A Discovery of Witches

by Deborah Harkness

  “She has good reason to hate witches,” I said, rubbing my temples. “I’m surprised she let me into her house.” If the situation was reversed, and vampires were involved in my parents’ death, I wouldn’t be so forgiving.

  “What about the water?” Sarah interjected. “I’m more worried about the vision Em had of a tempest.”

  “Oh. I started raining last night after Matthew left.” The soggy memory made me shiver.

  “Witchwater,” Sarah breathed, now understanding. “What brought it on?”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I felt . . . empty. When Matthew pulled out of the driveway, the tears I’d been fighting since Domenico showed up all just poured out of me.”

  “Domenico who?” Emily flipped through her mental roster of legendary creatures again.

  “Michele—a Venetian vampire.” My voice filled with anger. “And if he bothers me again, I’m going to rip his head off, vampire or not.”

  “He’s dangerous!” Em cried. “That creature doesn’t play by the rules.”

  “I’ve been told that many times over, and you can rest easy knowing I’m under guard twenty-four hours a day. Don’t worry.”

  “We’ll worry until you’re no longer hanging around with vampires,” Sarah observed.

  “You’ll be worrying for a good long time, then,” I said stubbornly. “I love Matthew, Sarah.”

  “That’s impossible, Diana. Vampires and witches—” Sarah began.

  “Domenico told me about the covenant,” I interjected. “I’m not asking anyone else to break it, and I understand that this might mean you can’t or won’t have anything to do with me. For me there’s no choice.”

  “But the Congregation will do what they must to end this relationship,” Em said urgently.

  “I’ve been told that, too. They’ll have to kill me to do it.” Until this moment I hadn’t said the words out loud, but I’d been thinking them since last night. “Matthew’s harder to get rid of, but I’m a pretty easy target.”

  “You can’t just walk into danger that way.” Em was fighting back tears.

  “Her mother did,” Sarah said quietly.

  “What about my mother?” My voice broke at the mention of her, along with my composure.

  “Rebecca walked straight into Stephen’s arms even though people said it was a bad idea for two witches with their talents to be together. And she refused to listen when people told her to stay out of Nigeria.”

  “All the more reason that Diana should listen now,” Em said. “You’ve only known him for a few weeks. Come back home and see if you can forget about him.”

  “Forget about him?” It was ridiculous. “This isn’t a crush. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

  “Leave her alone, Em. We’ve had enough of that kind of talk in this family. I didn’t forget about you, and she’s not going to forget about him.” Sarah let out her breath with a sigh that carried all the way to the Auvergne. “This may not be the life I would have chosen for you, but we all have to decide for ourselves. Your mother did. I did—and your grandmother did not have an easy time with it, by the way. Now it’s your turn. But no Bishop ever turns her back on another Bishop.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Thank you, Sarah.”

  “Besides,” Sarah continued, working herself into a state, “if the Congregation is made up of things like Domenico Michele, then they can all go to hell.”

  “What does Matthew say about this?” Em asked. “I’m surprised he would leave you once you two had decided to break with a thousand years of tradition.”

  “Matthew hasn’t told me how he feels yet.” I methodically unbent a paper clip.

  There was dead silence on the line.

  Finally Sarah spoke. “What is he waiting for?”

  I laughed out loud. “You’ve done nothing but warn me to stay away from Matthew. Now you’re upset because he refuses to put me in greater danger than I’m already in?”

  “You want to be with him. That should be enough.”

  “This isn’t some kind of magical arranged marriage, Sarah. I get to make my decision. So does he.” The tiny clock with the porcelain face that was sitting on the desk indicated it had been twenty-four hours since he left.

  “If you’re determined to stay there, with those creatures, then be careful,” Sarah warned as we said good-bye. “And if you need to come home, come home.”

  After I hung up, the clock struck the half hour. It was already dark in Oxford.

  To hell with waiting. I lifted the receiver again and dialed his number.

  “Diana?” He was clearly anxious.

  I laughed. “Did you know it was me, or was it caller ID?”

  “You’re all right.” The anxiety was replaced with relief.

  “Yes, your mother is keeping me vastly entertained.”

  “I was afraid of that. What lies has she been telling you?”

  The more trying parts of the day could wait. “Only the truth,” I said. “That her son is some diabolical combination of Lancelot and Superman.”

  “That sounds like Ysabeau,” he said with a hint of laughter. “What a relief to know that she hasn’t been irreversibly changed by sleeping under the same roof as a witch.”

  Distance no doubt helped me evade him with my half-truths. Distance couldn’t diminish my vivid picture of him sitting in his Morris chair at All Souls, however. The room would be glowing from the lamps, and his skin would look like polished pearl. I imagined him reading, the deep crease of concentration between his brows.

  “What are you drinking?” It was the only detail my imagination couldn’t supply.

  “Since when have you cared about wine?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Since I found out how much there was to know.” Since I found out that you cared about wine, you idiot.

  “Something Spanish tonight—Vega Sicilia.”

  “From when?”

  “Do you mean which vintage?” Matthew teased. “It’s 1964.”

  “A relative baby, then?” I teased back, relieved at the change in his mood.

  “An infant,” he agreed. I didn’t need a sixth sense to know that he was smiling.

  “How did everything go today?”

  “Fine. We’ve increased our security, though nothing was missing. Someone tried to hack in to the computers, but Miriam assures me there’s no way anyone could break in to her system.”

  “Are you coming back soon?” The words escaped before I could stop them, and the ensuing silence stretched longer than was comfortable. I told myself it was the connection.

  “I don’t know,” he said coolly. “I’ll be back when I can.”

  “Do you want to talk to your mother? I could find her for you.” His sudden aloofness hurt, and it was a struggle to keep my voice even.

  “No, you can tell her the labs are fine. The house, too.”

  We said good-bye. My chest was tight, and it was difficult to inhale. When I managed to stand and turn around, Matthew’s mother was waiting in the doorway.

  “That was Matthew. Nothing at the lab or the house was damaged. I’m tired, Ysabeau, and not very hungry. I think I’ll go to bed.” It was nearly eight, a perfectly respectable time to turn in.

  “Of course.” Ysabeau stepped out of my way with glittering eyes. “Sleep well, Diana.”

  Chapter 25

  Marthe had been up to Matthew’s study while I was on the phone, and sandwiches, tea, and water were waiting for me. She’d loaded the fireplace with logs to burn through the night, and a handful of candles shed their golden glow. The same inviting light and warmth upstairs would be in the bedroom, too, but my mind would not shut off, and trying to sleep would be futile. The Aurora manuscript was waiting for me on Matthew’s desk. Sitting down at my computer, I avoided the sight of his winking armor and switched on his space-age, minimalist desk light to read.

  “I spoke aloud: Give me knowledge of my end and the measure of my days, so I may know my frailty. My lifetime is n
o longer than the width of my hand. It is only a moment, compared to yours.”

  The passage only made me think of Matthew.

  Trying to concentrate on alchemy was pointless, so I decided to make a list of queries regarding what I’d already read. All that was needed was a pen and a piece of paper.

  Matthew’s massive mahogany desk was as dark and solid as its owner, and it exuded the same gravitas. It had drawers extending down both sides of the space left for his knees, the drawers resting on round, bun-shaped feet. Just below the writing surface, running all around the perimeter, was a thick band of carving. Acanthus leaves, tulips, scrolls, and geometrical shapes invited you to trace their outlines. Unlike the surface of my desk—which was always piled so high with papers, books, and half-drunk cups of tea that you risked disaster whenever you tried to work on it—this desk held only an Edwardian desk pad, a sword-shaped letter opener, and the lamp. Like Matthew, it was a bizarrely harmonious blend of ancient and modern.

  There were, however, no office supplies in sight. I grasped the round brass pull on the top right-hand drawer. Inside, everything was neat and precisely arranged. The Montblanc pens were segregated from the Montblanc pencils, and the paper clips were arranged by size. After selecting a pen and putting it on the desk, I attempted to open the remaining drawers. They were locked. The key wasn’t underneath the paper clips—I dumped them on the desk, just to be sure.

  An unmarked sheet of pale green blotting paper stretched between the desk pad’s leather bumpers. In lieu of a legal pad, that would have to do. Picking up my computer to clear the desk, I knocked the pen to the floor.

  It had fallen under the drawers and was just out of reach. I crawled into the desk’s kneehole to retrieve it. Worming my hand under the drawers, my fingers found the thick barrel just as my eyes spotted the outline of a drawer in the dark wood above.

  Frowning, I wriggled out from under the desk. There was nothing in the deep carving circling the desktop that released the catch on the concealed drawer. Leave it to Matthew to stash basic supplies in a drawer that was difficult to open. It would serve him right if every inch of his blotter was covered with graffiti when he returned home.

  I wrote the number 1 in thick black ink on the green paper. Then I froze.

  A desk drawer that was difficult to find was designed to hide something.

  Matthew kept secrets—this I knew. But we had known each other only a few weeks, and even the closest of lovers deserved privacy. Still, Matthew’s tight-lipped manner was infuriating, and his secrets surrounded him like a fortress devised to keep other people—me—out.

  Besides, I only needed a piece of paper. Hadn’t he rifled through my belongings at the Bodleian when he was looking for Ashmole 782? We’d barely met when he pulled that stunt. And he had left me to shift for myself in France.

  As I carefully recapped the pen, my conscience nevertheless prickled. But my sense of injury helped me to cast that warning aside.

  Pushing and pulling at every bump and bulge, my fingers searched the carvings on the desk’s front edge once more without success. Matthew’s letter opener rested invitingly near my right hand. It might be possible to wedge it into the seam underneath and pry the drawer open. Given the age of the desk, the historian in me squawked—much louder than my conscience had. Violating Matthew’s privacy and engaging in ethically questionable behavior might be permissible, but I wasn’t going to deface an antique.

  Under the desk once more, I found it was too dark to see the underside of the drawer clearly, but my fingers located something cold and hard embedded in the wood. To the left of the drawer’s nearly imperceptible join was a small metal bump approximately one long vampire reach from the front of the desk. It was round and had cross-hatching in the center—to make it look like a screw or an old nail head.

  There was a soft click overhead when I pushed it.

  Standing, I stared into a tray about four inches deep. It was lined with black velvet, and there were three depressions in the thick padding. Each held a bronze coin or medal.

  The largest one had a building’s outline cut into its surface and rested in the midst of a hollow nearly four inches across. The image was surprisingly detailed and showed four steps leading up to a door flanked by two columns. Between them was a shrouded figure. The building’s crisp outlines were marred by fragments of black wax. Around the edge of the coin were the words “militie Lazari a Bethania.”

  The knights of Lazarus of Bethany.

  Gripping the tray’s edges to steady myself, I abruptly sat down.

  The metal disks weren’t coins or medals. They were seals—the kind used to close official correspondence and certify property transactions. A wax impression attached to an ordinary piece of paper could once have commanded armies to leave the field or auctioned off great estates.

  Based on the residue, at least one seal had been used recently.

  Fingers shaking, I pried one of the smaller disks from the tray. Its surface bore a copy of the same building. The columns and the shrouded figure of Lazarus—the man from Bethany whom Christ raised from the dead after he’d been entombed for four days—were unmistakable. Here Lazarus was depicted stepping out of a shallow coffin. But no words encircled this seal. Instead the building was surrounded by a snake, its tail in its mouth.

  I couldn’t close my eyes quickly enough to banish the sight of the de Clermont family standard and its silver ouroboros snapping in the breeze above Sept-Tours.

  The seal lay in my palm, its bronze surfaces gleaming. I focused on the shiny metal, willing my new visionary power to shed light on the mystery. But I’d spent more than two decades ignoring the magic in my blood, and it felt no compunction to come to my aid now.

  Without a vision, my mundane historical skills would have to be put to work. I examined the back of the small seal closely, taking in its details. A cross with flared edges divided the seal into quarters, similar to the one Matthew had worn on his tunic in my vision. In the upper right quadrant of the seal was a crescent moon, its horns curved upward and a six-pointed star nestled in its belly. In the lower left quadrant was a fleur-de-lis, the traditional symbol of France.

  Inscribed around the edge of the seal was the date MDCI—1601 in Roman numerals—along with the words “secretum Lazari”— “the secret of Lazarus.”

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that Lazarus, like a vampire, had made the journey from life to death and back again. Moreover, the cross, combined with a legendary figure from the Holy Land and the mention of knights, strongly suggested that the seals in Matthew’s desk drawer belonged to one of the orders of Crusader knights established in the Middle Ages. The best known were the Templars, who had mysteriously disappeared in the early fourteenth century after being accused of heresy and worse. But I’d never heard of the Knights of Lazarus.

  Turning the seal this way and that to catch the light, I focused on the date 1601. It was late for a medieval chivalric order. I searched my memory for important events of that year that might shed light on the mystery. Queen Elizabeth I beheaded the Earl of Essex, and the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe died under far less colorful circumstances. Neither of these events seemed remotely relevant.

  My fingers moved lightly over the carving. The meaning of MDCI washed over me.

  Matthew de Clermont.

  These were letters, not Roman numerals. It was an abbreviation of Matthew’s name: MDCl. I was misreading the final letter.

  The two-inch disk sat in my palm, and my fingers closed firmly around it, pressing the incised surface deep into the skin.

  This smaller disk must have been Matthew’s private seal. The power of such seals was so great that they were usually destroyed when someone died or left office so that no one else could use them to commit fraud.

  And only one knight would have both the great seal and a personal seal in his possession: the order’s leader.

  Why Matthew kept the seals hidden puzzled me. Who cared about or even remembered the Kn
ights of Lazarus, never mind his onetime role in the order? My attention was captured by the black wax on the great seal.

  “It’s not possible,” I whispered numbly, shaking my head. Knights in shining armor belonged to the past. They weren’t active today.

  The Matthew-size suit of armor gleamed in the candlelight.

  I dropped the metal disk into the drawer with a clatter. The flesh of my palm had poured into the impressions and now carried its image, right down to its flared cross, crescent moon and star, and fleur-de-lis.

  The reason Matthew had the seals, and the reason fresh wax clung to one of them, was that they were still in use. The Knights of Lazarus were still in existence.

  “Diana? Are you all right?” Ysabeau’s voice echoed up from the foot of the stairs.

  “Yes, Ysabeau!” I called, staring at the seal’s image on my hand. “I’m reading my e-mail and got some unexpected news, that’s all!”

  “Shall I send Marthe up for the tray?”

  “No!” I blurted. “I’m still eating.”

  Her footsteps receded toward the salon. When there was complete silence, I let out my breath.

  Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, I flipped the other seal over in its velvet-lined niche. It was nearly identical to Matthew’s, except that the upper right quadrant held only the crescent moon and “Philippus” was inscribed around the border.

  This seal had belonged to Matthew’s father, which mean that the Knights of Lazarus were a de Clermont family affair.

  Certain there would be no more clues about the order in the desk, I turned the seals so that Lazarus’s tomb was facing me once more. The drawer made a hushed click as it slid invisibly into position underneath the desk.

  I picked up the table that Matthew used to hold his afternoon wine and carried it over to the bookcases. He wouldn’t mind me looking through his library—or so I told myself, kicking off my loafers. The table’s burnished surface gave a warning creak when I swung my feet onto it and stood, but the wood held fast.

  The wooden toy at the far right of the top shelf was at eye level now. I sucked in a deep breath and pulled out the first item from the opposite end. It was ancient—the oldest manuscript I’d ever handled. The leather cover complained when it opened, and the smell of old sheepskin rose from the pages.