“Mom was trying to keep Dad’s secret—and mine. She wouldn’t have been able to lie to you,” I said, bristling at the criticism. Witches could smell another witch’s falsehoods with the same ease that Matthew’s dogs could track deer. “What did Grandma do with you and Mom, when you were growing up?”

“Oh, she was a fan of Dr. Spock. Mom didn’t worry too much about what we did, provided we didn’t burn the house down,” Sarah said.

This was not what I wanted to hear.

“There’s no need to be concerned that your children might develop magical talent, Diana,” Sarah said soothingly. “Bishops have been doing just that for centuries. You should be thrilled they’re showing signs of aptitude at such an early age.”

“But Philip and Becca aren’t ordinary witches,” I said. “They’re Bright Borns. They’re part vampire.”

“Magic will out, vampire blood or no vampire blood.” Sarah took another bite of shortbread. “I still don’t see why you interrupted our vacation because Philip engaged in a little bit of time-bending. I’m sure it was harmless.”

“Because Diana’s anxious, Sarah, and she wanted you to make her feel better,” Agatha said, her tone suggesting this was perfectly obvious.

“Goddess save us, not again,” Sarah said, flinging her hands in the air in frustration. “I thought you were over being afraid of magic.”

“Maybe for myself, but not for the children,” I said.

“They’re babies!” Sarah said, as though this were sufficient reason to cast worry aside. “Besides, you have lots of space and too much furniture. They may break things. So what?”

“Break things?” I was incredulous. “I don’t care about things. I’m concerned for their safety. I’m afraid that Philip can see time and manipulate it and can’t yet walk in a straight line. I’m afraid that he might disappear and I won’t be able to find him. I’m afraid that Becca will try to follow him, and end up in an entirely different place and time. I’m afraid that Satu Järvinen will find out, or one of her friends, and demand the witches investigate this precocious manifestation of magic in my children as a way of getting back at me for spellbinding her. I’m afraid that Gerbert will discover that Philip and Becca are even more interesting than he thought they might be, and will become fixated on them.”

My voice rose with each new fear until I was practically shouting.

“And I am deathly afraid that this is only the beginning!” I finished.

“Welcome to parenthood,” Agatha said serenely. She held out the shortbread. “Have a cookie. You’ll feel better. Trust me.”

I was a great believer in the power of carbohydrates, but not even Marthe’s baking—spectacular though it might be—was going to solve this dilemma.

* * *

—

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the twins and I were playing on a blanket under the sprawling willow that was tucked into the corner where the moat curved around Les Revenants. We had collected sticks, leaves, flowers, and stones and were arranging them in patterns on the soft wool.

I watched, fascinated, as Philip selected items according to their textures and shapes while Becca preferred sorting her treasures by color. Even at this young age, the twins were developing their own likes and dislikes.

“Red,” I told Becca, looking at a bright leaf from a Japanese maple that was kept in a pot in the courtyard, a tightly furled rosebud, and a sprig of cardinal flower.

She nodded, her face scrunched up in concentration.

“Can you find more red?” I asked. There was a reddish pebble, and some bee balm that was such a dark pink that it bordered on crimson.

Becca handed me a green oak leaf.

“Green,” I said, putting it next to the rose. Becca immediately moved it and started amassing another pile.

As I watched the children play under a blue sky, the willow branches sighing gently in the wind above us and the grass making a bright cushion under the blanket, the future seemed less dark than it had inside while talking to Sarah and Agatha. I was glad the twins would come of age in a time when playing was seen as a form of learning. The lessons Marcus had been taught in The New England Primer were weighted far more toward control than freedom.

Still, I needed to help them find balance—not just between playfulness and discipline, but between the other opposing tendencies in their blood. Magic needed to be part of their lives, but I didn’t want them to grow up thinking of witchcraft as a labor-saving device. Nor did I want them to think of it as a tool of revenge or power to hold over others. Instead, I wanted them to equate magic with ordinary moments like these.

I picked up a sprig of muguet de bois. The perfumed flowers of lily of the valley always reminded me of my mother, and their white and pink bells looked like ruffled caps that might hide a smiling face inside.

The breeze set the small flowers dancing on their delicate stems.

I whispered to the wind, and the faint sound of bells could be heard. It was a small bit of elemental magic—so small that it didn’t stir up the power I’d absorbed along with the Book of Life.

Philip looked up, his attention captured by the magical sound.

I blew on the flowers, and the sound of bells grew louder.

“Again, Mama!” Becca said, clapping her hands.

“Your turn.” I held the sprig between her lips and mine. Becca pursed her lips and gave a mighty blow. I laughed, and the sound of bells swelled and grew.

“Me. Me.” Philip grabbed at the flowers, but I held on to them.

This time, with three witches blowing on the dancing bells, the peals were even louder.

Worried that the sound might carry to warmbloods who would wonder how they could hear church bells so far away from town, I stuck the stem into the ground.

“Floreto,” I said, sprinkling some earth over the sprig. The flowers grew larger, and they craned upward. Inside each bell the pale green stamens seemed to form eyes and a mouth around the longer pistil that made up its nose.

By this point the children were mesmerized, staring openmouthed at the floral creature waving its leaves in welcome. Becca waved back.

Matthew appeared, looking concerned. Then he saw the waving lily of the valley, and his expression turned to surprise, then pride.

“I thought I smelled magic,” Matthew said softly, joining us on the blanket.

“You did.” The stem was beginning to wilt. I decided it was time for the lily of the valley to take a bow and for my impromptu magic show to end.

Matthew clapped in appreciation, and the children joined in. Working magic seldom inspired me to laugh, but on this occasion, it did.

Philip went back to his smooth pebbles and velvety roses, while Becca continued to amass everything green that she could find, running around on the thick grass with unsteady legs. Neither of them seemed to think what I’d done was cause for concern.

“That was a big step,” Matthew said, drawing me close.

“I’ll always worry when they do magic,” I said, settling into Matthew’s arms as we watched the twins play.

“Of course you will. I’ll worry every time they run after a deer,” Matthew replied. He pressed his lips against mine. “But one of a parent’s responsibilities is modeling good behavior for their children. You did that today.”

“I just hope that Becca waits before delving into spell casting and playing with time,” I said. “One budding wizard is all I can handle at the moment.”

“Rebecca might not wait for long,” Matthew observed, watching his daughter blowing kisses at a rosebud, her expression intent.

“Today, I’m not borrowing trouble. Neither of them has done anything alarming for almost six hours—not since Philip put Cuthbert in the dog’s food bowl. I wish I could freeze this moment and keep it forever,” I said, staring up at the white clouds scudding across a sky that was brightly blue with possibilities.

“Maybe you have—in their memories, at least,” Matthew said.

It was comforting to think that Philip and Becca might, a hundred years from now, recall the day their mother did magic—just for fun, just because she could, just because it was a beautiful May day and there was room for wonder and delight in it.