Shadow of Night: A Novel

by Deborah Harkness

“Françoise could use someone to run errands for her.” I smoothed the boy’s hair back from his forehead. “Will you work for me, Jack?”

  “Aye, mistress.” Jack’s stomach gave an audible gurgle, and his wary eyes held a trace of hope. My witch’s third eye opened wide, seeing into his cavernous stomach and hollow, trembling legs. I drew a few coins from my purse.

  “Buy him a slice of pie from Master Prior on the way, Annie. He’s ready to drop from hunger, but that should hold him until Françoise can make him a proper meal.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Annie said. She gripped Jack around the arm and towed him in the direction of the Blackfriars.

  Matthew frowned at their departing backs and then at me. “You’re doing that child no favors. This Jack—if that’s his real name, which I sincerely doubt—won’t live out the year if he continues to steal.”

  “The child won’t live out the week unless an adult takes responsibility for him. What is that you said? Love, a grown-up to care for them, and a soft place to land?”

  “Don’t turn my words against me, Diana. That was about our child, not some homeless waif.” Matthew, who had met more witches in the past few days than most vampires did in a lifetime, was spoiling for a fight.

  “I was a homeless waif once.”

  My husband drew back as if I’d slapped him.

  “Not so easy to turn him away now, is it?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. “If Jack doesn’t come with us, we might as well take him straight to Andrew Hubbard. There he’ll either be fitted for a coffin or had for supper. Either way he’ll be looked after better than he would be out here on the streets.”

  “We have servants enough,” Matthew said coolly.

  “And you have money to spare. If you can’t afford it, I’ll pay his wages out of my own funds.”

  “You’d better come up with a fairy tale to tuck him into bed with while you’re at it.” Matthew gripped my elbow. “Do you think he won’t notice he’s living with three wearhs and two witches? Human children always see more clearly into the world of creatures than adults do.”

  “Do you think Jack will care what we are if he has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and a bed where he can sleep the night in safety?” A woman stared at us in confusion from across the street. A vampire and a witch shouldn’t be having such a heated discussion in public. I pulled the hood closer around my face.

  “The more creatures we let into our lives here, the trickier this all becomes,” Matthew said. He noticed the woman watching us and released my arm. “And that goes double for the humans.”

  After visiting the two solid, grave earthwitches, Matthew and I retreated to opposite ends of the Hart and Crown until our tempers cooled. Matthew attacked his mail, bellowing for Pierre and letting out a voluble stream of curses against Her Majesty’s government, his father’s whims, and the folly of King James of Scotland. I spent the time talking to Jack about his duties. While the boy had a fine skill set when it came to picking locks, pockets, and country bumpkins who could be fleeced of all their possessions in confidence games, he could not read, write, cook, sew, or do anything else that might assist Françoise and Annie. Pierre, however, took a serious interest in the boy, especially after he recovered his lucky charm from the inner pocket of the boy’s secondhand doublet.

  “Come with me, Jack,” Pierre said, holding open the door and jerking his head toward the stairs. He was on his way out to collect the latest missives from Matthew’s informants, and he clearly planned on taking advantage of our young charge’s familiarity with London’s underworld.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said, his voice eager. He already looked better after just one meal.

  “Nothing dangerous,” I warned Pierre.

  “Of course not, madame,” the vampire said innocently.

  “I mean it,” I retorted. “And have him back before dark.”

  I was sorting through papers on my desk when Matthew came out from his study. Françoise and Annie had gone to Smithfield to see the butchers for meat and blood, and we had the house to ourselves.

  “I’m sorry, mon coeur,” Matthew said, sliding his hands around my waist from behind. He dropped a kiss on my neck. “Between the Rede and the queen, it’s been a long week.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I understand why you don’t want Jack here, Matthew, but I couldn’t ignore him. He was hurt and hungry.”

  “I know,” Matthew said, drawing me in tightly so that my back fit against his chest.

  “Would your reaction have been different if we’d found the boy in modern Oxford?” I asked, staring into the fire rather than meeting his eyes. Ever since the incident with Jack, I had been preoccupied with the question of whether Matthew’s behavior was rooted in vampire genetics or Elizabethan morals.

  “Probably not. It’s not easy for vampires to live among warmbloods, Diana. Without an emotional bond, warmbloods are nothing more than a source of nourishment. No vampire, however civilized and well mannered, can remain in close proximity to one without feeling the urge to feed on them.” His breath was cool against my neck, tickling the sensitive spot where Miriam had used her blood to heal the wound Matthew had made there.

  “You don’t seem to want to feed on me.” There had been no indication that Matthew wrestled with such an urge, and he had flatly refused his father’s suggestions that he take my blood.

  “I can manage my cravings far better than when we first met. Now my desire for your blood is not so much about nourishment as control. To feed from you would primarily be an assertion of dominance now that we’re mated.”

  “And we have sex for that,” I said matter-of-factly. Matthew was a generous and creative lover, but he definitely considered the bedroom his domain.

  “Excuse me?” he said, his eyebrows drawn into a scowl.

  “Sex and dominance. It’s what modern humans think vampire relationships are all about,” I said. “Their stories are full of crazed alpha-male vampires throwing women over their shoulders before dragging them off for dinner and a date.”

  “Dinner and a date?” Matthew was aghast. “Do you mean . . . ?”

  “Uh-huh. You should see what Sarah’s friends in the Madison coven read. Vampire meets girl, vampire bites girl, girl is shocked to find out there really are vampires. The sex, blood, and overprotective behavior all come quickly thereafter. Some of it is pretty explicit.” I paused. “There’s no time for bundling, that’s for sure. I don’t remember much poetry or dancing either.”

  Matthew swore. “No wonder your aunt wanted to know if I was hungry.”

  “You really should read this stuff, if only to see what humans think. It’s a public-relations nightmare. Far worse than what witches have to overcome.” I turned around to face him. “You’d be surprised how many women seem to want a vampire boyfriend anyway, though.”

  “What if their vampire boyfriends were to behave like callous bastards in the street and threaten starving orphans?”

  “Most fictional vampires have hearts of gold, barring the occasional jealous rage and consequent dismemberment.” I smoothed the hair away from his eyes.

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” Matthew said.

  “Why? Vampires read books about witches. The fact that Kit’s Doctor Faustus is pure fantasy doesn’t stop you from enjoying a good supernatural yarn.”

  “Yes, but all that manhandling and then making love . . .” Matthew shook his head.

  “You’ve manhandled me, as you so charmingly put it. I seem to recall being hoisted into your arms at Sept-Tours on more than one occasion,” I pointed out.

  “Only when you were injured!” Matthew said indignantly. “Or tired.”

  “Or when you wanted me in one spot and I was in another. Or when the horse was too tall, or the bed was too high, or the seas were too rough. Honestly, Matthew. You have a very selective memory when it suits you. As for making love, it’s not always the tender act that you describe. Not in the books I’ve seen. Sometimes it’s
just a good, hard—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, a tall, handsome vampire flung me over his shoulder.

  “We will continue this conversation in private.”

  “Help! I think my husband is a vampire!” I laughed and pounded on the backs of his thighs.

  “Be quiet,” he growled. “Or you’ll have Mistress Hawley to contend with.”

  “If I were a human woman and not a witch, that growly sound you just made would make me swoon. I’d be all yours, and you could have your way with me.” I giggled.

  “You’re already all mine,” Matthew reminded me, depositing me on the bed. “I’m changing this ridiculous plot, by the way. In the interests of originality—not to mention verisimilitude—we’re skipping dinner and moving right on to the date.”

  “Readers would love a vampire who said that!” I said.

  Matthew seemed not to care about my editorial contributions. He was too busy lifting my skirts. We were going to make love fully clothed. How deliciously Elizabethan.

  “Wait a minute. At least let me take off my bum roll.” Annie had informed me that this was the proper name for the doughnut-shaped thing that kept my skirts respectably full and flouncy.

  But Matthew was not inclined to wait.

  “To hell with the bum roll.” He loosened the front ties on his breeches, grabbed my hands, and pinned them over my head. With one thrust he was inside me.

  “I had no idea that talking about popular fiction would have this effect on you,” I said breathlessly as he started to move. “Remind me to discuss it with you more often.”

  ***

  We were just sitting down to supper when I was called to Goody Alsop’s house.

  The Rede had made its ruling.

  When Annie and I arrived with our two vampire escorts and Jack trailing behind, we found her in the front parlor with Susanna and three unfamiliar witches. Goody Alsop sent the men to the Golden Gosling and steered me toward the group by the fire.

  “Come, Diana, and meet your teachers.” Goody Alsop’s fetch pointed me to an empty chair and withdrew into her mistress’s shadow. All five witches studied me. They looked like a bunch of prosperous city matrons, with their thick woolen gowns in dark, wintry colors. Only their tingling glances gave them away as witches.

  “So the Rede agreed with your initial plan,” I said slowly, trying to meet their eyes. It was never good to show a teacher fear.

  “They did,” Susanna said with resignation. “You will forgive me, Mistress Roydon. I have two boys to think of, and a husband too ill to provide for us. A neighbor’s goodwill can be lost overnight.”

  “Let me introduce you to the others,” Goody Alsop said, turning slightly toward the woman to her right. She was around sixty, short in stature, round of face, and, if her smile was any indication, generous of spirit. “This is Marjorie Cooper.”

  “Diana,” Marjorie said with a nod that set her small ruff rustling. “Welcome to our gathering.”

  While meeting the Rede, I’d learned that Elizabethan witches used the term “gathering” much as modern witches used the word “coven” to indicate a recognized community of witches. Like everything else in London, the city’s gatherings coincided with parish boundaries. Though it was strange to think of witches’ covens and Christian churches fitting so neatly together, it made sound organizational sense and provided an extra measure of safety, since it kept the witches’ affairs among close neighbors.

  There were, therefore, more than a hundred gatherings in London proper and a further two dozen in the suburbs. Like the parishes, the gatherings were organized into larger districts known as wards. Each ward sent one of its elders to the Rede, which oversaw all of the witches’ affairs in the city.

  With panics and witch-hunts brewing, the Rede was worried that the old system of governance was breaking down. London was bursting with creatures already, and more poured in every day. I had heard muttering about the size of the Aldgate gathering—which included more than sixty witches instead of the normal thirteen to twenty—as well as the large gatherings in Cripplegate and Southwark. To avoid the notice of humans, some gatherings had started “hiving off” and splitting into different septs. But new gatherings with inexperienced leaders were proving problematic in these difficult times. Witches in the Rede who were gifted with second sight foresaw troubles ahead.

  “Marjorie is gifted with the magic of earth, like Susanna. Her specialty is remembering,” Goody Alsop explained.

  “I have no need of grimoires or these new almanacs all the booksellers are peddling,” Marjorie said proudly.

  “Marjorie perfectly remembers every spell she has ever mastered and can recall the exact configuration of the stars for every year she has been alive—and for many years when she was not yet born.”

  “Goody Alsop feared you would not be able to write down all you learn here and take it with you. Not only will I help you find the right words so that another witch might use the spells you devise, but I’ll teach you how to be at one with those words so that none can ever take them from you.” Marjorie’s eyes sparkled, and her voice lowered conspiratorially. “And my husband is a vintner. He can get you much better wine than you are drinking now. I understand wine is important to wearhs.”

  I laughed aloud at this, and the other witches joined in. “Thank you, Mistress Cooper. I will pass your offer on to my husband.”

  “Marjorie. We are sisters here.” For once I didn’t cringe at being called another witch’s sister.

  “I am Elizabeth Jackson,” said the elderly woman on the other side of Goody Alsop. She was somewhere between Marjorie and Goody Alsop in age.

  “You’re a waterwitch.” I felt the affinity as soon as she spoke.

  “I am.” Elizabeth had steely gray hair and eyes and was as tall and straight as Marjorie was short and round. While many of the waterwitches in the Rede had been sinuous and flowing, Elizabeth had the brisk clarity of a mountain stream. I sensed she would always tell me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Elizabeth is a gifted seer. She will teach you the art of scrying.”

  “My mother was known for her second sight,” I said hesitantly. “I would like to follow in her footsteps.”

  “But she had no fire,” Elizabeth said decidedly, beginning her truth-telling immediately. “You may not be able to follow your mother in everything, Diana. Fire and water are a potent mix, provided they don’t extinguish each other.”

  “We will see to it that doesn’t happen,” the last witch promised, turning her eyes to me. Until then she’d been studiously avoiding my gaze. Now I could see why: There were golden sparks in her brown eyes, and my third eye shot open in alarm. With that extra sight, I could see the nimbus of light that surrounded her. This must be Catherine Streeter.

  “You’re even . . . even more powerful than the firewitches in the Rede,” I stammered.

  “Catherine is a special witch,” Goody Alsop admitted, “a firewitch born of two firewitches. It happens rarely, as though nature herself knows that such a light cannot be hidden.”

  When my third eye closed, dazzled by the sight of the thrice-blessed firewitch, Catherine seemed to fade. Her brown hair dulled, her eyes dimmed, and her face was handsome but unmemorable. Her magic sprang to life again, however, as soon as she spoke.

  “You have more fire than I expected,” she said thoughtfully.

  “’Tis a pity she was not here when the Armada came,” Elizabeth said.

  “So it’s true? The famous ‘English wind’ that blew the Spanish ships away from England’s shores was raised by witches?” I asked. It was part of witches’ lore, but I’d always dismissed it as a myth.

  “Goody Alsop was most useful to Her Majesty,” Elizabeth said proudly. “Had you been here, I think we might have been able to make burning water—or fiery rain at the very least.”

  “Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Goody Alsop said, holding up one hand. “Diana has not yet made her weaver
’s forspell.”

  “Forspell?” I asked. Like gatherings and the Rede, this was not a term I knew.

  “A forspell reveals the shape of a weaver’s talents. Together we will form a blessed circle. There we will temporarily turn your powers loose to find their own way, unencumbered by words or desires,” Goody Alsop replied. “It will tell us much about your talents and what we must do to train them, as well as reveal your familiar.”

  “Witches don’t have familiars.” This was another human conceit, like worshipping the devil.

  “Weavers do,” Goody Alsop said serenely, motioning toward her fetch. “This is mine. Like all familiars, she is an extension of my talents.”

  “I’m not sure having a familiar is such a good idea in my case,” I said, thinking about the blackened quinces, Mary’s shoes, and the chick. “I have enough to worry about.”

  “That is the reason you cast a forspell—to face your deepest fears so that you can work your magic freely. Still, it can be a harrowing experience. There have been weavers who entered the circle with hair the color of a raven’s wing and left it with tresses as white as snow,” Goody Alsop admitted.

  “But it will not be as heartbreaking as the night the wearh left Diana and the waters rose in her,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “Or as lonely as the night she was closed in the earth,” Susanna said with a shiver. Marjorie nodded sympathetically.

  “Or as frightening as the time the firewitch tried to open you,” Catherine assured me, her fingers turning orange with fury.

  “The moon will be full dark on Friday. Candlemas is but a few weeks away. And we are entering a period that is propitious for spells inclining children toward study,” Marjorie remarked, her face creased with concentration as she recalled the relevant information from her astonishing memory.

  “I thought this was the week for snakebite charms?” Susanna said, drawing a small almanac out of her pocket.

  While Marjorie and Susanna discussed the magical intricacies of the schedule, Goody Alsop, Elizabeth, and Catherine stared at me intently.

  “I wonder . . .” Goody Alsop looked at me with open speculation and tapped a finger against her lips.