Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “No. They’re entirely different kinds of magic,” I mused.

  I was going to have to be very careful where I asked Marcus to dig into his former life.

  * * *

  —

  SARAH AND AGATHA arrived around midday.

  “We weren’t expecting you until late this afternoon,” Matthew said, giving first Sarah and then Agatha a kiss.

  “Diana said it was an emergency, so Agatha called Baldwin,” Sarah explained. “Apparently, he has a helicopter on standby in Monaco and was able to send it for us.”

  “I never said it was an emergency, Sarah,” I corrected her.

  “You said it was urgent. Here we are.” Sarah took Philip from Matthew’s arms. “What is all this fuss about, young man? What have you done now?”

  Philip presented her with a carrot. “Horsey.”

  “Carrot,” I said. Sometimes the twins confused what the animals ate with the animals themselves.

  Becca had forgotten the horses and was totally absorbed in greeting Agatha. She had her fists in Agatha’s hair and was examining her curly locks with fascination.

  “Watch out, Agatha. Sometimes she gets excited and pulls,” I warned. “And she’s stronger than she looks.”

  “Oh, I’m used to it,” Agatha said. “Margaret is always trying to braid it, and it just ends up in knots. Where’s Marcus?”

  “Behind you!” Marcus said, giving out hugs of welcome. “Don’t tell me you two are here to check up on me?”

  “Not this time,” Sarah said with a laugh. “Why? Do you need checking up on?”

  “Probably,” Marcus said cheerfully, though his smile was a touch anxious.

  “What’s the news from Paris?” Agatha asked. “How is Phoebe?”

  “All good, so far,” Marcus replied. “But it’s a big day.”

  “Miriam will begin weaning Phoebe today,” Matthew explained, wanting to illuminate vampire culture to his witch and daemon guests. If all went according to plan, today Phoebe would get her first taste of blood that didn’t come from her maker.

  “You make it sound as though Phoebe’s a baby,” Sarah said with a frown.

  “She is,” Matthew replied.

  “Phoebe’s a grown woman, Matthew. Maybe we could say, ‘Today Phoebe is experimenting with new foods,’ or, ‘Today Phoebe is starting her new diet,’” Sarah suggested.

  Matthew’s face bore an expression of bewildered exhaustion—and Sarah and Agatha had only just arrived.

  “Why don’t we go into the solarium,” I said, steering Sarah and Agatha toward the kitchen door. “Marthe made some lovely shortbread, and we can catch up on all the news while Matthew feeds the twins.”

  As I suspected, the prospect of sugary treats was irresistible, and Agatha and Sarah settled into the comfortable chairs with coffee, tea, and cookies.

  “So what’s the crisis?” Sarah said around a bite of shortbread.

  “I think Philip wove his first spell,” I said. “I didn’t catch the words, so I’m not sure. He was playing with time, at the very least.”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do about it, Diana.” No matter the situation, Sarah could be relied upon to be perfectly candid. “I didn’t have any babies to worry about, witchy or otherwise. You and Matthew are going to have to figure it out yourselves.”

  “I thought you might remember what rules Mom and Dad set out for me when I was a baby,” I prompted her.

  Sarah thought for a moment. “Nope.”

  “Don’t you remember anything about my childhood?” Irritation and worry made my tone especially sharp.

  “Not much. I was in Madison with your grandmother. You were in Cambridge. You weren’t in ‘how about you drop by for a visit’ range.” Sarah gave a disapproving sniff. “Besides, Rebecca wasn’t exactly welcoming.”

  “Mom was trying to keep Dad’s secret—and mine. She wouldn’t have been able to lie to you,” I said, bristling at the criticism. Witches could smell another witch’s falsehoods with the same ease that Matthew’s dogs could track deer. “What did Grandma do with you and Mom, when you were growing up?”

  “Oh, she was a fan of Dr. Spock. Mom didn’t worry too much about what we did, provided we didn’t burn the house down,” Sarah said.

  This was not what I wanted to hear.

  “There’s no need to be concerned that your children might develop magical talent, Diana,” Sarah said soothingly. “Bishops have been doing just that for centuries. You should be thrilled they’re showing signs of aptitude at such an early age.”

  “But Philip and Becca aren’t ordinary witches,” I said. “They’re Bright Borns. They’re part vampire.”

  “Magic will out, vampire blood or no vampire blood.” Sarah took another bite of shortbread. “I still don’t see why you interrupted our vacation because Philip engaged in a little bit of time-bending. I’m sure it was harmless.”

  “Because Diana’s anxious, Sarah, and she wanted you to make her feel better,” Agatha said, her tone suggesting this was perfectly obvious.

  “Goddess save us, not again,” Sarah said, flinging her hands in the air in frustration. “I thought you were over being afraid of magic.”

  “Maybe for myself, but not for the children,” I said.

  “They’re babies!” Sarah said, as though this were sufficient reason to cast worry aside. “Besides, you have lots of space and too much furniture. They may break things. So what?”

  “Break things?” I was incredulous. “I don’t care about things. I’m concerned for their safety. I’m afraid that Philip can see time and manipulate it and can’t yet walk in a straight line. I’m afraid that he might disappear and I won’t be able to find him. I’m afraid that Becca will try to follow him, and end up in an entirely different place and time. I’m afraid that Satu Järvinen will find out, or one of her friends, and demand the witches investigate this precocious manifestation of magic in my children as a way of getting back at me for spellbinding her. I’m afraid that Gerbert will discover that Philip and Becca are even more interesting than he thought they might be, and will become fixated on them.”

  My voice rose with each new fear until I was practically shouting.

  “And I am deathly afraid that this is only the beginning!” I finished.

  “Welcome to parenthood,” Agatha said serenely. She held out the shortbread. “Have a cookie. You’ll feel better. Trust me.”

  I was a great believer in the power of carbohydrates, but not even Marthe’s baking—spectacular though it might be—was going to solve this dilemma.

  * * *

  —

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the twins and I were playing on a blanket under the sprawling willow that was tucked into the corner where the moat curved around Les Revenants. We had collected sticks, leaves, flowers, and stones and were arranging them in patterns on the soft wool.

  I watched, fascinated, as Philip selected items according to their textures and shapes while Becca preferred sorting her treasures by color. Even at this young age, the twins were developing their own likes and dislikes.

  “Red,” I told Becca, looking at a bright leaf from a Japanese maple that was kept in a pot in the courtyard, a tightly furled rosebud, and a sprig of cardinal flower.

  She nodded, her face scrunched up in concentration.

  “Can you find more red?” I asked. There was a reddish pebble, and some bee balm that was such a dark pink that it bordered on crimson.

  Becca handed me a green oak leaf.

  “Green,” I said, putting it next to the rose. Becca immediately moved it and started amassing another pile.

  As I watched the children play under a blue sky, the willow branches sighing gently in the wind above us and the grass making a bright cushion under the blanket, the future seemed less dark than it had inside while talking to Sarah an
d Agatha. I was glad the twins would come of age in a time when playing was seen as a form of learning. The lessons Marcus had been taught in The New England Primer were weighted far more toward control than freedom.

  Still, I needed to help them find balance—not just between playfulness and discipline, but between the other opposing tendencies in their blood. Magic needed to be part of their lives, but I didn’t want them to grow up thinking of witchcraft as a labor-saving device. Nor did I want them to think of it as a tool of revenge or power to hold over others. Instead, I wanted them to equate magic with ordinary moments like these.

  I picked up a sprig of muguet de bois. The perfumed flowers of lily of the valley always reminded me of my mother, and their white and pink bells looked like ruffled caps that might hide a smiling face inside.

  The breeze set the small flowers dancing on their delicate stems.

  I whispered to the wind, and the faint sound of bells could be heard. It was a small bit of elemental magic—so small that it didn’t stir up the power I’d absorbed along with the Book of Life.

  Philip looked up, his attention captured by the magical sound.

  I blew on the flowers, and the sound of bells grew louder.

  “Again, Mama!” Becca said, clapping her hands.

  “Your turn.” I held the sprig between her lips and mine. Becca pursed her lips and gave a mighty blow. I laughed, and the sound of bells swelled and grew.

  “Me. Me.” Philip grabbed at the flowers, but I held on to them.

  This time, with three witches blowing on the dancing bells, the peals were even louder.

  Worried that the sound might carry to warmbloods who would wonder how they could hear church bells so far away from town, I stuck the stem into the ground.

  “Floreto,” I said, sprinkling some earth over the sprig. The flowers grew larger, and they craned upward. Inside each bell the pale green stamens seemed to form eyes and a mouth around the longer pistil that made up its nose.

  By this point the children were mesmerized, staring openmouthed at the floral creature waving its leaves in welcome. Becca waved back.

  Matthew appeared, looking concerned. Then he saw the waving lily of the valley, and his expression turned to surprise, then pride.

  “I thought I smelled magic,” Matthew said softly, joining us on the blanket.

  “You did.” The stem was beginning to wilt. I decided it was time for the lily of the valley to take a bow and for my impromptu magic show to end.

  Matthew clapped in appreciation, and the children joined in. Working magic seldom inspired me to laugh, but on this occasion, it did.

  Philip went back to his smooth pebbles and velvety roses, while Becca continued to amass everything green that she could find, running around on the thick grass with unsteady legs. Neither of them seemed to think what I’d done was cause for concern.

  “That was a big step,” Matthew said, drawing me close.

  “I’ll always worry when they do magic,” I said, settling into Matthew’s arms as we watched the twins play.

  “Of course you will. I’ll worry every time they run after a deer,” Matthew replied. He pressed his lips against mine. “But one of a parent’s responsibilities is modeling good behavior for their children. You did that today.”

  “I just hope that Becca waits before delving into spell casting and playing with time,” I said. “One budding wizard is all I can handle at the moment.”

  “Rebecca might not wait for long,” Matthew observed, watching his daughter blowing kisses at a rosebud, her expression intent.

  “Today, I’m not borrowing trouble. Neither of them has done anything alarming for almost six hours—not since Philip put Cuthbert in the dog’s food bowl. I wish I could freeze this moment and keep it forever,” I said, staring up at the white clouds scudding across a sky that was brightly blue with possibilities.

  “Maybe you have—in their memories, at least,” Matthew said.

  It was comforting to think that Philip and Becca might, a hundred years from now, recall the day their mother did magic—just for fun, just because she could, just because it was a beautiful May day and there was room for wonder and delight in it.

  “I wish being a parent was always this simple,” I said with a sigh.

  “So do I, mon coeur.” Matthew chuckled. “So do I.”

  * * *

  —

  “WAIT—YOU JUST ANIMATED a lily of the valley right in front of the twins?” Sarah laughed. “No warning? No rules? Just—poof!”

  We were sitting around the long table in the kitchen where we could be close to the cozy stove. The days of the calendar devoted to les saints de glace, which in this part of the world signaled the beginning of spring, had officially ended yesterday, but apparently SS. Mamertus, Pancras, and Servatius had not been notified and there was still a touch of frost in the air. A tumbler of muguet de bois sat in the middle of the table to remind us of the warm weather to come.

  “I would never say ‘poof,’ Sarah. I used the Latin word for ‘flourish’ in my spell instead. I’m beginning to suspect the reason so many spells are written in an ancient tongue is so that children will find them harder to utter,” I said.

  “The children were enchanted—in every sense of the word,” Matthew said, giving me a rare, unguarded smile that came straight from the heart. He took my hand in his and pressed a kiss on the knuckles.

  “So you’ve decided to just let go of the illusion of control?” Agatha nodded. “Good for you.”

  “Not quite,” I said hastily. “But Matthew and I agreed long ago that we weren’t going to hide who we were from the children. I don’t want them learning what magic is from television and the movies.”

  “Goddess forbid.” Sarah shuddered. “All those wands.”

  “I’m more concerned about the fact that magic is so often portrayed as a shortcut around something tedious, time-consuming, or both.” I’d grown up on reruns of Bewitched, and though my professorial mother did sometimes say a spell to fold the laundry while she was reviewing her lecture notes, these were by no means daily occurrences.

  “So long as we establish clear rules around doing magic, I think they’ll be fine,” I continued, taking a sip of wine and picking at the platter of greens that was sitting in the center of the table.

  “The fewer rules the better,” Marcus said. He was staring into the candle flames and checking his phone every five minutes for news from Paris. “My childhood was planted so thick with rules I never took a step without running into one. There were rules about going to church and swearing. Rules about minding my father, and my elders, and my social betters. Rules about how to eat, and how to talk, and how to greet people in the street, and how to treat women like fine china, and how to take care of animals. Rules for planting, and rules for harvesting, and rules for storing food so you didn’t starve in the winter.

  “Rules may teach you to be blindly obedient, but they’re no real protection against the world,” Marcus continued. “Because one day you will knock so hard against a rule you’ll break it—and you’ll have nothing standing between yourself and disaster then. I found that out when I ran away from Hadley to join the first fighting in Boston in 1775.”

  “You were at Lexington and Concord?” I knew that Marcus was a patriot because of his copy of Common Sense. He might have answered the call to arms when the first shots of the war were fired.

  “No. In April, I was still obeying my father’s rules. He had forbidden me to go to war,” Marcus said. “I ran away in June.”

  Matthew sent a lump of misshapen metal spinning across the table. It was dark, almost singed in places. Marcus caught it.

  “A musket ball—an old one.” Marcus looked up with a quizzical expression. “Where did you get this?”

  “In the library, among Philippe’s books and papers. I was looking for somethi
ng else, but I found a letter from Gallowglass.” Matthew reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded packet of paper. The handwriting on the outside was scrawling and went up and down like the waves.

  We didn’t often talk about the big Gael who had disappeared more than a year ago. I missed his easy charm and wicked sense of humor, but understood why watching Matthew and me raise our children and settle into our life as a family might be difficult. Gallowglass had known his feelings for me were unrequited, but until Matthew and I had returned to the present where we belonged, he had remained devoted to the job Philippe had given him, namely to ensure my safety.

  “I didn’t know Gallowglass was in New England when I was a boy,” Marcus said.

  “He was working for Philippe.” Matthew passed him the letter. Marcus read it aloud.

  “‘Grandsire,’” Marcus began, “‘I was at the Old South Meeting House this morning when Dr. Warren spoke on the fifth anniversary of the late massacre in Boston. The crowds were very large, and the doctor draped himself in a white toga, following the Roman style. The Sons of Liberty greeted this spectacle with cheers.’”

  Marcus looked up from the page, a smile on his face. “I remember people in Northampton talking about Dr. Warren’s speech. Then, we still thought the massacre had marked the low point in our troubles with the king, and that we would be able to mend our differences. We had no way of knowing that a permanent break with England was still to come.”

  Here, at last, was some history I could use to properly frame Marcus’s account of his life.

  “May I?” I held out my hand, eager to see the letter for myself.

  Reluctantly, Marcus parted with it.

  “‘The numerous links of small and great events, which form the chain on which the fate of kings and nations is suspended,’” I said, reading one of the lines from the letter. It reminded me of what Matthew had said about a vampire’s memory, and how it was often ordinary occurrences that were preserved there. I thought back to my afternoon playing with the twins, and wondered again whether today I had planted some future remembrance for them.