Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “Freyja’s going to be cross, isn’t she?” Phoebe didn’t want to disappoint Marcus’s aunt—or Miriam. But she just didn’t feel ready to feed off a person yet. “Sorry, Jason. I’m just not hungry.”

  Phoebe was, in fact, ravenous. She needed to spend some quality time with Persephone and a bottle of Burgundy.

  A group of women walked down the path, arm in arm. They were laughing and had clearly been out enjoying themselves that afternoon, based on their rollicking steps and the number of shopping bags they carried.

  Phoebe sniffed the air.

  “No, Phoebe,” Jason said. “Those women are not suitable. They haven’t been paid, for a start. You can’t just—”

  “Phoebe?” Stella stared at Phoebe in astonishment.

  “Stella!” Phoebe whipped off her dark glasses, blinking in the dark light as though it were midday and the sun were shining. She hopped down to greet her sister, but was stopped by Jason.

  “Too fast. Too soon,” Jason whispered.

  Freyja cautioned her day in and day out to slow down. But this was her sister, and Phoebe hadn’t seen or talked to her for almost two months.

  “I hardly recognized you.” Stella took a step back as she approached. “You look—”

  “Fantastic!” one of Stella’s friends chirped. “Is that a Seraphin jacket?”

  Phoebe looked down at the leather coat she’d borrowed from Freyja. She shrugged. “I don’t know. It belongs to a friend.”

  “Your voice—” Stella remembered they were not alone, and stopped herself.

  “How are Mum and Dad?” Phoebe was starved for news of the family. She missed their casual weekend suppers, and the exchange of stories about all that had happened the previous week.

  “Dad’s been tired, and Mum’s worried that he’s not sleeping. But how could he since—you know . . .” Stella drifted off into silence.

  “Who’s your friend?” one of the women asked, casting a seductive glance at Jason, who was standing a few feet away.

  “Oh, that’s my stepbrother. Jason.” Phoebe beckoned him over. Jason strolled in their direction with an affable smile.

  “You didn’t tell us you had a brother,” the other woman murmured to Stella, “never mind one who looked like that.”

  “He’s not—I mean he’s more of a close family friend,” Stella said brightly. She glared at Phoebe.

  Normally, that look of outrage and blame would have had Phoebe scrambling to apologize and make amends. Phoebe was the good girl in the family, the one who could be relied upon to give in, give up, and give way to keep the peace.

  But Phoebe was a vampire now, and far less worried about her sister’s feelings than she had been before Miriam’s blood entered her veins. Her lips curled and her eyebrows rose. She returned Stella’s glare, matching her in outrage and replacing the blame with scorn.

  Not my problem, Phoebe said silently.

  Based on Stella’s dumfounded expression, she got the message. It was not like Phoebe to challenge her. But Stella, unaccustomed to conceding so quickly, fought back.

  “What happened to Marcus?” Stella asked. “Does he know you’re out with another man?”

  Phoebe reacted as though she’d been bitten by a poisonous snake. She recoiled, horrified at the suggestion that she was being unfaithful.

  “Let’s go, Phoebe.” Jason took her arm.

  “Oh, I see.” Stella’s look was triumphant. “Couldn’t bear the time apart, so you thought you’d have a little fun on the side?”

  Stella’s friends laughed, a bit nervously.

  “He calls Mum and Dad every few days, you know,” Stella reported. “Asks after them, after you. Even after me. I’ll let him know that you’re doing just fine—without him.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Phoebe was inches away from Stella, with no memory of how she’d gotten there. That wasn’t good. It meant that she’d forgotten to move like a warmblood.

  “What are you going to do?” Stella asked softly. “Bite me?”

  Phoebe wanted to. She also wanted to wipe that superior expression from her sister’s face and scare the piss out of her friends.

  “You’re not my type,” Phoebe replied.

  Stella’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Stella,” Phoebe warned her sister, dropping her voice. “As you can see, I’m not the same good girl I used to be.”

  Phoebe turned her back on Stella. It felt freeing, as though she were saying farewell to the ways of the past in favor of a new, shiny future.

  She walked away, the sky-high heels of her boots clicking on the pavement. Jason caught up with her and slowed her walk to what felt like a crawl.

  “Easy there, Phoebe,” Jason said.

  They walked in silence for hours, until the moon had fully risen and the lights of Paris came on full blast, forcing Phoebe to put her sunglasses back on.

  “Tonight didn’t go very well, did it?” Phoebe asked Jason.

  “You were supposed to hunt and feed from a live human,” Jason said. “Instead, you fought with your warmblooded sister in full view of her friends. On balance, I’d say it was mildly disastrous.”

  “Miriam is going to be furious.”

  “She is,” Jason agreed.

  Phoebe caught her lip in her teeth, anxious. “And I’m still hungry.”

  “You should have had Margot while you had the chance,” Jason commented.

  A middle-aged white woman strolled by, texting madly on her phone. She stopped, and dug in her purse.

  “Do either of you have a light?” she asked, barely looking up from the screen.

  “Sure,” Jason replied, tossing his lighter to Phoebe with a smile.

  29

  Their Portion of Freedom

  1 JULY

  I began to unravel a few days after Matthew’s birthday party. As with most crises, I didn’t notice the warning signs. It was not until the first of July that I knew I was in trouble.

  The day began well enough.

  “Good morning, team!” I said brightly to Matthew when I finished showering and dressing. I slipped my feet into my waiting sneakers. “Time to rise and shine!”

  Matthew glowered and then pulled me back into bed.

  Our latest family project—managing two Bright Born children entering the terrible twos slightly ahead of schedule, one with a griffin and one who liked to bite—had proved far more difficult than finding Ashmole 782 and its missing pages, or facing down the Congregation and its ancient prejudices. Both of us were utterly exhausted.

  After an energizing tussle under the canopy, Matthew and I went to the nursery to rouse the twins. Though the sun had barely risen, the rest of Team Bishop-Clairmont was awake and ready for action.

  “Hungry.” Becca’s lower lip trembled.

  “Sleeping.” Philip pointed to Apollo. “Shh.”

  The griffin had abandoned the fireplace and somehow managed to climb into Philip’s cradle. His weight caused it to list alarmingly, his long tail spilling out over the side. The cradle swayed gently in time to his snores.

  “I think we should consider making the switch from cradle to cot,” Matthew said, lifting Philip free of his blanket and the griffin’s wings.

  Apollo opened one eye. He stretched and then sprang into the air. Just when I thought he might hit the ground with a thud, he spread his wings and gently glided the remaining distance to the floor. Apollo pecked at his chest feathers and shook his wings into better order. His long tongue lapped around his eyes and mouth as if he were washing the sleepy dust away.

  “Oh, Apollo,” I said, unable to stifle a laugh at the griffin equivalent of the twins’ morning routine: hair smoothing, pajama straightening, face washing.

  Apollo bleated out a plaintive sound and hopped toward the stairs. He was ready for act two—breakfa
st.

  Becca was chattering amiably to her spoon while pushing blueberries into her mouth with her fingers when Philip began to fuss.

  “No. Down.” He was twisting and thrashing in his booster seat while Matthew tried to clip him securely into place.

  “If you would stay put while you eat, we wouldn’t have to tie you to your chair,” Matthew said.

  With those words, something inside me snapped.

  It had been well hidden, twisted tight in a dark part of my soul that I chose not to notice.

  The pottery bowl containing my breakfast of cereal and fruit fell from my hands. It shattered when it hit the hard flagstone floor, sending ceramic shards and berries flying.

  A chair. Small. Pink. There was a purple heart painted on the back of it.

  “Diana?” Matthew’s face was creased with concern.

  Marthe entered the room, alert as ever to any change in the household. She located Becca, sitting in her chair with spoon aloft and eyes round. Philip had stopped thrashing and was staring at me.

  “Uh-oh,” Philip said.

  Shaking extended up my arms. My shoulders trembled.

  Something happened in that chair. Something that I hadn’t liked. Something that I wanted to forget.

  “Sit down, mon coeur,” Matthew said gently, resting his hands on my back.

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, twisting and thrashing like Philip.

  Matthew stepped back, his hands rising in a gesture of surrender.

  “Marthe, go get Sarah,” he said, his gaze fixed on me.

  Fernando appeared in the kitchen doorway as Marthe rushed past.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean—”

  I didn’t mean to fly.

  “The tree house,” I whispered. “It was after Dad built that tree house in the backyard.”

  I stood on the platform that stretched between the stout limbs. It was autumn, and the leaves were the color of fire and iced with a coating of frost. I stretched out my arms, feeling the touch of air all around me, whispering. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be up there without an adult. That had been drummed into me, over and over and over.

  “What happened?” Fernando asked Matthew.

  “I don’t know. Something triggered her,” Matthew replied.

  My arms rose.

  “Oh, shit.” Sarah had arrived, pulling her kimono around her. “I thought I smelled power.”

  Don’t lie to me, Diana. I can smell it when you do magic.

  “What does it smell like?” I wondered, then and now.

  The room was filling up with creatures—Marcus and Agatha, Marthe and Sarah, Fernando and Jack. Becca and Philip. Apollo. Matthew. They were all watching me.

  I didn’t care if my mother could smell my magic or not. I wanted to play with the air. I dove headfirst into it. Something jerked at my arm. Fear gripped my belly, held fast, twisted me around.

  “Go away,” I shouted. “Just leave me alone. Stop watching me.”

  Philip burst into tears, confused by my outburst.

  “Don’t cry,” I pleaded. “Please don’t cry, baby. I’m not mad. Mommy’s not mad.”

  Becca joined in, sobbing along with her brother as her surprise gave way to something else.

  Fear.

  Past and present hit me in terrifying, bruising waves. I did the only thing I could think of to escape.

  I rose into the air and flew away, up the stairs and out onto the top of the tower where I dove, headfirst, into the whispering air.

  This time no one tried to stop me from flying.

  This time, I didn’t hit the ground.

  This time, I used my magic.

  This time, I soared.

  * * *

  —

  MATTHEW WAS WAITING on the battlements when I returned from my unscheduled flight. Though it was a bright, sunny day, he had lit a fire and thrown green wood on it to create a plume of smoke, as if he wanted to make sure I could find my way home again. I could see it as I approached, a thick gray feather rising into the blue sky.

  Even after my feet touched down on the wooden deck, Matthew didn’t take a step toward me, tension and worry making his body a tight spring. When I came to him, slowly at first and then in a rush, Matthew folded me into arms that had the gentle strength of an angel’s wings.

  I sighed against him, my body cleaving to his. Exhausted, emotionally drained, and confused, I let him hold me up for a few moments. Then I drew away and met his eyes.

  “My parents didn’t spellbind me once, Matthew,” I told him. “They did it over and over, little by little, month after month. They started small, with tiny leashes and weights to keep me here, to keep me from flying, to keep me from starting fires. By the time Knox came to the house, they had no choice but to tie me up in so many knots I couldn’t escape them.”

  “I triggered your memories, trying to buckle Philip into his chair.” Matthew looked devastated.

  “That was just the final straw,” I said. “I think it was Marcus’s stories about Philippe, and the hidden hand that guided his every action that broke through the walls I built around those memories.”

  In the grass below, the children chattered while they played with Apollo. Soft plonks suggested that Marcus was fishing in the moat. Hushed conversations among the adults provided a quiet, steady background melody. But there were vampires among them—young and old—and I had no wish to be overheard.

  “The memories aren’t the worst of it. It’s the fear—not just mine, but my parents’, too. Even though I know it happened long ago, it feels as though it’s still happening now,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I have this terrible sense that something awful is about to happen. It’s as if my anxiety attacks are back, only they’re worse.”

  “That’s how memories of trauma surface,” Matthew said, also quiet.

  “Trauma?” The word conjured up images of cruelty and violence. “No, Matthew. That’s not it. I loved my parents. They loved me. They were trying to protect me.”

  “Of course they meant to help, to protect, to guide,” Matthew said. “But when a child finds out later that her parents have been choosing her life path all along, it’s impossible not to feel betrayed.”

  “Like Marcus.” I had never thought of my parents as having anything in common with Philippe de Clermont. They were so different, and yet in this they were so alike.

  Matthew nodded.

  “This family tradition stops here and now,” I said, voice rough. “I won’t tie up my children. I don’t care if Becca bites every vampire in France, and Philip gathers a squadron of griffins. No more leashes. Baldwin is just going to have to deal with it.”

  Matthew’s smile was slow, but wide.

  “So you aren’t going to be angry with me when I tell you that I destroyed all of the children’s blood and hair samples without running tests on them?” he asked.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Just before Christmas,” Matthew replied. “When we were at the Old Lodge. It seemed to me the best present I could give Rebecca and Philip was uncertainty.”

  I flung my arms around my husband and held him close. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.

  For the first time in my life, I was absolutely thrilled not to have all the answers.

  * * *

  —

  LATER THAT DAY, I was watching the children sleeping on the rug in the library. Since I’d returned from my unscheduled flight, they had been clingy and wanted to stay close to me. I wanted to be near them, too.

  I watched the threads that surrounded them shimmer and flicker with each deep breath they took. The twins had spent months in the womb together, and even now there were threads that seemed to bind them. I wondered if it was always this way with twins and
whether anything would be strong enough to snap their close bonds, or if they would simply loosen and stretch with the passing of time.

  Becca flung her arm over her head. An iridescent strand of silver dripped off her elbow. I followed it as it snaked over the sides of her cradle, coiled around the leg, and proceeded across the floor to—

  My big toe.

  I wiggled my foot, and Becca’s arm jerked slightly, then relaxed again.

  A cold stare settled on me. Feeling guilty that Matthew had discovered me interfering with our daughter’s autonomy, I turned.

  But it was Fernando who was watching me, not my husband. I got up and left the room, leaving the door open a crack so that I could keep my eye on the twins.

  “Fernando,” I said, drawing him away from the door. “Is there something you need? Is Jack all right?”

  “Everyone else is fine,” Fernando said. “Are you? I know how much you admire Philippe.”

  A green shade flitted down the corridor. Even dead, my father-in-law couldn’t leave matters alone.

  “I knew that Philippe was watching me in the past, and that he kept watching me until the day he died,” I said. “Nothing Marcus said was a surprise, exactly. I just hadn’t drawn the connection between what he did and what my parents did.”

  “Believing you are being manipulated and having proof of it are very different things,” Fernando said.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘manipulated,’ exactly.” Like “trauma,” “manipulation” sounded so negative and malicious.

  “To give him credit, Philippe was uncommonly good at it,” Fernando continued. “When I first met him, I thought he must be part witch to be able to predict the actions that others would take with such accuracy. Now I know that he was just an expert judge of a creature’s ethics—not just their moral sense, but the habits of thought and body that inform every action.”

  Even now, though Philippe was a ghost, I could feel his eyes upon me. I glanced across the landing.