A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [121]
“We’ll be in France soon.” He propped the pillows at the end of my sofa, which was about as deep as a twin bed, and held the blanket open to cover me. “Meanwhile you should get some sleep.”
I didn’t want to sleep. The truth was, I was afraid to. That photograph was etched on the inside of my eyelids.
He crouched next to me, the blanket hanging lightly from his fingers. “What is it?”
“I don’t want to close my eyes.”
Matthew tossed all the pillows except one onto the floor. “Come here,” he said, sitting beside me and patting the fluffy white rectangle invitingly. I swung around, shimmied down the leather-covered surface, and put my head on his lap, stretching out my legs. He tossed the edge of the blanket from his right hand to his left so that it covered me in soft folds.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome.” He took his fingers and touched them to his lips, then to mine. I tasted salt. “Sleep. I’ll be right here.”
I did sleep, heavy and deep with no dreams, waking only when Matthew’s cool fingers touched my face and he told me we were about to land.
“What time is it?” I asked, now thoroughly disoriented.
“It’s about eight,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Where are we?” I swung to a seated position and rooted for my seat belt.
“Outside Lyon, in the Auvergne.”
“In the center of the country?” I asked, imagining the map of France. He nodded. “Is that where you’re from?”
“I was born and reborn nearby. My home—my family’s home—is an hour or two away. We should arrive by midmorning.”
We landed in the private area of the busy regional airport and had our passports and travel documents checked by a bored-looking civil servant who snapped to attention the moment he saw Matthew’s name.
“Do you always travel this way?” It was far easier than flying a commercial airline through London’s Heathrow or Paris’s Charles de Gaulle airport.
“Yes,” he said without apology or self-consciousness. “The one time I’m entirely glad that I’m a vampire and have money to burn is when I travel.”
Matthew stopped behind a Range Rover the size of Connecticut and fished a set of keys out of his pocket. He opened the back door, stowing my bags inside. The Range Rover was slightly less deluxe than his Jaguar, but what it lacked in elegance it more than made up for in heft. It was like traveling in an armored personnel carrier.
“Do you really need this much car to drive in France?” I eyed the smooth roads.
Matthew laughed. “You haven’t seen my mother’s house yet.”
We drove west through beautiful countryside, studded here and there with grand châteaus and steep mountains. Fields and vineyards stretched in all directions, and even under the steely sky the land seemed to blaze with the color of turning leaves. A sign indicated the direction of Clermont-Ferrand. That couldn’t be a coincidence, in spite of the different spelling.
Matthew kept heading west. He slowed, turned down a narrow road, and pulled to the side. He pointed off to the distance. “There,” he said. “Sept-Tours.”
In the center of rolling hills was a flattened peak dominated by a crenellated hulk of buff and rose stone. Seven smaller towers surrounded it, and a turreted gatehouse stood guard in front. This was not a pretty, fairy-tale castle made for moonlit balls. Sept-Tours was a fortress.
“That’s home?” I gasped.
“That’s home.” Matthew took his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. “Maman? We’re almost there.”
Something was said on the other end, and the line went dead. Matthew smiled tightly and pulled back onto the road.
“She’s expecting us?” I asked, just managing to keep the tremor out of my voice.
“She is.”
“And this is all right with her?” I didn’t ask the real question—Are you sure it’s okay that you’re bringing a witch home?—but didn’t need to.
Matthew