Time's Convert
“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 SEPT-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.
Marthe was working in the next bed, weeding around the leafy tops of carrots and the pale green stalks of celery. She had come from Les Revenants, where she had been helping Diana and Matthew with the children. Sarah and Agatha were still there, along with Marcus and Jack, so they didn’t need her assistance as much as they had when they first arrived, jet-lagged and exhausted, from America.
Phoebe wiped a dirty hand across her cheek. There was a tiny fly there, and it was driving her crazy. Then she resumed digging.
The sun was warm on her back, and the ground underneath her hands smelled fresh, like life. Phoebe plunged her trowel into the soil, breaking it up, readying it to be planted with the seedlings Marthe wanted them to move from the greenhouse.
Phoebe was sure there was some lesson to be learned from her work with Marthe, just as there were lessons to be learned from Françoise and Ysabeau. Now that she was at Sept-Tours, lessons were woven into every activity.
Since her father had been hospitalized, everything around Phoebe had shifted. Miriam had gone back to Oxford, placing her entirely in Ysabeau’s care. Freyja had not wanted to spend these weeks before Phoebe made her decision under her stepmother’s roof, though she planned on coming down for the day itself. In just two more weeks Baldwin would be here, and the next stage of Phoebe’s life would begin. She would be a fledgling vampire then.
Within Ysabeau’s household, the four women coexisted with remarkably few outbursts and little fuss. This was not how things had been in Phoebe’s house growing up, where the three Taylor women had always been jockeying for position and control. Françoise and Marthe were a formidable pair, both of them forces of nature, neither of them yielding an inch of their own power to the other, each respecting the other’s carefully delineated sphere of influence. Phoebe still didn’t understand what all the divisions of responsibility were, but she could sense adjustments to them whenever Marthe appeared in the family apartments to look after Ysabeau, or when Françoise bustled through the kitchen on the way to mend a shirt.
Authority. Power. Status. These were the variables that shaped a vampire’s life. One day, Phoebe would understand them. Until then, she was content to watch and learn from two women who clearly knew exactly how to not only survive, but thrive.
But it was from the castle’s chatelaine that Phoebe was learning the most about how to be a vampire. According to Françoise, Ysabeau was the oldest and wisest vampire left on earth. Whether or not this was true, Ysabeau made Freyja and even Miriam seem young and inexperienced by comparison. As for Phoebe, she felt every bit the infant whenever she was in the woman’s presence.
“There you are.” Ysabeau glided across the garden, her feet making no sound on the gravel, her movements smoother and more elegant than even Madame Elena’s. “You two do know that you can’t really dig to China, as the ancients hoped.”
Phoebe laughed. “There go my morning plans, then.”
“Why don’t you walk with me instead?” Ysabeau suggested.
Phoebe stuck her spade in the ground and hopped to her feet. She loved Ysabeau’s walks. Each one took her through a different part of the castle or its grounds. Ysabeau told her stories about the family as they strolled through the courtyard or the house, pointing out where the laundries had been, and the candlemaker, and the blacksmith.