“I’m glad that my constant presence pales in comparison with Gerbert and Domenico,” Marcus teased. “Still, we could all use a little bit of leavening in the lump. The summer hasn’t exactly been a vacation thus far.”

“What an expression!” I laughed. “Where did you learn that? It sounds like something Em would have said.”

“The Bible.” Marcus picked a blackberry out of the big bowl Marthe had left on the counter and popped it in his mouth. “You’re not very well versed in your proverbs and parables, Professor Bishop.”

“Guilty of being a pagan, your honor,” I said, raising my hand high. “But I bet you don’t know the names of all the sabbats witches observe and their dates, either.”

“True.” Marcus held out his hand. “So, do we have a deal?”

“I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to,” I said, reaching for it.

Marcus withdrew his hand slightly. “Once we shake, there’s no backing out of it. A deal’s a deal.”

“Deal.” I shook Marcus’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “What could possibly go wrong?”

* * *

—

“GOOD LORD.” Matthew stood, mouth open, and surveyed our work with amazement.

Marcus was hanging from a tree branch like a possum, a string of lights in his teeth. I was drenched and sunburned, and one of my eyebrows was a trifle singed. Bales of hay studded the field on the far side of the moat. We’d rowed two of the wide-bottom boats around from the boathouse and tied them to the shallow dock that Marcus and Matthew used for fishing. I’d decorated the boats with garlands of red and white flowers to make them look more festive.

I threw my arms around Matthew and gave him a kiss. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“I had no idea we were in for such an extravagant production,” Matthew said, grinning down at me. “A few sparklers, maybe, but this?”

“Wait until you see the fireworks,” I told him. “Marcus went to Limoges, and bought all the leftovers from the Fêtes des Ponts in June.”

“We’ve got something special planned for afterward,” Marcus said, draping the lights over the end of the branch. He dropped his legs, swung for a moment by one hand like a monkey, and then plummeted thirty feet straight down.

“And when is this all starting?” Matthew asked.

“Ten thirty—sharp,” Marcus said. “Are the twins taking naps?”

“I left them—and Apollo—sleeping soundly,” Matthew said.

“Good, because I don’t want them to miss this.” Marcus gave me a salute and went off smiling. As he walked, his smile turned to whistles.

“I haven’t seen him like this for months,” Matthew said.

“Me, neither.”

“We’re just passing the halfway point in his separation from Phoebe,” Matthew said. “Maybe realizing that so much time has already gone by accounts for his change of mood?”

“Possibly. Telling his tale has helped, too.” I looked up at Matthew. “Do you think he’ll be ready to talk about New Orleans soon?”

A shadow crossed Matthew’s face. He shrugged.

“Speaking of time,” Matthew said, deliberately changing the subject. “Have you heard from Baldwin? His two-week deadline came and went without a word.”

“No, I haven’t talked to him.” I didn’t even have to cross my fingers. It was the absolute truth.

That didn’t mean Baldwin hadn’t left me a dozen messages, in both my voicemail and my e-mail. He’d also written me a letter, which bore a Japanese postmark. I’d dropped it in the moat without reading it, comforted by the fact that he was halfway around the world.

“Odd. It’s not like Baldwin to let something like that slip,” Matthew mused.

“Maybe he changed his mind.” I took Matthew’s hand in mine. “I’m going to weave a spell around Apollo. Want to come and watch?”

Matthew laughed.

“Wait, I have an even better idea. You’ll have to catch me if you want to find out what it is.” I crooked my finger at him. Then I took off at a run.

“That is the best invitation I’ve had in some time,” he said, strolling after me.

I kept running, knowing this was just part of the chase, knowing Matthew would catch me, still surprised when he tackled me to the ground, his arms cradling me from impact, a few yards from our secret hideaway.

At some point in the late nineteenth century, Philippe had constructed a small boathouse inside a curve of the moat that looked over the estate’s open fields and forests. The structure was typical of its time, made out of wood rather than the castle’s stone, and decorated with all manner of gingerbread trim.

It had fallen into a state of romantic ruin, the original yellow paint on the outside faded and peeling, and the inside dusty with disuse. Matthew had fixed the roof to make it weathertight again, and had big plans to restore it to its former glory. Now that he’d widened and deepened the moat, and stocked it with fish, these plans no longer seemed as ridiculous as they once had. I could imagine us all enjoying a paddle around on the moat as the children got older—though the moat was never going to provide me with enough room to ply the oars on a racing scull.

Matthew and I often fled to the boathouse when we needed some privacy. There was a sturdy, welcoming chaise longue inside, which we had grown fond of during our stolen moments away from the twins. This summer, with all that was going on with Marcus, not to mention Agatha and Sarah visiting, we hadn’t spent as much time here as we had hoped.

We made use of the chaise and lingered to watch the clouds through the skylight. The puffs of white came into view against the bright blue background, changed their shapes, and moved on in a never-ending parade.

We stayed at the boathouse for as long as we thought we could get away with before someone would come to look for us. When we could postpone it no longer, Matthew helped me to my feet and we returned to the house, hand in hand, relaxed and happy.

But I felt the tension the moment we stepped into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I said, looking around the kitchen for signs of fire, flood, or other natural disasters.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Sarah said, munching her way through a bowl of popcorn. “Marcus told him to go away—well, he told him to bugger off, but that’s the same thing.”

A bloodcurdling shriek came from upstairs.

“Apollo really doesn’t like your brother, Matthew,” Sarah said. “He’s flying around in the stairwell, carrying on as if it’s the end of the world.”

Matthew gave a sniff and turned to me with an accusing stare. “You said you hadn’t heard from Baldwin.”

“No, I said I hadn’t talked to him,” I said, feeling that it was important to draw the distinction. “Not the same thing at all.”

“Where are the children?” Matthew demanded.

“Jack and Marthe are with them. Marcus and Agatha are with Fernando in the great hall, trying to talk Baldwin down off the mountain,” Sarah said around another mouthful of popcorn. “I volunteered for lookout duty. Baldwin makes me nervous.”

Matthew stalked off in the direction of the hall.

“Should you call Ysabeau?” Sarah asked.

“Already on her way,” I said. “We invited her to come for the fireworks.”

“Guess we won’t have to wait until dark for the excitement to start after all.” Sarah dusted the salt off her hands and hopped off the stool. “Let’s go. We don’t want to miss anything.”

When we arrived in the hall, Matthew and Baldwin were facing off across the carpet while Marcus and Fernando urged them both to see sense. Agatha’s contributions to the negotiations involved pointing out that this whole family drama smacked of male privilege.

“You need to take a deep breath and realize that this isn’t all about you,” Agatha said. “You’re behaving like these children are chattel.”

“God, I love that woman,” Sarah said, beaming. “Down with patriarchy. Right on, Agatha.”