I wondered if I was one of the destructive secrets lying at the heart of the de Clermont family. I drew an envelope from my pocket and handed it to Ysabeau. She saw the crabbed handwriting, and her face froze.
“Alain gave me this note. Philippe wrote it on the day he died,” I explained. “I’d like you to read it.
I think the message was meant for all of us.”
Ysabeau’s hand trembled as she unfolded the single sheet. She opened it carefully and read the few lines aloud. One of the lines struck me with renewed force: “Do not let the ghosts of the past rob the future of its joys.”
“Oh, Philippe,” she said sadly. Ysabeau handed back the note and reached for my forehead. For one unguarded moment, I saw the woman she had once been: formidable but capable of joy. She stopped, her finger withdrawing.
I caught her hand. She was colder even than her son. I gently set her icy fingers on the skin between my eyebrows, giving her silent permission to examine the place where Philippe de Clermont had marked me. The pressure of Ysabeau’s fingers changed infinitesimally while she explored my forehead. When she stepped away, I could see her throat working.
“I do feel . . . something. A presence, some hint of Philippe.” Ysabeau’s eyes were shining.
“I wish he were here,” I confessed. “He would know what to do about this mess: Baldwin, the blood vow, the Congregation, Knox, even Ashmole 782.”
“My husband never did anything unless it was absolutely necessary,” Ysabeau replied.
“But he was always doing something.” I thought of how he’d orchestrated our trip to Sept-Tours in 1590, in spite of the weather and Matthew’s reluctance.
“Not so. He watched. He waited. Philippe let others take the risks while he gathered their secrets and stored them up for future use. It is why he survived so long,” Ysabeau said.
Ysabeau’s words reminded me of the job Philippe had given me in 1590, after he made me his blood-sworn daughter: Think—and stay alive.
“Remember that, before you rush back to Oxford for your book,” Ysabeau continued, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Remember that in the difficult days to come, as the darkest de Clermont family secrets are exposed to the light. Remember that and you will show them all that you are Philippe de Clermont’s daughter in more than name.”
5
After two days with Baldwin in residence at Sept-Tours, I not only understood why Matthew had built a tower onto the house, I wished he’d located it in another province—if not another country.
Baldwin made it clear that no matter who legally owned the chateau, Sept-Tours was his home. He presided over every meal. Alain saw him first thing each morning to receive his orders and periodically throughout the day to report on his progress. The mayor of Saint-Lucien came to call and sat in the salon with him, taking about local affairs. Baldwin examined Marthe’s provisioning of the household and grudgingly acknowledged it to be outstanding. He also entered rooms without knocking, took Marcus and Matthew to task for slights real and imagined, and needled Ysabeau about everything from the salon decor to the dust in the great hall.
Nathaniel, Sophie, and Margaret were the first lucky creatures to leave the chateau. They said a tearful good-bye to Marcus and Phoebe and promised to be in touch once they were settled in Australia.
Baldwin had urged them to go to Australia and put on a show of solidarity with Nathaniel’s mother, who was not only a daemon but also a member of the Congregation. Nathaniel had protested at first, arguing that they would be fine back in North Carolina, but cooler heads—Phoebe’s in particular—had prevailed.
When questioned later as to why she’d backed Baldwin in this matter, Phoebe explained that Marcus was worried about Margaret’s safety and she would not permit Marcus to take on the responsibility for the baby’s well-being. Therefore Nathaniel was going to do what Baldwin thought best. Phoebe’s expression warned me that if I had a different opinion on the matter, I could keep it to myself.