.”
“Your mother warned me about it—she’s seen it all with that uncanny sight of hers.” He laughed. “What a worrywart. If it’s not you she’s fussing over, it’s the vampire. Congratulations, honey. Having a child is a wonderful gift.”
“I just hope we can handle it. Who knows what our child will be like?”
“You can handle more than you think.” My father kissed me on the cheek. “Come on, let’s take a walk. You can show me your favorite places in the city. I’d love to meet Shakespeare. One of my idiot colleagues actually thinks Queen Elizabeth wrote Hamlet. And speaking of colleagues: How, after years of buying you Harvard bibs and mittens, did I end up with a daughter who teaches at Yale?” “I’m curious about something,” my father said, staring into his wine.
The two of us had enjoyed a lovely walk, we’d all finished a leisurely supper, the children had been sent to bed, and Mop was snoring by the fireplace. Thus far, it had been a perfect day. “What’s that, Stephen?” Matthew asked, looking up from his own cup with a smile.
“How long do you two think you can keep this crazy life you’re leading under control?”
Matthew’s smile dissolved. “I’m not sure I understand your question,” he said stiffly.
“The two of you hold on to everything so damn tightly.” My father took a sip of his wine and stared pointedly at Matthew’s clenched fist over the rim of his cup. “You might inadvertently destroy what you most love with that grip, Matthew.”