“All newly reborn vampires need someone like me to take care of them—and older ones, too, when they are in society. I dressed Madame Ysabeau, and Miladies Freyja and Verin.” Françoise took no notice of Phoebe’s startled reaction. “I took care of Milady Stasia back in the winter of 802, when she was taken ill with the ennui and would not leave her house, not even to hunt.”

Françoise finished her pillowcase and took up a sheet. The hot iron hissed and spit against the damp cloth. Phoebe held her breath. This was more ancient de Clermont history than she had ever heard before, and she did not wish to interrupt.

“I attended on madame when she was in the past with Sieur Matthew, and made sure she did not come to harm when he was about town on business. I kept house for Milady Johanna after Milord Godfrey died in the wars, when she was in a rage and wished to die. I have cooked and cleaned for Sieur Baldwin, and helped Alain take care of Sieur Philippe when he came home from the Nazis a broken man.”

Françoise fixed her dark eyes on Phoebe. “Aren’t you glad now that this is the life I chose: taking care of this family? Because without me, you would be eaten up, spit out, and ground under the heels of every vampire you meet, and Milord Marcus with you.”

Phoebe wasn’t glad, precisely, although the more Françoise spoke the more grateful she was for the advice the woman was delivering. And she still couldn’t understand why anyone with her full faculties—which Françoise obviously possessed—would choose to look after other people. Phoebe supposed it wasn’t dissimilar to Marcus’s choice of medicine, but he’d gone to years and years of schooling for that and it seemed somehow more worthy than Françoise’s path.

The more she considered Françoise’s question, however, the less sure Phoebe was of her answer.

Françoise’s mouth began to curve upward in a slow, deliberate smile.

For the first time since becoming a vampire, Phoebe felt an unmistakable flush of pride. Somehow, simply by keeping silent, she had earned Françoise’s approval. And it mattered to her a great deal more than she might have expected.

Phoebe handed Françoise the lump of sheet that was uppermost in the basket.

“What’s ‘ennui’?” Phoebe asked.

Françoise’s smile widened. “It’s a type of sickness—not so dangerous as Sieur Matthew’s blood rage, you understand, but it can be deadly.”

“Does Stasia still have it?” Phoebe settled back onto her stool, watching Françoise’s movements and taking in how she managed the lengths of damp linen without letting them drag on the floor. The two of them would be spending a lot of time together. If housekeeping was important to Françoise, Phoebe should at least try to discover why.

“Middle-aged white women,” Miriam said as she entered Françoise’s territory.

“What about them?” Phoebe asked, confused.

“They were sample eighty-three—the one you claimed to like second only to cat’s blood,” Miriam explained.

“Oh.” Phoebe blinked.

“We’ll get you some more. Françoise will have it on hand—but you have to ask for it. Specifically. Unless you do, you’ll have nothing but the cat to feed from,” Miriam said.

Whatever was the point of that? Phoebe wondered. Couldn’t she just say, “I’m hungry,” and rummage through the fridge?

Françoise, however, seemed to understand what was going on. She nodded. Phoebe would learn later why this ridiculous rule was being imposed.

“The cat will be sufficient, thank you, Miriam,” Phoebe said stiffly. She simply couldn’t imagine being in such need that she would utter the words “give me the blood of a middle-aged white woman.”

“We’ll see,” Miriam said with a smile. “Come. It’s time for you to learn how to write.”

“I know how to write,” Phoebe said, sounding cross.

“Yes, but we’d like you to do it without setting the paper on fire with excessive friction or carving up the desk.” Miriam crooked her finger in a way that made Phoebe shiver.

For the first time in her life, Phoebe left the kitchen reluctantly. It seemed a place of comfort and safe harbor now, with Françoise and the laundry, the clean glasses, and the hiss of the iron. Upstairs there was nothing but peril and whatever fresh tests her sadistic vampire schoolmistresses could devise.

As the baize-covered door to the kitchen swung shut behind her, Phoebe finally arrived at the answer to Françoise’s question.

“Yes. I’m glad.” Phoebe was back in the kitchen before she had fully formulated a plan to return. Miriam and Freyja were right: thinking of where she wanted to be really was sufficient cause to get her there.

“I thought so. Go now. Don’t keep your maker waiting,” Françoise advised, brandishing the heavy iron in the direction of the door as though it weighed no more than a feather.

Phoebe returned to Miriam’s side. As the baize door flapped its way closed, she heard the strangest sound, something between a cough and a chortle.

It was Françoise—and she was laughing.

14

A Life of Trouble

25 MAY

“Sit. Stay. Wait.” My son’s piping voice carried through the open window, uttering a stream of nonsense that exactly imitated the instructions I gave Hector and Fallon every time we attempted to get back into the house without my getting knocked over. The kitchen door creaked open. There was a pause. “Wait. Stay. Okay.”

Apollo bounded into the room, looking extremely pleased with himself—but not nearly as proud as Philip, who toddled after him holding Fallon’s dog leash, hand in hand with Matthew.

Alarmingly, Fallon’s leather lead was not attached to the griffin.

“Mommy!” Philip hurled himself at my legs. Apollo joined in the embrace, wrapping his wings around us both, cooing with delight.

“Did you have a nice walk?” I smoothed down Philip’s hair, which was inclined to stand straight up at the slightest breeze.

“Very nice.” Matthew gave me a lingering kiss. “You taste of almonds.”

“We’ve been having some breakfast.” I pointed to Becca, whose face was partially obscured by jam and nut butter. Her smile of welcome for her father and brother was unmistakable, however. “Becca has been sharing.”

This was uncharacteristic behavior for our daughter. Becca tracked her food carefully, and had to be reminded that not everything put on the table was solely for her.

Apollo hopped over to Becca’s chair. He sat, long tongue lolling expectantly, his beady eyes fixed on the table, where the remnants of her feast remained. Becca narrowed her eyes at him in warning.

“I see that Rebecca and Apollo are still working out their relationship,” Matthew commented. He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and sat down with the paper.

“Come. Sit. Okay.” Philip kept rattling off commands to the griffin while jiggling the leash enticingly. “Come, ’Pollo. Sit.”

“Let’s get your bib on and some breakfast in you.” I snagged the leash and put it on the table. “Marthe made oatmeal. Your favorite!”

Philip’s preferred breakfast was pale pink goo—a splash of quail blood, some oats, and lumps of berries—with plenty of milk. We called it oatmeal, though food critics might not recognize the dish as such.

“Apollo. Here!” Philip’s patience was running out and his tone was decidedly peevish. “Here!”

“Let Apollo visit with Becca,” I said, trying to distract him by picking him up and tumbling him upside down. All I succeeded in doing, however, was alarming the griffin.

Apollo screeched in horror and launched himself into the air, clucking around Philip and comforting him with pats of his tail. It was not until Philip was right-side up and in his booster seat that the griffin settled back down to earth.

“Have you seen Marcus this morning?” Matthew cocked his head, listening for a sound from his grown son.

“He came through the kitchen while you were out. Said something about taking a run.” I handed Philip a spoon, which he would use to fling the oatmeal around rather than feed himself, and picked up my cup of tea. “He seems on edge.”