The idea that Matthew’s enormous stallion would try to act upon his intentions with a horse as small as Rosita was inconceivable.
We were sitting in the library after dinner, surrounded by the remains of Philippe de Clermont’s long life, a fire crackling in the enormous stone fireplace, when Jack stood and went to Matthew’s side.
“This is for you. Well, for all of us, really. Grand-mère said that all families of worth have them.”
Jack handed Matthew a piece of paper. “If you like it, Fernando and I will have it made into a standard for the tower.”
Matthew stared down at the paper.
“If you don’t like it—” Jack reached to reclaim his gift. Matthew’s arm shot out and he caught Jack by the wrist.
“I think it’s perfect.” Matthew looked up at the boy who would always be like our firstborn child, though I had nothing to do with his warmblooded birth and Matthew was not responsible for his rebirth.
“Show it to your mother. See what she thinks.”
Expecting a monogram or a heraldic shield, I was stunned to see the image Jack had devised to symbolize our family. It was an entirely new orobouros, made not of a single snake with a tail in its mouth but two creatures locked forever in a circle with no beginning and no ending. One was the de Clermont serpent. The other was a firedrake, her two legs tucked against her body and her wings extended. A crown rested on the firedrake’s head.
“Grand-mère said the firedrake should wear a crown because you’re a true de Clermont and outrank the rest of us,” Jack explained matter-of-factly. He picked nervously at the pocket of his jeans.
“I can take the crown off. And make the wings smaller.”
“Matthew’s right. It’s already perfect.” I reached for his hand and pulled him down so I could give him a kiss. “Thank you, Jack.”
Everyone admired the official emblem of the Bishop-Clairmont family, and Ysabeau explained that new silver and china would have to be ordered, as well as a flag.
“What a lovely day,” I said, one arm around Matthew and the other waving farewell to our family as they departed, my left thumb prickling in sudden warning.
“I don’t care how reasonable your plan is. Diana’s not going to let you go to Hungary and Poland without her,” Fernando said. “Have you forgotten what happened to you when you left her to go to New Orleans?”
Fernando, Marcus, and Matthew had spent most of the hours between midnight and dawn arguing over what to do about Godfrey’s letter.
“Diana must go to Oxford. Only she can find the Book of Life,” Matthew said. “If something goes wrong and I can’t find Benjamin, I’ll need that manuscript to lure him into the open.”
“And when you do find him?” Marcus said sharply.
“Your job is to take care of Diana and my children,” Matthew said, equally sharp. “Leave Benjamin to me.”
I watched the heavens for auguries and plucked at every thread that seemed out of place to try to foresee and rectify whatever evil was abroad.
But the trouble did not gallop over the hill like an apocalyptic horseman, or cruise into the driveway, or even call on the phone.
The trouble was already in the house—and had been for some time.
I found Matthew in the library late one afternoon a few days after Christmas, several folded sheets of paper before him. My hands turned every color in the rainbow, and my heart sank.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A letter from Godfrey.” He slid it in my direction. I glanced at it, but it was written in Old French.
“Read it to me,” I said, sitting down next to him.