“Listen, you’re welcome to keep surfing the Net up here. But we’ve got a problem downstairs. It’s not necessary for two dozen daemons to be watching me.”
The daemon made an indulgent sound. “You’ll know soon enough.”
“Could they watch me from farther away? The Sheldonian? The White Horse?” I was trying to be helpful. “If not, the human readers will start asking questions.”
“We’re not like you,” he said dreamily.
“Does that mean you can’t help or you won’t?” I tried not to sound impatient.
“It’s all the same thing. We need to know, too.”
This was impossible. “Whatever you can do to take some of the pressure off the seats would be greatly appreciated.”
Miriam was still watching me. Ignoring her, I returned to my desk.
At the end of the completely unproductive day, I pinched the bridge of my nose, swore under my breath, and packed up my things.
The next morning the Bodleian was far less crowded. Miriam was scribbling furiously and didn’t look up when I passed. There was still no sign of Clairmont. Even so, everybody was observing the rules that he had clearly, if silently, laid down, and they stayed out of the Selden End. Gillian was in the medieval wing, crouched over her papyri, as were both Scary Sisters and a few daemons. With the exception of Gillian, who was doing real work, the rest went through the motions with perfect respectability. And when I stuck my head around the swinging door into the Upper Reading Room after a hot cup of tea at midmorning, only a few creatures looked up. The musical, coffee-loving daemon was among them. He tipped his fingers and winked at me knowingly.
I got a reasonable amount of work done, although not enough to make up for yesterday. I began by reading alchemical poems—the trickiest of texts—that were attributed to Mary, the sister of Moses. “Three things if you three hours attend,” read one part of the poem, “Are chained together in the End.” The meaning of the verses remained a mystery, although the most likely subject was the chemical combination of silver, gold, and mercury. Could Chris produce an experiment from this poem? I wondered, noting the possible chemical processes involved.
When I turned to another, anonymous poem, entitled “Verse on the Threefold Sophic Fire,” the similarities between its imagery and an illumination I’d seen yesterday of an alchemical mountain, riddled with mines and miners digging in the ground for precious metals and stones, were unmistakable.
Within this Mine two Stones of old were found,
Whence this the Ancients called Holy Ground;
Who knew their Value, Power and Extent,
And Nature how with Nature to Ferment
For these if you Ferment with Natural Gold
Or Silver, their hid Treasures they unfold.
I stifled a groan. My research would become exponentially more complicated if I had to connect not only art and science but art and poetry.
“It must be hard to concentrate on your research with vampires watching you.”
Gillian Chamberlain was standing next to me, her hazel eyes sparking with suppressed malevolence.
“What do you want, Gillian?”
“I’m just being friendly, Diana. We’re sisters, remember?” Gillian’s shiny black hair swung above her collar. Its smoothness suggested that she was not troubled by surges of static electricity. Her power must be regularly released. I shivered.
“I have no sisters, Gillian. I’m an only child.”
“It’s a good thing, too. Your family has caused more than enough trouble. Look at what happened at Salem. It was all Bridget Bishop’s fault.” Gillian’s tone was vicious.
Here we go again, I thought, closing the volume before me. As usual, the Bishops were proving to be an irresistible topic of conversation.
“What are you talking about, Gillian?” My voice was sharp. “Bridget Bishop was found guilty of witchcraft and executed. She didn’t instigate the witch-hunt—she was a victim of it, just like the others. You know that, as does every other witch in this library.”
“Bridget Bishop drew human attention, first with those poppets of hers and then with her provocative clothes and immorality. The human hysteria would have passed if not for her.”
“She was found innocent of practicing witchcraft,” I retorted, bristling.
“In 1680—but no one believed it. Not after they found the poppets in her cellar wall, pins stuck through them and the heads ripped off. Afterward Bridget did nothing to protect her fellow witches from falling under suspicion. She was so independent.” Gillian’s voice dropped. “That was your mother’s fatal flaw, too.”
“Stop it, Gillian.” The air around us seemed unnaturally cold and clear.
“Your mother and father were standoffish, just like you, thinking they didn’t need the Cambridge coven’s support after they got married. They learned, didn’t they?”
I shut my eyes, but it was impossible to block out the image I’d spent most of my life trying to forget: my mother and father lying dead in the middle of a chalk-marked circle somewhere in Nigeria, their bodies broken and bloody. My aunt wouldn’t share the details of their death at the time, so I’d slipped into the public library to look them up. That’s where I’d first seen the picture and the lurid headline that accompanied it. The nightmares had gone on for years afterward.
“There was nothing the Cambridge coven could do to prevent my parents’ murder. They were killed on another continent by fearful humans.” I gripped the arms of my chair, hoping that she wouldn’t see my white knuckles.
Gillian gave an unpleasant laugh. “It wasn’t humans, Diana. If it had been, their killers would have been caught and dealt with.” She crouched down, her face close to mine. “Rebecca Bishop and Stephen Proctor were keeping secrets from other witches. We needed to discover them. Their deaths were unfortunate, but necessary. Your father had more power than we ever dreamed.”
“Stop talking about my family and my parents as though they belong to you,” I warned. “They were killed by humans.” There was a roaring in my ears, and the coldness that surrounded us was intensifying.
“Are you sure?” Gillian whispered, sending a fresh chill into my bones. “As a witch, you’d know if I was lying to you.”
I governed my features, determined not to show my confusion. What Gillian said about my parents couldn’t be true, and yet there were none of the subtle alarms that typically accompanied untruths between witches—the spark of anger, an overwhelming feeling of contempt.
“Think about what happened to Bridget Bishop and your parents the next time you turn down an invitation to a coven gathering,” Gillian murmured, her lips so close to my ear that her breath swept against my skin. “A witch shouldn’t keep secrets from other witches. Bad things happen when she does.”
Gillian straightened and stared at me for a few seconds, the tingle of her glance growing uncomfortable the longer it lasted. Staring fixedly at the closed manuscript before me, I refused to meet her eyes.
After she left, the air’s temperature returned to normal. When my heart stopped pounding and the roaring in my ears abated, I packed my belongings with shaking hands, badly wanting to be back in my rooms. Adrenaline was coursing through my body, and I wasn’t sure how long it would be possible to fend off my panic.
I managed to get out of the library without incident, avoiding Miriam’s sharp glance. If Gillian was right, it was the jealousy of fellow witches that I needed to be wary of, not human fear. And the mention of my father’s hidden powers made something half remembered flit at the edges of my mind, but it eluded me when I tried to fix it in place long enough to see it clearly.
At New College, Fred hailed me from the porter’s lodge with a fistful of mail. A creamy envelope, thick with a distinctive woven feeling, lay on top.
It was a note from the warden, summoning me for a drink before dinner.
In my rooms I considered calling his secretary and feigning illness to get out of the invitation. My head was reelin
g, and there was little chance I could keep down even a drop of sherry in my present state.
But the college had behaved handsomely when I’d requested a place to stay. The least I could do was express my thanks personally. My sense of professional obligation began to supplant the anxiety stirred up by Gillian. Holding on to my identity as a scholar like a lifeline, I resolved to make my appreciation known.
After changing, I made my way to the warden’s lodgings and rang the bell. A member of the college staff opened the door and ushered me inside, leading me to the parlor.
“Hello, Dr. Bishop.” Nicholas Marsh’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and his snowy white hair and round red cheeks made him look like Santa Claus. Soothed by his warmth and armored with a sense of professional duty, I smiled.
“Professor Marsh.” I took his outstretched hand. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“It’s overdue, I’m afraid. I was in Italy, you know.”
“Yes, the bursar told me.”
“Then you have forgiven me for neglecting you for so long,” he said. “I hope to make it up to you by introducing you to an old friend of mine who is in Oxford for a few days. He’s a well-known author and writes about subjects that might interest you.”
Marsh stood aside, giving me a glimpse of a thick head of brown hair peppered with gray and the sleeve of a brown tweed jacket. I froze in confusion.
“Come and meet Peter Knox,” the warden said, taking my elbow gently. “He’s acquainted with your work.”
The wizard stood. Finally I recognized what had been eluding me. Knox’s name had been in the newspaper story about vampire murders. He was the expert the police called in to examine deaths that had an occult twist. My fingers started to itch.
“Dr. Bishop,” Knox said, holding out his hand. “I’ve seen you in the Bodleian.”
“Yes, I believe you have.” I extended my own and was relieved to see that it was not emitting sparks. We clasped hands as briefly as possible.
His right fingertips flickered slightly, a tiny furl and a release of bones and skin that no human would have noticed. It reminded me of my childhood, when my mother’s hands had flickered and furled to produce pancakes and fold laundry. Shutting my eyes, I braced for an outpouring of magic.
The phone rang.
“I must get that, I’m afraid,” Marsh apologized. “Do sit down.”
I sat as far from Knox as possible, perched on a straight-backed wooden chair usually reserved for disgraced junior members of the college.
Knox and I remained silent while Marsh murmured and tutted into the phone. He punched a button on the console and approached me, a glass of sherry in his hand. “That’s the vice-chancellor. Two freshers have gone missing,” he said, using the university’s slang term for new students. “You two chat while I deal with this in my study. Please excuse me.”
Distant doors opened and closed, and muffled voices conferred in the hall before there was silence.
“Missing students?” I said blandly. Surely Knox had magically engineered both the crisis and the phone call that had drawn Marsh away.
“I don’t understand, Dr. Bishop,” Knox murmured. “It seems unfortunate for the university to misplace two children. Besides, this gives us a chance to talk privately.”
“What do we have to talk about?” I sniffed my sherry and prayed for the warden’s return.
“A great many things.”
I glanced at the door.
“Nicholas will be quite busy until we’re through.”
“Let’s get this over with, then, so that the warden can return to his drink.”
“As you wish,” Knox said. “Tell me what brought you to Oxford, Dr. Bishop.”
“Alchemy.” I would answer the man’s questions, if only to get Marsh back into the room, but wasn’t going to tell him more than was necessary.
“You must have known that Ashmole 782 was bewitched. No one with even a drop of Bishop blood in her veins could have failed to notice. Why did you send it back?” Knox’s brown eyes were sharp. He wanted the manuscript as much as Matthew Clairmont did—if not more.
“I was done with it.” It was difficult to keep my voice even.
“Was there nothing about the manuscript that piqued your interest?”
“Nothing.”
Peter Knox’s mouth twisted into an ugly expression. He knew I was lying. “Have you shared your observations with the vampire?”
“I take it you mean Professor Clairmont.” When creatures refused to use proper names, it was a way of denying that those who were not like you were your equals.
Knox’s fingers unwound once more. When I thought he might point them at me, he curled them around the arms of his chair instead. “We all respect your family and what you’ve endured. Nevertheless, questions have been raised about your unorthodox relationship with this creature. You are betraying your ancestral lineage with this self-indulgent behavior. It must stop.”
“Professor Clairmont is a professional colleague,” I said, steering the conversation away from my family, “and I know nothing about the manuscript. It was in my possession for a matter of minutes. Yes, I knew it was under a spell. But that was immaterial to me, since I’d requested it to study the contents.”
“The vampire has wanted that book for more than a century,” Knox said, his voice vicious. “He mustn’t be allowed to have it.”
“Why?” My voice crackled with suppressed anger. “Because it belongs to the witches? Vampires and daemons can’t enchant objects. A witch put that book under a spell, and now it’s back under the same spell. What are you worried about?”
“More than you could possibly comprehend, Dr. Bishop.”
“I’m confident I can keep up, Mr. Knox,” I replied. Knox’s mouth tightened with displeasure when I emphasized his position outside the academy. Every time the wizard used my title, his formality sounded like a taunt, as if he were trying to make a point that he, not I, was the real expert. I might not use my power, and I couldn’t have conjured up my own lost keys, but being patronized by this wizard was intolerable.
“I am disturbed that you—a Bishop—are associating with a vampire.” He held up his hand as a protest bubbled to my lips. “Let’s not insult each other with further untruths. Instead of the natural revulsion you should feel for that animal, you feel gratitude.”
I remained silent, seething.
“And I’m concerned because we are perilously close to catching human attention,” he continued.
“I tried to get the creatures out of the library.”
“Ah, but it’s not just the library, is it? A vampire is leaving drained, bloodless corpses around Westminster. The daemons are unusually restless, vulnerable as ever to their own madness and the swings of energy in the world. We can’t afford to be noticed.”
“You told the reporters that there was nothing supernatural about those deaths.”
Knox looked incredulous. “You don’t expect me to tell humans everything ?”
“I do, actually, when they’re paying you.”
“You’re not only self-indulgent, you’re foolish. That surprises me, Dr. Bishop. Your father was known for his good sense.”
“I’ve had a long day. Is that all?” Standing abruptly, I moved toward the door. Even in normal circumstances, it was difficult to listen to anyone but Sarah and Em talking about my parents. Now—after Gillian’s revelations—there was something almost obscene about it.
“No, it is not,” said Knox unpleasantly. “What I am most intrigued by, at present, is the question of how an ignorant witch with no training of any sort managed to break a spell that has defied the efforts of those far more adept than you will ever be.”
“So that’s why you’re all watching me.” I sat down, my back pressing against the chair’s slats.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he said curtly. “Your success may have been a fluke—an anniversary reaction related to when the spell was first cast. The passag
e of time can interfere with witchcraft, and anniversaries are particularly volatile moments. You haven’t tried to recall it yet, but when you do, it may not come as easily as it did the first time.”
“And what anniversary would we be celebrating?”
“The sesquicentennial.”
I had wondered why a witch would put a spell on the manuscript in the first place. Someone must have been looking for it all those years ago, too. I blanched.
We were back to Matthew Clairmont and his interest in Ashmole 782.
“You are managing to keep up, aren’t you? The next time you see your vampire, ask him what he was doing in the autumn of 1859. I doubt he’ll tell you the truth, but he might reveal enough for you to figure it out on your own.”
“I’m tired. Why don’t you tell me, witch to witch, what your interest is in Ashmole 782?” I’d heard why the daemons wanted the manuscript. Even Matthew had given me some explanation. Knox’s fascination with it was a missing piece of the puzzle.
“That manuscript belongs to us,” Knox said fiercely. “We’re the only creatures who can understand its secrets and the only creatures who can be trusted to keep them.”
“What is in the manuscript? ” I said, temper flaring at last.
“The first spells ever constructed. Descriptions of the enchantments that bind the world together.” Knox’s face grew dreamy. “The secret of immortality. How witches made the first daemon. How vampires can be destroyed, once and for all.” His eyes pierced mine. “It’s the source of all our power, past and present. It cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of daemons or vampires—or humans.”
The events of the afternoon were catching up with me, and I had to press my knees together to keep them from shaking. “Nobody would put all that information in a single book.”
“The first witch did,” Knox said. “And her sons and daughters, too, down through time. It’s our history, Diana. Surely you want to protect it from prying eyes.”
The warden entered the room as if he’d been waiting by the door. The tension was suffocating, but he seemed blissfully unaware of it.
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