In the end, Marcus took Independence Day on himself.
“I’ve been thinking,” Marcus said on the morning of the Fourth of July, “what about you and me put on a fireworks display tonight?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I couldn’t imagine how Hector and Fallon would react to all that banging and booming—never mind Apollo and the twins.
“Come on, it will be fun. The weather is perfect,” he insisted.
This was the Marcus I remembered from Oxford—irrepressible, energetic, and full of charm and enthusiasm. With every shared memory, and as each passing day brought him closer to his August reunion with Phoebe, a little more of his hope and optimism returned. Marcus was less tangled in the strands of time that surrounded him. There were still red strands in a snarl of pain and regret, but there were hints of green for balance and healing, as well as twists of black and white for courage and optimism, along with Marcus’s signature, sincere blue.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked with a laugh.
“Something with lots of color. It has to sparkle, of course, or Becca won’t like it,” Marcus said with a grin. “We can use the moat’s reflections to make it seem like there are fireworks on the ground as well as in the sky.”
“This is beginning to sound like a fireworks display at Versailles,” I said. “I’m surprised you don’t want illuminated fountains and arcs of water, accompanied by something by Handel.”
“I’m up for that if you are.” Marcus surveyed me over his coffee cup, a twinkle in his eye. “Though to be honest, I’ve never been much for all the trappings of monarchy—which definitely includes Handel.”
“Oh, no.” I warded him off with my hands. “If we are going to do fireworks, they’re going to be normal, everyday fireworks—the kind that you buy in a stand at the side of the road. No magic. No witchcraft.”
“Why?” Marcus asked.
We stood in silence for a moment. Marcus’s blue eyes held a definite note of challenge.
“I don’t see the point of doing something ordinary, when it could be extraordinary,” he said. “I know it’s been a crazy, fucked-up kind of summer. You weren’t expecting to have me here the whole time, for a start. Nor did you think you’d have to relive the events of my past with me.”
“But that’s been the best part of it,” I interrupted. “Far better than getting my grades in, or dealing with the Congregation, or even my research.”
“I’m glad that my constant presence pales in comparison with Gerbert and Domenico,” Marcus teased. “Still, we could all use a little bit of leavening in the lump. The summer hasn’t exactly been a vacation thus far.”
“What an expression!” I laughed. “Where did you learn that? It sounds like something Em would have said.”
“The Bible.” Marcus picked a blackberry out of the big bowl Marthe had left on the counter and popped it in his mouth. “You’re not very well versed in your proverbs and parables, Professor Bishop.”
“Guilty of being a pagan, your honor,” I said, raising my hand high. “But I bet you don’t know the names of all the sabbats witches observe and their dates, either.”
“True.” Marcus held out his hand. “So, do we have a deal?”
“I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to,” I said, reaching for it.
Marcus withdrew his hand slightly. “Once we shake, there’s no backing out of it. A deal’s a deal.”
“Deal.” I shook Marcus’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “What could possibly go wrong?”
* * *
—
“GOOD LORD.” Matthew stood, mouth open, and surveyed our work with amazement.
Marcus was hanging from a tree branch like a possum, a string of lights in his teeth. I was drenched and sunburned, and one of my eyebrows was a trifle singed. Bales of hay studded the field on the far side of the moat. We’d rowed two of the wide-bottom boats around from the boathouse and tied them to the shallow dock that Marcus and Matthew used for fishing. I’d decorated the boats with garlands of red and white flowers to make them look more festive.
I threw my arms around Matthew and gave him a kiss. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I had no idea we were in for such an extravagant production,” Matthew said, grinning down at me. “A few sparklers, maybe, but this?”
“Wait until you see the fireworks,” I told him. “Marcus went to Limoges, and bought all the leftovers from the Fêtes des Ponts in June.”