“What you said is of no interest, and what you meant was clear enough.” Matthew’s grip tightened.
“Put him down.” Walter had one hand on Marlowe’s shoulder and the other on Matthew. The vampire ignored Raleigh and lifted his friend several more inches. In his red-and-black plumage, Kit looked like an exotic bird that had somehow become trapped in the folds of the carved wooden paneling. Matthew held him there for a few more moments to make his point clear, then let him drop.
“Come, Diana. Everything is going to be fine.” Matthew still sounded sure, but an ominous pricking in my thumbs warned me that Kit just might be right.
“God’s teeth,” Walter muttered in disbelief as we processed into the hall. “Is that Widow Beaton?”
At the far end of the room, standing in the shadows, was the witch from central casting: diminutive, bent, and ancient. As we drew closer, the details of her rusty black dress, stringy white hair, and leathery skin became more apparent. One of her eyes was milky with a cataract, the other a mottled hazel. The eyeball with the cataract had an alarming tendency to swivel in its socket, as though its sight might be improved with a different perspective. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I spotted the wart on the bridge of her nose.
Widow Beaton slid a glance in my direction and dipped into a grudging curtsy. The barely perceptible tingle on my skin suggested that she was indeed a witch. Without warning, my third eye fluttered open, looking for further information. Unlike most other creatures, however, Widow Beaton gave off no light at all. She was gray through and through. It was dispiriting to see a witch try so hard to be invisible. Had I been as pallid as that before I touched Ashmole 782? My third eye drooped closed again.
“Thank you for coming to see us, Widow Beaton.” Matthew’s tone suggested that she should be glad he’d let her into his house.
“Master Roydon.” The witch’s words rasped like the fallen leaves that swirled on the gravel outside. She turned her one good eye on me.
“Help Widow Beaton to her seat, George.”
Chapman leaped forward at Matthew’s command, while the rest of us remained at a careful distance. The witch groaned as her rheumatic limbs settled into the chair. Matthew politely waited as she did so, then continued.
“Let us get straight to the heart of the matter. This woman”—he indicated me—“is under my protection and has been having difficulties of late.” Matthew made no mention of our marriage.
“You are surrounded by influential friends and loyal servants, Master Roydon. A poor woman can be of little use to a gentleman such as you.” Widow Beaton tried to hide the reproach in her words with a false note of courtesy, but my husband had excellent hearing. His eyes narrowed.
“Do not play games with me,” he said shortly. “You do not want me as an enemy, Widow Beaton. The woman shows signs of being a witch and needs your help.”
“A witch?” Widow Beaton looked politely doubtful. “Was her mother a witch? Or her father a wizard?”
“Both died when she was still a child. We are not certain what powers they possessed,” Matthew admitted, telling one of his typically vampiric half-truths. He tossed a small bag of coins into her lap. “I would be grateful if you could examine her.”
“Very well.” Widow Beaton’s gnarled fingers reached for my face. When our flesh touched, an unmistakable surge of energy passed between us. The old woman jumped.
“So?” Matthew demanded.
Widow Beaton’s hands dropped to her lap. She clutched at the pouch of money, and for a moment it seemed as though she might hurl it back at him. Then she regained her composure.
“It is as I suspected. This woman is no witch, Master Roydon.” Her voice was even, though a bit higher than it had been. A wave of contempt rose from my stomach and filled my mouth with bitterness.
“If you think that, you don’t have as much power as the people of Woodstock imagine,” I retorted.
Widow Beaton drew herself up indignantly. “I am a respected healer, with a knowledge of herbs to protect men and women from illness. Master Roydon knows my abilities.”
“That is the craft of a witch. But our people have other talents as well,” I said carefully. Matthew’s fingers were painfully tight on my hand, urging me to be silent.
“I know of no such talents,” was her quick reply. The old woman was as obstinate as my Aunt Sarah and shared her disdain for witches like me who could draw on the elements without any careful study of the witch’s craft tradition. Sarah knew the uses of every herb and plant and could remember hundreds of spells perfectly, but there was more to being a witch. Widow Beaton knew that, even if she wouldn’t admit it.