Time's Convert

by Deborah Harkness

  “Where’s Phoebe?” Marcus asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

  Miriam stood her ground before the door. “This breaks all the rules, Marcus. We had an agreement.”

  “Edward falling ill wasn’t part of the plan,” Marcus replied.

  “Warmbloods get sick and die,” Miriam said. “Phoebe needs to learn she can’t go running to hospital every time they do.”

  “Edward is Phoebe’s father,” Marcus said, his fury evident. “This isn’t just any warmblood.”

  “It’s too soon to expose her to that kind of loss.” Miriam’s eyes were filled with warnings that I didn’t understand. “You know that.”

  “I do,” Marcus said. “Let me in, Miriam, or I’ll break down the fucking door.”

  “Fine. If there’s a disaster, it will be on your conscience—not mine.” Miriam stepped aside.

  Françoise, whom I had not seen since leaving sixteenth-century London, opened the door. She bobbed a curtsy.

  Phoebe was waiting in the foyer, Freyja at her side with an arm around her in a protective arc. Phoebe looked pale, and there were streaks of pink on her cheeks from her blood tears.

  She already knew about her father. There had been no need for us to rush to Paris to tell her. Our only reason for speed was to reunite two lovers as quickly as possible.

  “You knew Marcus would come,” I said softly to Miriam.

  Miriam nodded. “How could he not?”

  Marcus rushed toward Phoebe, then stopped, remembering that it was the female who must choose and not the male. He gathered his composure.

  “Phoebe. I’m so sorry,” he began, his voice raw with emotion. “Matthew is with Edward now—”

  Phoebe was in his arms with a speed that proved just how young and inexperienced she was. Her arms tightened around Marcus as she sobbed out her worry and fear.

  It was the first time I’d seen such a young vampire, and the sight was dazzling. Phoebe was like a freshly minted coin, strong and shining. There was no way a human wouldn’t stop and stare if she passed by on a Parisian catwalk, let alone a hospital corridor. How were we going to get her into Edward’s room, glowing with so much life and vitality?

  “If he dies, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Phoebe said. Her blood tears flowed once more.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know,” Marcus murmured, his fingers laced through her hair and her body cradled against his.

  “Freyja says I can go and see him, but Miriam doesn’t think it’s a good idea.” Phoebe sniffed back the tears. For the first time, she seemed to realize that I was there. “Hello, Diana.”

  “Hello, Phoebe,” I said. “I’m sorry about Edward.”

  “Thank you, Diana. I’m sure there’s something I ought to do or say, meeting you for the first time since I became a vampire, but I don’t know what it is.” Phoebe sniffed, then burst into tears again.

  “It’s okay. Let it out,” Marcus said, gently rocking her in his arms, his face ravaged with concern. “Don’t worry about protocol. Diana doesn’t care.”

  No, but I was pretty sure that the staff of the hospital would care if someone showed up with blood streaming out of her eyes.

  “You see why Phoebe can’t go to the Salpêtrière and sit at her father’s bedside,” Miriam said with her habitual bluntness.

  “That’s up to Phoebe.” Marcus’s tone held a sharp warning.

  “No, it’s up to me. I’m her sire,” Miriam retorted. “Phoebe cannot be trusted around warmbloods yet.”

  What did they think Phoebe was going to do—siphon the blood out of Edward’s IV and snack on his bones? I was far more worried about the reaction warmbloods would have to her appearance.

  “Phoebe,” I said, wading into the conversation, “would you mind very much if I worked a bit of magic on you?”

  “Thank God,” Françoise said. “I knew you would think of something, madame.”

  “I was thinking of a disguising spell, the kind I wore after my powers came in,” I said, studying Phoebe as though I were making her a new outfit. “And I think you should go with her to the hospital, Françoise, if that’s all right.”

  “Bien sûr. You did not think I would leave Mademoiselle Phoebe to fend for herself? But you will need something very dull,” Françoise said, sizing up her charge, “if you wish her to pass as human. It was easier to make you look like an ordinary person. You were still a warmblood, after all.”

  Françoise had kept me from making hundreds of mistakes—large and small—during my time in the sixteenth century. If she could keep a twenty-first-century feminist from causing an uproar in Elizabethan London and Prague, she could surely manage a young vampire in a hospital. Feeling more optimistic simply because of her stolid presence, I proceeded.

  “Everyone will be focused on Edward,” I said. “Perhaps we can get away with something easier to wear, more like a veil than a burlap sack?”

  In the end, it was a heavy weaving that was more like a shroud. It not only dimmed Phoebe’s appearance, it also slowed her down. She still didn’t look ordinary, but she would no longer draw every eye.

  “One last thing,” I said, touching her gently around the face. Phoebe winced as though my touch was searing.

  “Did I hurt you?” I withdrew my hands immediately. “I was just making sure that, if you cry, the tears will appear clear rather than red.”

  “Phoebe is quite sensitive,” Freyja explained.

  “And we haven’t done the full range of tests to determine those sensitivities.” Miriam shook her head. “This is not a good idea, Marcus.”

  “Do you forbid me from taking her to the hospital?” Marcus asked.

  “You know me better than that,” Miriam retorted. She turned to Phoebe. “This is your decision.”

  Phoebe was out the door in a flash, Françoise on her heels.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Marcus said, following her.

  * * *

  —

  MATTHEW WAS IN THE HALL with Edward’s chart when we arrived at the hospital. A flock of physicians and nurses were in conference nearby. Through the door, I could see Padma and Stella sitting by Edward, who was connected to machines that monitored his heart and helped with his breathing.

  “How is he?” I asked, putting my hand on Matthew’s arm.

  “His condition is critical but stable,” Matthew said, closing the chart. “They’re doing everything possible. Where’s Phoebe?”

  “On her way with Marcus and Françoise,” I replied. “We thought it would be better if I came ahead, in case . . .”

  Matthew nodded. “They’re discussing surgical options now.”

  The elevator doors opened. Phoebe was inside, with Marcus on her right and Françoise on her left. She was wearing dark glasses, her hair dull instead of glossy, and she appeared to be wrapped in an unflattering olive drab coat.

  “Disguising spell,” I murmured to Matthew. “A heavy one.”

  “Phoebe,” Matthew said as she approached.

  “Where’s my dad?” Phoebe’s eyes were streaming with tears. Thankfully, they left nothing but wet traces on her cheeks.

  “In here. Your mother and sister are with him,” Matthew said.

  “Is he . . .” Phoebe searched Matthew’s face, unable to finish her sentence.

  “He’s in critical condition, but stable,” Matthew replied. “His heart sustained considerable damage. They’re discussing surgery now.”

  Phoebe took a shuddering breath.

  “Are you ready to go in?” Marcus asked gently.

  “I don’t know.” Phoebe was gripping Marcus’s hand with such power that it became mottled with bruises, from blue to purple to green. She looked at Marcus in panic. “What if Miriam is right? What if I can’t handle this?”

  “I’ll be with you,” Marcus said, trying to reassu
re her. “So will Françoise and Diana. And Matthew is here, too.”

  Phoebe gave a shaky nod. “Don’t let go.”

  “Never,” Marcus promised.

  Padma’s tearful face looked up as we entered. Stella rushed toward her sister.

  “He’s dying!” Stella’s features were swollen with tears, her eyes red and raw. “Do something!”

  “That’s enough, Stella.” Padma’s voice was shaky.

  “No. She can make this better. Fix him, Phoebe!” Stella was distraught. “He’s too young to die.”

  The fast approach of a warmblood—sister or no sister—was more than any young vampire could handle. Phoebe’s lips curled into a snarl.

  Matthew whisked Stella out the door. She was still begging for somebody—anybody—to do something for her father.

  With Stella out of the way, Phoebe was able to regain control. She searched for her father amid the machines that were keeping him alive.

  “Oh, Mum.”

  “I know, Phoebe.” Padma patted the empty seat next to her. “Come and sit with me. Talk to him. He’s missed you so these last few months.”

  Marcus guided Phoebe to the chair. He cast a long look at Padma as if to make sure that she was bearing up under the strain.

  “This is my fault, isn’t it?” Phoebe whispered. “I knew he wasn’t feeling well. But I just wanted to be married before—before—”

  “Your father’s heart has been weak for years, Phoebe,” Padma said, tears welling up. “This has nothing to do with your decision.”

  “But the stress,” Phoebe said, turning to her mother. “He never wanted me to become a vampire. We argued over and over about it.”

  “There’s no point in second-guessing yourself, or engaging in magical thinking—that if only we hadn’t gone to Mumbai for that vacation, then your father wouldn’t have caught that virus, or he should have retired sooner and had a proper rest like the doctor wanted,” Padma replied.

  “Your mother is right, Phoebe. I knew as soon as I met him that Edward’s heart was fragile, and that he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself. Remember? We talked about this.” Marcus waited for his mate’s response.

  Reluctantly, Phoebe nodded.

  “You are in no way responsible for the choices your father made in his life,” Padma said. “You’re here now. Don’t waste this precious time. Tell him you love him.”

  Phoebe reached over and took her father’s hand.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said, sniffing back her tears. “It’s me. Phoebe. Marcus is here, too.”

  Her father lay unconscious and unresponsive. Phoebe’s mother gave her other hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “Miriam and Freyja think I’m doing well, with, you know, the change.” Phoebe wiped at her eyes and gave a shaky laugh. “I grew a whole inch. You know how much I hoped for some more height. I’ve started dancing again. And painting.”

  Phoebe’s father had always wanted her to go back to sketching and painting. He still had one of her teenage attempts, a portrait of her mother in the garden, hanging in his office at home.

  “That’s wonderful, Phoebe,” Padma said. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m still not very good,” Phoebe said, not wanting her mother to get her hopes up. “I’m just a vampire, not Van Gogh.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Padma said.

  “Perhaps,” Phoebe said. Taking credit was Stella’s department.

  “I don’t think you have to be worried about being bored during de Clermont family gatherings, Dad,” Phoebe continued. Her father wasn’t responding to her small talk, but she felt as if he was listening and liked to hear about her life. He always had, no matter how minor the event or insignificant the concern. “Freyja and Miriam tell the most amazing stories. It’s like living with a pair of Scheherazades.”

  Before she could say anything else, Phoebe was distracted by Stella’s conversation with the doctors out in the corridor.

  “What do you mean he needs surgery?” Stella demanded.

  “Is something wrong?” Padma asked Phoebe, noticing her wandering attention.

  “They can save him,” Stella told the doctors. Through the window, Phoebe saw her point to her and Marcus. “They can give him their blood, and it will all be fine.”

  “Your father doesn’t need blood,” one of them replied. “Of course, if we do surgery—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Stella cried. “Their blood can save him!”

  “Let me talk to her,” Matthew said. “She’s in shock.” He took Stella by the elbow and steered her away from the doctors and into their father’s room.

  “I can’t save Edward,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry, Stella. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Why not?” Stella demanded. She turned on Phoebe. “You do it, then. Or are you too selfish to share your good fortune with the rest of us?”

  One of Edward’s machines made a high-pitched sound, then another. Medical personnel flooded into the room, reading machines, having urgent conversations, and checking Edward’s vitals. Marcus drew Phoebe into the corner, where she would not be in the way.

  “Let the doctors do their work,” Marcus said when she protested.

  “Is he . . .” Phoebe stopped, unable to say the words.

  Padma let Matthew lead her slightly away from the bed. She trembled, and he put his hand on her shoulder, lending her what little comfort she could. Padma turned in to his arms, her shoulders shaking with grief.

  “If you let him die, I’ll never forgive you, Phoebe,” Stella said, her voice filled with fury. “Never. His death will be your fault.”

  But Edward did not die. The doctors were able to save him with a long and arduous surgery, though the damage to his heart was significant and his prognosis was still guarded. Though it took some convincing, we managed to get the Taylors to leave the hospital once Edward was out of recovery and into the cardiac ICU. We took them back to Freyja’s, rather than to their hotel, so that they could all be together. Matthew had advised a mild sedative for Padma, who had not slept in days.

  Freyja put Padma and Stella in a suite that overlooked the gardens. Miriam sent Phoebe up to her own rooms to rest. She’d taken one look at her daughter, given Marcus a good sniff, and informed Phoebe that this was neither a request nor open to further discussion. Phoebe, exhausted by all that had happened, put up a minor protest but was in the end persuaded by Françoise.

  Charles fussed over Marcus, but he refused blood and wine. Matthew took both.

  “It’s always the same,” Matthew said. “Every warmblood thinks that a second chance at life is the answer to their prayers.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Miriam said. “It’s just another opportunity to do everything wrong all over again.”

  “I learned that the hard way—in New Orleans.” Marcus stood by the empty fireplace, staring at the door through which Phoebe had left.

  “What happens now?” Miriam asked Matthew. “There’s no point in pretending we’ve stuck to the rules. Marcus might as well stay.”

  “Phoebe’s not staying here,” Marcus said flatly. “I want her at home. Away from Stella. Edward is stable. The doctors will tell us if there’s any change.”

  “Pickering Place is too small,” Freyja said. “And there’s nowhere to hunt—not even a garden—unless you are willing to have Phoebe roam Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Marcus is thinking of Sept-Tours, Freyja.” Matthew took out his phone. “I’ll call Maman. If that’s all right with you, Miriam?”

  Miriam considered her options. I was used to her quick reactions. This thoughtful side of Miriam was unexpected—and welcome.

  “If Phoebe wants to go with you, I won’t oppose it,” she said at last.

  * * *

  —

  WE TRAVELED DOWN TO SEP
T-TOURS that night, hoping that the darkness would make the journey more bearable for Phoebe. She and Marcus sat together in the backseat, her head on his shoulder, their hands knotted together. Françoise sat next to them like a Victorian chaperone, though she spent most of her time looking out the window rather than at her charges.

  Ysabeau was waiting for us, as we knew she would be. She had heard the car’s approach, the sound of the engine and the crunch of tires on gravel the only early warning system she needed.

  She helped Phoebe out of the car.

  “You must be tired,” Ysabeau said, kissing her on both cheeks. “We will sit quietly together, and listen to the birds as they wake. I always find that very restful, in times like these. Françoise will draw you a bath first.”

  Marcus came around the car with a small case of Phoebe’s clothes. “I’ll get you settled.”

  “No.” Ysabeau looked at her grandson with a forbidding expression. “Phoebe is here to see me, not you.”

  “But—” Marcus looked at Phoebe, wide-eyed. “I thought . . .”

  “You thought you would stay here?” Ysabeau snorted. “She does not need a man fussing over her. Go back to Les Revenants—and stay there.”

  “Come,” Françoise said, drawing Phoebe gently toward the stairs. “You heard Madame Ysabeau.”

  Phoebe looked conflicted between her desire to be with Marcus and her respect for the de Clermont matriarch.

  “It won’t be much longer now,” she whispered to Marcus, before letting Françoise lead her away.

  “I’m not far,” Marcus said.

  Phoebe nodded.

  “That wasn’t fair, Grand-mère,” Marcus said. “It’s too soon for Phoebe to have to make a choice like that. Especially after how Stella behaved.”

  “Too soon? There is no such thing,” Ysabeau said. “We are, all of us, asked to grow up too quickly. It is the way the gods remind us that life, no matter how long, is still but a breath.”

  35

  Seventy-Five

  26 JULY

  Phoebe was on her hands and knees, digging in the soft garden soil. The sun had barely crested over the surrounding hills. Nevertheless, she was wearing a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from its rays, as well as the Jackie O–style sunglasses that had become an essential part of her wardrobe.