Matthew’s forehead smoothed out, but he still looked concerned. “And otherwise the journey was as you expected?” This was his cagey way of asking whether they had been set upon by bandits or plagued by supernatural or preternatural beings.
“It was long and cold,” Pierre said matter-of-factly, “and the children were always hungry.”
Gallowglass bellowed with laughter. “Well, that sounds about right.”
“And you, milord?” Pierre shot a veiled glance at Matthew. “Is Prague as you expected?”
“Rudolf hasn’t seen me. Rumor has it that Kelley is on the uppermost reaches of the Powder Tower blowing up alembics and God-knows-whatelse,” Matthew reported.
“And the Old Town?” Pierre asked delicately.
“It is much as it ever was.” Matthew’s tone was breezy and light—a dead giveaway that he was concerned about something.
“So long as you ignore the gossip coming from the Jewish quarter. One of their witches has made a creature from clay who prowls the streets at night.” Gallowglass turned innocent eyes on his uncle. “Saving that, it is practically unchanged from the last time we were here to help Emperor Ferdinand secure the city in 1547.”
“Thank you, Gallowglass,” Matthew said. His tone was as chilly as the wind off the river.
Surely it would require more than an ordinary spell to construct a creature from mud and set it in motion. Such a rumor could mean only one thing: Somewhere in Prague was a weaver like me, one who could move between the world of the living and the world of the dead. But I didn’t have to call Matthew on his secret. His nephew beat me to it.
“You didn’t think you could keep news of the clay creature from Auntie?” Gallowglass shook his head in amazement. “You don’t spend enough time at the market. The women of Malá Strana know everything, including what the emperor is having for breakfast and that he’s refused to see you.”
Matthew ran his fingers over the painted wooden surface of the triptych and sighed. “You’ll have to take this up to the palace, Pierre.”
“But that is the altarpiece from Sept-Tours,” Pierre protested. “The emperor is known for his caution. Surely it is only a matter of time before he admits you.”
“Time is the one commodity we lack—and the de Clermonts have altarpieces aplenty,” Matthew said ruefully. “Let me write a note to the emperor, and you can be on your way.”
Matthew dispatched Pierre and the painting shortly thereafter. His servant returned just as empty-handed as Matthew had, with no assurances of a future meeting.
All around me the threads that bound the worlds were tightening and shifting in a weaving whose pattern was too large for me to perceive or understand. But something was brewing in Prague. I could feel it.
That night I awoke to the sound of soft voices in the room adjoining our bedchamber. Matthew was not next to me, reading, as he had been when I’d dropped off to sleep. I padded to the door to see who was with him.
“Tell me what happens when I shade the side of the monster’s face.” Matthew’s hand moved swiftly over the large sheet of foolscap before him.
“It makes him seem farther away!” Jack whispered, awestruck by the transformation.
“You try it,” Matthew said, handing Jack his pen. Jack gripped the pen with great concentration, his tongue stuck slightly out. Matthew rubbed the boy’s back with his hand, relaxing the taut muscles wrapped around his rangy frame. Jack was not quite sitting on his knee but leaning into the vampire’s comforting bulk for support. “So many monsters,” Matthew murmured, meeting my eyes.
“Do you want to draw yours?” Jack inched the paper in Matthew’s direction. “Then you could sleep, too.”
“Your monsters have frightened mine away,” Matthew said, returning his attention to Jack, his face grave. My heart hurt for the boy and all he had endured in his brief, hard life.
Matthew met my eyes again and indicated with a slight shift of his head that he had everything under control. I blew him a kiss and returned to the warm, feathery nest of our bed.
The next day we received a note from the emperor. It was sealed with thick wax and ribbons.
“The painting worked, milord,” Pierre said apologetically.
“It figures. I loved that altarpiece. Now I’ll have a hell of a time getting my hands on it again,” Matthew said, sitting back in his chair. The wood creaked in protest. Matthew reached out for the letter. The penmanship was elaborate, with so many swirls and curlicues that the letters were practically unrecognizable.