Phoebe nodded slightly, her lips latched on to Miriam’s wrist now that it had been offered. One face at a time, she took in the story that Miriam’s blood told as skillfully as Scheherazade.
Lalla.
Ori.
Lalla.
Taderfit.
Ori.
Eleanor.
Ori.
Matthew.
Marcus.
Names swam to the surface along with the faces, bubbling through Miriam’s sea of experiences.
Phoebe.
She was there, too. Phoebe saw herself through Miriam’s eyes, her head tilted to one side, a questioning expression on her face, as she listened to something Marcus was telling her.
Just as Miriam was part of Phoebe, she was now a part of Miriam.
After Miriam left, Phoebe focused on that preternatural connection and found she was neither bored nor restless. She organized her thoughts around the central truth of the bond she and Miriam now shared, holding on to the realization as though it were the focal point of a newly discovered solar system.
Had she been a warmblood and not a vampire, the comforting assurance that she belonged would have been soothing enough to send Phoebe drifting into tranquil sleep.
Instead, Phoebe sat with the knowledge, quiet and still, letting it soothe her restless mind.
It was not sleep, but it was the next best thing.
8
The Burying Place
15 MAY
Matthew found me in the library, perched on a ladder and rummaging through the shelves.
“Do you think Philippe owned any books about the history of America?” I asked. “I can’t seem to find any.”
“I doubt it,” he replied. “He preferred newspapers for current events. I’m taking the children to the stables. Why don’t you come with us?”
I climbed down, one hand on the rungs and the other clutching an old atlas and a 1784 copy of Lettres d’un cultivateur américain signed by the author.
“You’ll break your neck if you’re not careful.” Matthew took up a watchful position at the foot of the ladder as I made my descent. “If you need something, you have only to ask. I’m happy to get it down for you.”
“Were there a catalog—or even a shelflist—I could pretend I was at the Bodleian and fill out a call slip and send you to the stacks to page it for me,” I teased. “But since I have no idea what’s here, I’m afraid I’ll be the one climbing the ladders for the time being.”
One of the ghosts slid two books down the shelf they were rearranging, and offered me a third.
“There’s a book floating near your left elbow,” Matthew commented. He was unable to see the apparition, but the book that was seemingly hanging in midair was impossible to miss.
“Ghost.” I took the book in question and looked at the title stamped in gold on the spine. “The Persian Letters. I’m not looking for books of letters, I’m looking for books about America. But thank you for trying.”
“Let me have those,” Matthew said, reaching up for the books in my arms.
I made much better progress without them—the atlas was quite large—and was soon back on solid ground. I gave Matthew a kiss.
“Why do you want books about America?” Matthew asked, studying the titles.
“I’m trying to develop what Marcus told us last night into a historical narrative.” I took the books from Matthew and put them on the table. There was already a flurry of notes there along with a printout of The New England Primer from 1762, and an account of the battle of Ft. William Henry was up on my computer screen. “I don’t have much grasp of his eighteenth-century context—not beyond what I remember from The Last of the Mohicans and the class I took as an undergraduate on the Enlightenment.”
“And you think an atlas and de Crèvecoeur’s account of life in New York are going to help?” Matthew looked skeptical.
“It’s a start,” I said. “Otherwise I won’t be able to fit Marcus’s story into the big picture.”
“I thought the goal was to help Marcus cope with his memories,” Matthew said, “not write the definitive account of eighteenth-century America.”
“I’m a historian, Matthew. I can’t help it,” I confessed. “I know the small details of life are important, but Marcus lived during an exciting time. There’s no harm in trying to see how his experiences illuminate it.”
“You might be disappointed by how little Marcus remembers that historians consider important,” Matthew warned. “He was still in his teens when the war started.”