“I have no experience that will help Mistress Roydon,” Susanna protested.
“You have been assisting women in childbirth for years,” Goody Alsop observed.
“Warmblooded women, Goody, with warmblooded babes!” Susanna said indignantly. “Not creatures like—”
“Wearhs have arms and legs, just like the rest of us,” Goody Alsop interrupted. “I cannot imagine this child will be any different.”
“Just because it has ten fingers and ten toes does not mean it has a soul,” Susanna said, eyeing Matthew with suspicion.
“I’m surprised at you, Susanna. Master Roydon’s soul is as clear to me as your own. Have you been listening to your husband again, and his prattle about the evil in wearhs and daemons?”
Susanna’s mouth tightened. “What if I have, Goody?”
“Then you are a fool. Witches see the truth plainly—even if their husbands are full of nonsense.”
“It is not such an easy matter as you make it out to be,” Susanna muttered.
“Nor does it need to be so difficult. The long-awaited weaver is among us, and we must make plans.”
“Thank you, Goody Alsop,” Matthew said. He was relieved that someone agreed with him at last. “You are right. Diana must learn what she needs to know quickly. She cannot have the child here.”
“That isn’t entirely your decision, Master Roydon. If the child is meant to be born in London, then that is where it will be born.”
“Diana doesn’t belong here,” Matthew said, adding quickly, “in London.”
“Bless us, that is clear enough. But as she is a time spinner, merely moving her to another place will not help. Diana would be no less conspicuous in Canterbury or York.”
“So you know another of our secrets.” Matthew gave the old woman a cold stare. “As you know so much, you must have also divined that Diana will not be returning to her own time alone. The child and I will be going with her. You will teach her what she needs in order to do it.” Matthew was taking charge, which meant that things were about to take their usual turn for the worse.
“Your wife’s education is my business now, Master Roydon—unless you think you know more about what it means to be a weaver than I do,” Goody Alsop said mildly.
“He knows that this is a matter between witches,” I told Goody Alsop, putting a restraining hand on his arm. “Matthew won’t interfere.”
“Everything about my wife is my business, Goody Alsop,” said Matthew. He turned to me. “And this is not a matter solely between witches. Not if the witches here might turn against my mate and my child.”
“So it was a witch and not a wearh who injured you,” Goody Alsop said softly. “I felt the pain and knew that a witch was part of it but hoped that was because the witch was healing the damage done to you rather than causing it. What has the world come to that one witch would do such a thing to another?”
Matthew fixed his attention on Goody Alsop. “Maybe the witch also realized that Diana was a weaver.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Satu might have known. Given what Goody Alsop had told me about my fellow witches’ attitude toward weavers, the idea that Peter Knox and his cronies in the Congregation might suspect me of harboring such a secret sent my blood racing. Matthew sought my hand, taking it between both of his.
“It is possible, but I cannot say for certain,” Goody Alsop told us regretfully. “Nevertheless we must do what we can in the time the goddess provides to prepare Diana for her future.”
“Stop,” I said, slapping my palm on the table. Ysabeau’s ring chimed against the hard wood. “You’re all talking as though this weaving business makes sense. But I can’t even light a candle. My talents are magical. I have wind, water—even fire—in my blood.”
“If I can see your husband’s soul, Diana, you will not be surprised that I have also seen your power. But you are not a firewitch or a waterwitch, no matter what you believe. You cannot command these elements. If you were foolish enough to attempt it, you would be destroyed.”
“But I nearly drowned in my own tears,” I said stubbornly. “And to save Matthew I killed a wearh with an arrow of witchfire. My aunt recognized the smell.”
“A firewitch has no need of arrows. The fire leaves her and arrives at its target in an instant.” Goody Alsop shook her head. “These were but simple weavings, my child, fashioned from grief and love. The goddess has given you her blessing to borrow the powers you need but not to command any of them absolutely.”
“Borrow them.” I thought over the frustrating events of the past months and the glimmers of magic that would never behave as they were supposed to do. “So that’s why these abilities come and go. They were never really mine.”
“No witch could hold so much power within her without upsetting the balance of the worlds. A weaver selects carefully from the magic around her and uses it to shape something new.”
“But there must be thousands of spells in existence—not to mention charms and potions. Nothing I make could possibly be original.” I drew my hand across my forehead, and the spot where Philippe had made his blood oath seemed cold to the touch.
“All spells came from somewhere, Diana: a moment of need, a longing, a challenge that could not be met any other way. And they came from someone, too.”
“The first witch,” I whispered. Some creatures believed that Ashmole 782 was the first grimoire, a book that contained the original enchantments and charms devised by our people. Here was another connection between me and the mysterious manuscript. I looked at Matthew.
“The first weaver,” Goody Alsop corrected gently, “as well as those who followed. Weavers are not simply witches, Diana. Susanna is a great witch, with more knowledge about the magic of the earth and its lore than any of her sisters in London. For all her gifts, though, she cannot weave a new spell. You can.”
“I can’t even imagine how to begin,” I said.
“You hatched that chick,” Goody Alsop said, pointing to the sleepy yellow ball of fluff.
“But I was trying to crack an egg!” I protested. Now that I understood marksmanship, I was aware this was a problem. My magic, like my arrows, had missed its target.
“Obviously not. If you were trying simply to crack an egg, we would be enjoying some of Susanna’s excellent custard. You had something else in mind.” The chick concurred, emitting a particularly loud and clear peep.
She was right. I had indeed had other things on my mind: our child, whether we could nurture him properly, how we might keep him safe.
Goody Alsop nodded. “I thought so.”
“I spoke no words, performed no ritual, concocted nothing.” I was clinging to what Sarah had taught me about the craft. “All I did was ask some questions. They weren’t even particularly good questions.”
“Magic begins with desire. The words come much, much later,” Goody Alsop explained. “Even then a weaver cannot always reduce a spell to a few lines for another witch to use. Some weavings resist, no matter how hard we try. They are for our use alone. It is why we are feared.”
“‘It begins with absence and desire,’” I murmured. Past and present clashed again as I repeated the first line of the verse that had accompanied the single page of Ashmole 782 someone once sent to my parents. On this occasion, when the corners lit up and illuminated the dust motes in shades of blue and gold, I didn’t look away. Neither did Goody Alsop. Matthew’s and Susanna’s eyes followed ours, but neither saw anything out of the ordinary.
“Exactly. See there, how time feels your absence and wants you back to weave yourself into your former life.” She beamed, clapping her hands together as though I’d made her a particularly fine crayon drawing of a house and she planned to display it on her refrigerator door. “Of course, time is not ready for you now. If it were, the blue would be much brighter.”