* * *

—

MARCUS AND VANDERSLICE ARRIVED in New York the following January. The two of them started out at the wharves and warehouses of the lower tip of Manhattan, scratching out a living helping unload and load ships. The waterfront felt familiar, like Philadelphia but on a smaller scale. What New York lacked in size it more than made up for in violence, however. Gangs of humans roamed the streets, and there was a thriving black market in contraband and stolen goods. Marcus and his son participated in this marginal economy, helping themselves to unattended cargo and reselling it. Slowly, they began to accumulate some money—and a reputation for outliving most of their competitors. Vanderslice earned the nickname “Lucky Claes” because of it, but most people just called him Lucky, just as most called Marcus “Doc.”

It was only a matter of time before Marcus grew tired of the thieving and the drinking that Claes enjoyed and instead devoted more time to his medical work. Like Philadelphia, New York had its fair share of yellow fever outbreaks, and Marcus found healing the sick was more satisfying than amassing a fortune. Between epidemics, Marcus tended to the problems of poverty among the city population and fought the constant scourges of typhus, cholera, and worms.

Vanderslice felt differently. He liked the pleasures that money brought. When Marcus encouraged him to pursue his own business interests, Vanderslice fell in with the wrong business partners, a pair of vampires newly arrived from Amsterdam with money to burn and no scruples. The Dutch vampires destroyed their rivals without a second thought or a pang of guilt, convinced that survival was the only evidence of valor. Vanderslice was soon spending more time with them than he was with Marcus, and the distance between them grew.

Marcus, who knew nothing about how to raise a child and even less about how to raise a man, failed to stem Vanderslice’s rush toward inevitable disaster. Marcus’s approach to fatherhood had none of Obadiah’s violence, or Philippe’s watchfulness, but was composed instead of Tom Buckland’s unquestioning support, Dr. Otto’s cheerfulness, and Matthew’s benign neglect. This gentle concoction gave Vanderslice enough freedom to indulge in serious mischief with drunken whores and endless high-stakes card games without having to face any serious consequences.

One March morning in 1797, just days after John Adams was inaugurated as president, Marcus found Vanderslice at the foot of the stairs that led to their rented rooms, his throat cut from ear to ear, lying in a pool of his own blood, a victim of a risky gamble or a business deal that turned sour. Marcus used his own blood to seal the wound and tried to force more of it down Vanderslice’s throat to revive him, but it was too late. His son—his family—was gone. No amount of vampire blood could bring back a lifeless corpse.

Marcus held Vanderslice and wept. It was the first time he had cried since he was a child, and what fell from his eyes this time was not salt water but blood. Gallowglass was proved right: Marcus did regret making Claes a vampire. Marcus erected a stone marker over Vanderslice’s grave and swore he would abide by his promise to Philippe. He would never make another child without his grandfather’s permission.

After Vanderslice’s death, Marcus devoted himself entirely to medicine, working in the hospitals at Belle Vue and on Second Avenue. The practice of medicine seemed to change daily, with inoculation giving way to vaccination and physicians abandoning bloodletting in favor of other treatments. Marcus’s Edinburgh education served him well, providing a solid foundation on which to build his skills. With a scalpel in one hand and his medical chest nearby, Marcus focused on his profession instead of his personal life.

Marcus was in New York, alone, when George Washington died in December 1799. A few weeks later, the century in which Marcus was born drew to a close. The events of the Revolutionary War were fading into memory for most Americans. Marcus wondered where Veronique was, and if Patience had had more children, and if his mother was still alive. He thought of Gallowglass, and wished his cousin were in New York to celebrate with him. Marcus wrote a letter to Lafayette, but did not know where to send it and so burned the paper in the fireplace so the wind might carry his good wishes to his absent friend. Marcus remembered his only child, Vanderslice, and felt regret for the ways he had failed him.

Revelers outside his house in the village of Greenwich, just on the outskirts of the city, welcomed the new century with enthusiastic shouts and dancing. Inside, Marcus poured himself a glass of wine, opened the worn covers of his copy of Common Sense, and remembered his youth.

The birthday of a new world is at hand. Marcus read the familiar words over and over, like a prayer, and hoped that Paine’s prognostication would be proven true.

31

The True Father

4 JULY

We didn’t usually celebrate Independence Day. But we had a Revolutionary War veteran in the house this year—two, actually, if one counted Matthew’s service. I asked Sarah what she thought we should do in honor of the occasion.

“Are you sure Marcus would want to remember the war, and everything that came before and after?” Sarah looked doubtful. “He can’t even eat flag cake. What’s the point?”

The Bishop contribution to every Madison bake sale had been a vanilla sheet cake, with white frosting and rows of strawberries for stripes and blueberries for the blue field of stars.

“He’s had a difficult few days, it’s true,” I said. Marcus’s account of Philadelphia and what had happened there was on everyone’s mind. No matter where our conversations started this summer, they always seemed to end with a tale of rebirth and the complications that followed.

Phoebe seemed both with us all the time and very far away as a result. I couldn’t imagine how difficult the strange push and pull between past, present, and future felt to Marcus.

In the end, Marcus took Independence Day on himself.

“I’ve been thinking,” Marcus said on the morning of the Fourth of July, “what about you and me put on a fireworks display tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I couldn’t imagine how Hector and Fallon would react to all that banging and booming—never mind Apollo and the twins.

“Come on, it will be fun. The weather is perfect,” he insisted.

This was the Marcus I remembered from Oxford—irrepressible, energetic, and full of charm and enthusiasm. With every shared memory, and as each passing day brought him closer to his August reunion with Phoebe, a little more of his hope and optimism returned. Marcus was less tangled in the strands of time that surrounded him. There were still red strands in a snarl of pain and regret, but there were hints of green for balance and healing, as well as twists of black and white for courage and optimism, along with Marcus’s signature, sincere blue.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked with a laugh.

“Something with lots of color. It has to sparkle, of course, or Becca won’t like it,” Marcus said with a grin. “We can use the moat’s reflections to make it seem like there are fireworks on the ground as well as in the sky.”

“This is beginning to sound like a fireworks display at Versailles,” I said. “I’m surprised you don’t want illuminated fountains and arcs of water, accompanied by something by Handel.”

“I’m up for that if you are.” Marcus surveyed me over his coffee cup, a twinkle in his eye. “Though to be honest, I’ve never been much for all the trappings of monarchy—which definitely includes Handel.”

“Oh, no.” I warded him off with my hands. “If we are going to do fireworks, they’re going to be normal, everyday fireworks—the kind that you buy in a stand at the side of the road. No magic. No witchcraft.”

“Why?” Marcus asked.

We stood in silence for a moment. Marcus’s blue eyes held a definite note of challenge.

“I don’t see the point of doing something ordinary, when it could be extraordinary,” he said. “I know it’s been a crazy, fucked-up kind of summer. You weren’t expecting to have me here the whole time, for a start. Nor did you think you’d have to relive the events of my past with me.”

“But that’s been the best part of it,” I interrupted. “Far better than getting my grades in, or dealing with the Congregation, or even my research.”