“Why did the book choose Diana Bishop?” Domenico snarled.
“Because I’m a weaver—a maker of spells—and there are precious few of us left.” I sought out Satu once more. Her lips were pressed together, and her eyes begged me to remain silent. “We had too much creative power, and our fellow witches killed us.”
“The same power that makes it possible for you to create new spells gives you the ability to create new life,” Agatha said, her excitement evident.
“It’s a special blessing the goddess bestows on female weavers,” I replied. “Not all weavers are women, of course. My father was a weaver, too.”
“It’s impossible,” Domenico snarled. “This is more of the witch’s treachery. I’ve never heard of a weaver, and the ancient scourge of blood rage has mutated into an even more dangerous form. As for children born to witches and vampires, we cannot allow such an evil to take root. They would be monsters, beyond reason or control.”
“I must take issue with you on that point, Domenico,” Janet said.
“On what grounds?” he said with a touch of impatience.
“On the grounds that I am such a creature and am neither evil nor monstrous.”
For the first time since my arrival, the attention of the room was directed elsewhere. “My grandmother was the child of a weaver and a vampire.” Janet’s gray eyes latched onto mine.
“Everyone in the Highlands called him Nickie-Ben.”
“Benjamin,” I breathed.
“Aye.” Janet nodded. “Young witches were told to be careful on moonless nights, lest Nickie-Ben catch them. My great-granny, Isobel Gowdie, didn’t listen. They had a mad love affair. The legends say he bit her on the shoulder. When Nickie-Ben went away, he left something behind without knowing it: a daughter. I am named after her.”
I looked down at my arms. In a kind of magical Scrabble, letters rose and arranged themselves into a name: JANET GOWDIE, DAUGHTER OF ISOBEL GOWDIE AND BENJAMIN FOX. Janet’s grandmother had been one of the Bright Born.
“When was your grandmother conceived?” An account of a Bright Born’s life might tell me something about my own children’s futures.
“In 1662,” Janet said. “Granny Janet died in 1912, bless her, at the age of two hundred and fifty.
She kept her beauty right until the end, but then, unlike me, Granny Janet was more vampire than witch.
She was proud to have inspired the legends of the baobhan sith, having lured many a man to her bed only to cause each of them death and ruin after Nickie-Ben left her. And it was fearful to behold Granny Janet’s temper when she was crossed.”
“But that would make you . . .” My eyes were round.
“I’ll be one hundred and seventy next year,” Janet said. She murmured a few words and her white hair was revealed to be a dusky black. Another murmured spell dissolved the wrinkles on her face, leaving her skin a luminous, pearly white.
Janet Gowdie looked no more than thirty. My children’s lives began to take shape in my imagination.
“And your mother?” I asked.
“My mam lived for a full two hundred years. With each passing generation, our lives get shorter.”
“How do you hide what you are from the humans?” Osamu asked.
“Same way the vampires do, I suppose. A bit of luck. A bit of help from our fellow witches. A bit of human willingness to turn away from the truth,” Janet replied.
“This is utter nonsense,” Sidonie said hotly. “You are a famous witch, Janet. Your spell-casting ability is renowned. And you come from a distinguished line of witches. Why you would want to sully your family’s reputation with this story is beyond me.”