“That wasn’t my question. I can see you’re fine. That’s what worries me,” Sarah said. “Why aren’t you at death’s door?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, dismissing her question.
“It will when you collapse,” Sarah retorted. “You can’t possibly keep this up.”
“You forget, Sarah: The Bishop-Clairmont family specializes in the impossible.” I closed the car door to muffle her ongoing protests.
I should have known that my aunt would not be silenced so easily. Baldwin showed up twenty-four hours after her departure—uninvited and unannounced.
“This is a bad habit of yours,” I said, thinking back to the moment he’d returned to Sept-Tours and stripped the sheets from our bed. “Surprise us again and I’ll put enough wards on this house to repel the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“They haven’t been spotted in Limousin since Hugh died.” Baldwin kissed me on each cheek, taking time in between to make a slow assessment of my scent.
“Matthew isn’t receiving visitors today,” I said, drawing away. “He had a difficult night.”
“I’m not here to see Matthew.” Baldwin fixed eagle eyes on me. “I’m here to warn you that if you don’t start taking care of yourself, I will put myself in charge here.”
“You have no—”
“Oh, but I do. You are my sister. Your husband is not able to look after your welfare at the moment.
Look after it yourself or accept the consequences.” Baldwin’s voice was implacable.
The two of us faced off in silence for a few moments. He sighed when I refused to break my stare.
“It’s really quite simple, Diana. If you collapse—and based on your scent, I’d say you have a week at most before that happens—Matthew’s instincts will demand that he try to protect his mate. That will distract him from his primary job, which is to heal.”
Baldwin had a point.
“The best way to handle a vampire mate—especially one with blood rage like Matthew—is to give him no reason to think you need any protection. Take care of yourself—first and always,” Baldwin said.
“Seeing you healthy and happy will do Matthew more good, mentally and physically, than his maker’s blood or Jack’s music. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so glad.” Baldwin’s mouth lifted into a smile. “Answer your e-mail while you’re at it. I send you messages. You don’t answer. It’s aggravating.”
I nodded, afraid that if I opened my mouth, detailed instructions on just what he could do with his e-mail might pop out.
Baldwin stuck his head into the great hall to check on Matthew. He pronounced him utterly useless because he could not engage in wrestling, warfare, or other brotherly pursuits. Then, mercifully, he left.
Dutifully I opened my laptop.
Hundreds of messages awaited, most from the Congregation demanding explanations and Baldwin giving me orders.
I lowered the lid on my computer and returned to Matthew and my children.
A few nights after Baldwin’s visit, I woke to the sensation of a cold finger jerking against my spine as it traced the trunk of the tree on my neck.
The finger moved in barely controlled fits and starts to my shoulders, where it found the outline left by the goddess’s arrow and the star left by Satu J?rvinen.
Slowly the finger traveled down to the dragon that encircled my hips.
Matthew’s hands were working again.