Time's Convert

“Believing you are being manipulated and having proof of it are very different things,” Fernando said.

“I wouldn’t say ‘manipulated,’ exactly.” Like “trauma,” “manipulation” sounded so negative and malicious.

“To give him credit, Philippe was uncommonly good at it,” Fernando continued. “When I first met him, I thought he must be part witch to be able to predict the actions that others would take with such accuracy. Now I know that he was just an expert judge of a creature’s ethics—not just their moral sense, but the habits of thought and body that inform every action.”

Even now, though Philippe was a ghost, I could feel his eyes upon me. I glanced across the landing.

There he stood, clothed in the dark robes of a medieval prince, his arms crossed before him and a slight smile on his face.

Watching.

“I know he’s there. I can feel him, too.” Fernando jerked his head toward the corner. “Ysabeau might drive his spirit away with her need, but not I. I would have liked Philippe’s acceptance, of course, but I have never needed anything from him.”

Hugh was always Philippe’s favorite, you see,” Fernando continued. “That never changed—not even after Hugh mated with a man with skin too dark to pass as white, a man who could not be useful to the family except as a servant or a slave. I could never sit down at the table next to Hugh, or join him in the corridors of power where Philippe was so at home.”

Whatever hurt Philippe had caused Fernando had been tempered with bitterness over the course of many centuries, and his voice remained steady and even because of it.

“Do you know why Hugh was so special to his father?” Fernando asked.

I shook my head.

“Because Philippe could not figure him out,” Fernando said. “None of us could. Not even me, though I drank from his heart vein. There was something mysterious and pure in Hugh that could never be touched or known. One felt it nonetheless, always waiting to be discovered. Without possessing that missing piece of Hugh, Philippe could never be sure of him or what he might do.”

I thought of Matthew’s decision not to probe into the twins’ DNA for genetic markers of magic and blood rage. Fernando’s story made me even more confident that it was the right one.

“You remind me of Hugh, and have that same aura of holding a secret you are not yet ready to share,” Fernando mused. “I think Philippe would have had a devil of a time keeping up with you. Perhaps that is why he made you his daughter.”

“You’re saying Philippe took me as his blood-sworn daughter because he was bored?” I said with a hint of amusement.

“No—it was the challenge. Philippe loved a challenge. And there was nothing he admired more than someone who stood up to him,” Fernando replied. “It is why Philippe was so fond of Marcus, too—although he figured out what made Matthew’s son tick faster than a clockmaker. He proved that in 1790, and after that, too.”

“New Orleans,” I said, thinking ahead to the revelations that were yet to come.

Fernando nodded. “But only Marcus can tell that story.”

* * *

—

MARCUS’S ROOM AT LES REVENANTS was, like most of the bedrooms, tucked into one of the round towers. Because I had wanted all of Matthew’s family to feel welcome and at home here, I’d consulted each of them on what we could do to make the space comfortably and uniquely theirs. Marcus wanted nothing more than a bed with plenty of pillows so he could read in it, a deep chair by the window for watching the world go by, some thick rugs to keep the room quiet, and a television. Today the door to his room was slightly ajar, and I took it as a sign that he was receiving visitors.

Before I could rap on it to request entry, Marcus opened it.

“Diana.” Marcus ushered me in. “We thought you might come.”

Matthew and Ysabeau were with him.

“You’re busy,” I said, withdrawing slightly. “I’ll come back later.”

“Stay,” Marcus said. “We’re talking about heresy and treason. Typically cheerful subjects for members of the de Clermont family.”

“Marcus is telling us what it was like for him after Philippe sent him away.” Ysabeau was watching her grandson closely.

“Let’s not mince words, Grand-mère. Grandfather banished me.” Marcus had Common Sense in his hand. He held it up. “I left with this book, Fanny, and a sack of letters for Matthew. And I wasn’t asked to come back again for half a century.”

“You made it clear that you didn’t want us to interfere in your life,” Ysabeau said, her face stony.

“But you did interfere.” Marcus paced the edges of the room like a caged animal. “Philippe was still directing my life. Grandfather spent most of the next hundred years dogging my footsteps. Edinburgh, London, Philadelphia, New York, New Orleans. No matter where I was, or what I was doing, there were always reminders that he was watching. Judging.”

“I didn’t realize you knew,” Ysabeau said.

“You can’t have thought I was that oblivious,” Marcus said. “Not after those last days in Paris, with you turning up at Gil’s house—with Tom Paine, no less. Then Fanny appeared at the Café Procope. Finally, Philippe himself appeared in Veronique’s flat. It was all a bit orchestrated.”

“Not Philippe’s finest moment,” Ysabeau agreed, her eyes glittering strangely. It looked as though there was a red film over them.

Ysabeau was crying.

“That’s enough, Marcus,” Matthew said, concerned for his mother’s well-being. She had still not fully recovered from Philippe’s death, nor had she stopped grieving.

“When did this family decide the truth was unacceptable?” Marcus demanded.

“Honesty was never part of our family code,” Ysabeau said. “Right from the very start, we had so much to hide.”

“My contracting blood rage didn’t make the de Clermonts more open,” Matthew said, accepting part of the blame. “I often think of how different everything would be, had I not been susceptible to it.”

He sounded wistful.

“You wouldn’t have Becca and Philip, for a start,” Marcus retorted. “You’ve got to stop with this regret, Matthew, or you are going to damage your children in ways that you won’t be able fix, like you did for me in New Orleans.”

Matthew looked startled.

“I knew, Matthew,” Marcus said wearily. “I knew Philippe sent you, and that you would have let me sort it out myself if left to your own devices. I knew that he ordered us all dead—Philippe wouldn’t have made an exception for me, or for anyone else, not if our existence would put Ysabeau in danger. You disobeyed Grandfather’s orders, even though Juliette was right at your elbow, egging you on to do the ‘right thing’ and put me down.”

I had wanted to know about New Orleans and thought it would be hard to get Marcus to talk about that terrible time. It seemed he was ready to revisit what had happened there.

“Philippe was always more ruthless with those he loved than those he pitied,” Ysabeau said. Something in her expression told me she knew this firsthand.

“Father wasn’t perfect, you’re right,” Matthew said. “Nor was he all-knowing and all-seeing. He never dreamed you would go back to America, for a start. Philippe did everything he could to make England attractive to you—Edinburgh, the house in London, William Graham. But there were two things he just couldn’t control.”

“What?” Marcus asked, genuinely curious.

“The unpredictability of epidemic disease and your gifts as a healer,” Matthew replied. “Philippe was so busy trying to keep you away from Veronique and the Terror in France that he forgot the ties you had to Philadelphia. After Marat was assassinated, Philippe gave notice to the captain of every ship that they were not to transport you across the channel for any reason. If they did, they would find their business affairs in ruins.”

“Really?” Marcus looked impressed. “Well, to be fair, only a lunatic would have chosen to go to Philadelphia in 1793. The guillotine was less terrifying than yellow fever. Quicker, too.”