“I’m coming to Paris.” Marcus tossed Philip’s towel aside, leaving the baby standing, naked and pink after his bath, holding a plastic duck. Marthe hurried toward him and helped him into his pajamas.

“You’re not welcome here, Marcus,” Miriam said.

“Story of my life,” Marcus replied. “But Edward is Phoebe’s father, so you can imagine how little a warm reception from you matters at this moment.”

“We’ll be there in four hours,” Matthew said.

“We?” Miriam swore. “No, Matthew. That’s not—”

Matthew disconnected the call and looked to me. “Are you coming, mon coeur? We might need your help.”

I had finished getting Becca into her pajamas, and handed her off to Marthe.

“Let’s go,” I said, taking Matthew by the hand.

* * *

—

MARCUS’S CONCERN FOR PHOEBE, and Matthew’s steady foot on the accelerator carried us to the outskirts of Paris in a little over three hours. Once there, Matthew zipped along streets that no tourist ever found, taking every shortcut until we reached the ancient university quarter near the Sorbonne and the Salpêtrière hospital. Matthew turned off the engine and spun around to face his son in the backseat.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

We’d had none up to this point—other than reaching Paris as quickly as possible. Marcus looked startled.

“I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”

Matthew shook his head. “Phoebe is your mate, not mine. It’s up to you.”

I loved Matthew with all my heart, and was often proud of the quiet perseverance with which he handled the many challenges that faced him. But I had never been so overwhelmed with pride as I was in this moment, idling on a Paris street in the 13th arrondissement, waiting for his son to make his own decision.

“Freyja called me because I’m a doctor,” Marcus said, staring up at the bulk of the hospital. “So are you. One of us should go check on Edward, and make sure that he is being taken care of properly.”

I thought it unlikely that a British diplomat, taken by ambulance to one of the finest hospitals in the world, would be treated improperly, but held my tongue.

“And I don’t give a toss what Miriam thinks. Phoebe needs to know what’s happened. And she needs to be here, at her father’s side,” Marcus said, “just in case.”

Still, Matthew waited.

“You deal with the doctors,” Marcus said, hopping out of the backseat. “Diana and I will tell Phoebe.”

“Wise decision,” Matthew said, yielding his place behind the wheel to his son.

Matthew circled the car. I pushed the button, and the window went down.

“Take care of him,” Matthew murmured before he pressed his lips to mine.

* * *

—

MIRIAM WAS WAITING FOR US on the front step when we arrived at Freyja’s house. I had never been there before, and was struck by its grandeur as well as its privacy.

“Where’s Phoebe?” Marcus asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

Miriam stood her ground before the door. “This breaks all the rules, Marcus. We had an agreement.”

“Edward falling ill wasn’t part of the plan,” Marcus replied.

“Warmbloods get sick and die,” Miriam said. “Phoebe needs to learn she can’t go running to hospital every time they do.”

“Edward is Phoebe’s father,” Marcus said, his fury evident. “This isn’t just any warmblood.”

“It’s too soon to expose her to that kind of loss.” Miriam’s eyes were filled with warnings that I didn’t understand. “You know that.”

“I do,” Marcus said. “Let me in, Miriam, or I’ll break down the fucking door.”

“Fine. If there’s a disaster, it will be on your conscience—not mine.” Miriam stepped aside.

Françoise, whom I had not seen since leaving sixteenth-century London, opened the door. She bobbed a curtsy.

Phoebe was waiting in the foyer, Freyja at her side with an arm around her in a protective arc. Phoebe looked pale, and there were streaks of pink on her cheeks from her blood tears.

She already knew about her father. There had been no need for us to rush to Paris to tell her. Our only reason for speed was to reunite two lovers as quickly as possible.

“You knew Marcus would come,” I said softly to Miriam.

Miriam nodded. “How could he not?”

Marcus rushed toward Phoebe, then stopped, remembering that it was the female who must choose and not the male. He gathered his composure.

“Phoebe. I’m so sorry,” he began, his voice raw with emotion. “Matthew is with Edward now—”

Phoebe was in his arms with a speed that proved just how young and inexperienced she was. Her arms tightened around Marcus as she sobbed out her worry and fear.

It was the first time I’d seen such a young vampire, and the sight was dazzling. Phoebe was like a freshly minted coin, strong and shining. There was no way a human wouldn’t stop and stare if she passed by on a Parisian catwalk, let alone a hospital corridor. How were we going to get her into Edward’s room, glowing with so much life and vitality?

“If he dies, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Phoebe said. Her blood tears flowed once more.

“I know, sweetheart. I know,” Marcus murmured, his fingers laced through her hair and her body cradled against his.

“Freyja says I can go and see him, but Miriam doesn’t think it’s a good idea.” Phoebe sniffed back the tears. For the first time, she seemed to realize that I was there. “Hello, Diana.”

“Hello, Phoebe,” I said. “I’m sorry about Edward.”

“Thank you, Diana. I’m sure there’s something I ought to do or say, meeting you for the first time since I became a vampire, but I don’t know what it is.” Phoebe sniffed, then burst into tears again.

“It’s okay. Let it out,” Marcus said, gently rocking her in his arms, his face ravaged with concern. “Don’t worry about protocol. Diana doesn’t care.”

No, but I was pretty sure that the staff of the hospital would care if someone showed up with blood streaming out of her eyes.

“You see why Phoebe can’t go to the Salpêtrière and sit at her father’s bedside,” Miriam said with her habitual bluntness.

“That’s up to Phoebe.” Marcus’s tone held a sharp warning.

“No, it’s up to me. I’m her sire,” Miriam retorted. “Phoebe cannot be trusted around warmbloods yet.”

What did they think Phoebe was going to do—siphon the blood out of Edward’s IV and snack on his bones? I was far more worried about the reaction warmbloods would have to her appearance.

“Phoebe,” I said, wading into the conversation, “would you mind very much if I worked a bit of magic on you?”

“Thank God,” Françoise said. “I knew you would think of something, madame.”

“I was thinking of a disguising spell, the kind I wore after my powers came in,” I said, studying Phoebe as though I were making her a new outfit. “And I think you should go with her to the hospital, Françoise, if that’s all right.”

“Bien sûr. You did not think I would leave Mademoiselle Phoebe to fend for herself? But you will need something very dull,” Françoise said, sizing up her charge, “if you wish her to pass as human. It was easier to make you look like an ordinary person. You were still a warmblood, after all.”

Françoise had kept me from making hundreds of mistakes—large and small—during my time in the sixteenth century. If she could keep a twenty-first-century feminist from causing an uproar in Elizabethan London and Prague, she could surely manage a young vampire in a hospital. Feeling more optimistic simply because of her stolid presence, I proceeded.

“Everyone will be focused on Edward,” I said. “Perhaps we can get away with something easier to wear, more like a veil than a burlap sack?”

In the end, it was a heavy weaving that was more like a shroud. It not only dimmed Phoebe’s appearance, it also slowed her down. She still didn’t look ordinary, but she would no longer draw every eye.