“The family is doing what Marcus and Phoebe wanted,” I said, making sure that my emphasis registered. “They’re old enough—be they cold-blooded vampire or warmblooded human—to know their own minds.”
“Are they?” Matthew adjusted his position so that his eyes could meet mine. “That’s a very modern notion you have, that a man just turned four-and-twenty and a young woman of about the same age would be sufficiently experienced to determine the course of their future lives.” He was teasing, but his lowered eyebrows indicated that part of him believed what he said.
“It’s the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth,” I observed. “Besides, Marcus is not a man of ‘four-and-twenty,’ as you so charmingly put it, but two hundred and fifty plus.”
“Marcus will always be a child of that earlier time,” Matthew said. “If it were 1781, and it was Marcus who was experiencing his first day as a vampire and not Phoebe, he would have been considered in need of wise counsel—and a strong hand.”
“Your son has asked every member of this family—and Phoebe’s, too—for advice,” I reminded him. “It’s time to let Marcus determine his own future, Matthew.”
Matthew was silent, his hand moving along the faint scars that had been left on my back by the witch Satu J?rvinen. Over and over he traced them, lines of regret that reminded him of every time he had failed to protect those he loved.
“It will all be fine,” I assured him, snuggling closer.
Matthew sighed. “I hope you’re right.”
* * *
—
LATER THAT DAY, a marvelous air of quiet descended on Les Revenants. I looked forward to these rare moments of peace—often a mere twenty minutes, occasionally a blissful expanse of an hour or more—from the moment I awoke.
The children were in the nursery, tucked in for naps. Matthew was in his library working on a paper he was co-writing with our Yale colleague, Chris Roberts. They were scheduled to reveal more of their research findings at conferences this autumn and were already gearing up to submit an article to a leading scientific journal. Marthe was in the kitchen canning fresh beans in peppery brine while watching Plus belle la vie on the television Matthew had installed there. Marthe had insisted she had no interest in such technological fripperies, but she was soon hooked on the escapades of the residents of Le Mistral. As for me, I was avoiding my grading in favor of my new research into the connections between early modern cooking and laboratory practices. But I could spend only so much time bent over images of seventeenth-century alchemical manuscripts.
After an hour of work, the glorious May weather called to me. I made myself a cold drink and went upstairs to the wooden deck that Matthew had constructed between the battlements atop one of Les Revenants’ crenellated towers. Ostensibly it was built to provide views of the surrounding countryside, but everybody knew its primary purpose was defensive. It provided a good lookout, and would give plenty of advance warning if a stranger approached. Between our new rooftop aerie and the cleaned and refilled moat, Les Revenants was now as secure as Matthew could make it.
There I found Marcus, wearing dark glasses and lounging in the midday heat, the summer sun streaking his blond hair.
“Hello, Diana,” Marcus said, putting aside his book. It was a slender volume, the brown leather cover stained and pitted with age.
“You look like you need this more than I do.” I handed him my glass of iced tea. “Lots of mint, no lemon, no sugar.”
“Thanks,” Marcus said. He took an appreciative sip. “Delicious.”
“May I join you, or are you up here to escape?” Vampires were pack animals, but they definitely liked their alone time.
“This is your house, Diana.” Marcus drew his feet from the seat of the nearby wooden chair that he was using as an impromptu ottoman.
“This is the family’s house, and you are welcome in it,” I replied, quick to correct him. The separation from Phoebe was going to be hard enough without Marcus feeling like an intruder. “Any more news from Paris?”
“No. Grand-mère told me to not expect another call from Freyja for three days at the earliest,” Marcus replied, sliding his fingers again and again through the moisture collecting on the outside of the chilled glass.
“Why three days?” Perhaps this was some kind of vampiric Apgar test.
“Because that’s how long you wait before you give a vampire infant any blood that doesn’t come from their sire’s veins,” Marcus replied. “Weaning a vampire off their maker’s blood can be tricky. If a vampire ingests too much foreign blood too soon, it can trigger deadly genetic mutations. Sometimes, vampire infants die.