Marcus sat quietly in Ysabeau’s salon, listening to the banter taking place around him as Fanny, Madame de Genlis, and Franklin joined them. He understood about a quarter of what was said. Without Dr. Franklin, who periodically translated in an effort to draw Marcus into the conversation, it would have been far less.
But Marcus was content to remain quiet. It allowed him to try to absorb his present situation, which was both dazzling and bewildering. He studied his surroundings, which were more lavish and elegant than anything he had seen through Philadelphia windows. Books lay on tables, thick carpets were underfoot, and the scent of coffee and tea hung in the air. The fire was a roaring blaze, and everywhere there were candles.
Philippe sat within arm’s reach of Ysabeau in the only chair in the room that was not upholstered. It was wooden, painted blue, and had the curved, spindled back and saddle-shaped seat that were common to Philadelphia furniture. Marcus felt a pang of homesickness. The foreign speech, which had seemed pleasant and musical, became loud and dissonant. Marcus struggled to draw a breath.
“I see you have noticed my chair,” Philippe said, claiming Marcus’s attention.
Marcus felt his panic drop a notch. Then another. He felt able to breathe again.
“Dr. Franklin gave it to me,” Philippe explained. “Does it remind you of all you left behind?”
Marcus nodded.
“With me it is scents,” Philippe observed softly. “When the sun falls on pine boughs, warming up the resin, it takes me immediately back to my childhood. Moments of dislocation—of feeling out of place and time—happen to all of us who have been reborn.”
Davy Hancock had nearly pummeled Marcus into the ground when he asked him about his youth and how long he had been a vampire. As a result, Marcus knew better than to ask any of the de Clermonts their age or their true name. Still, Marcus couldn’t help but wonder just how ancient Philippe and Ysabeau were.
The air grew heavy around him, and Marcus found that Ysabeau was studying him. The expression on her face suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her power was so different from that of her husband. Philippe was all civilization, a keen-edged sword in an elegant scabbard. Ysabeau, however, had a wild, untamed edge that could not be completely cloaked in satin or softened with lace. There was something feral and dangerous about his grandmother, something that caught at Marcus’s throat and made his heart thud in warning.
“You are very quiet, Marcus,” Ysabeau said. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, madame,” Marcus replied.
“You will get used to us, I promise,” Ysabeau assured him. “And we will, in turn, get used to you. It is too much, I think, to meet your new family all at once. You must come again—alone.”
Philippe was watching his wife closely.
“You must do it soon,” Ysabeau continued. “And when you return, you can share your news of Matthew. Philippe and I would like that. Very much.”
“I would like that, too, madame.” Perhaps he and Ysabeau could organize a trade—a piece of information about Matthew and what was happening in the colonies in exchange for some intelligence on vampire customs and de Clermont history.
A family tree would be useful, for a start.
26
Babel
OCTOBER 1789–JANUARY 1790
Veronique tossed her white cap, festooned with the red, white, and blue ribbons of revolution, onto the table next to the bed. She flung herself onto the rumpled sheets, nearly upsetting the pot of coffee that was perched on a stack of books. Flushed with victory and triumph, she shared her news.
“The march on Versailles was a success. Thousands of women were there. King Louis and his brood are all in Paris now,” she said. “Marat is a genius.”
Marcus looked over his copy of L’ami du peuple. “Marat is a daemon.”
“That, too.” Veronique trailed a finger along the outline of Marcus’s leg. “It’s only right that creatures should have a voice. Even your Lafayette believes that.”
“You know that’s against the covenant.” Marcus put the newspaper aside. “My grandfather says—”
“I don’t want to talk about your family.” Veronique propped herself up on one shoulder. Her shift slid, exposing the soft curve of her breast.
Marcus moved the coffee and the books. His blood rallied at Veronique’s scent, that heady mixture of wine and woman that he could not seem to get enough of.
Veronique rolled over onto the scattered pages of Marat’s latest edition. Marcus lifted the hem of her shift, exposing shapely legs. Veronique sighed, her body opening to his touch.