A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [125]
Matthew’s snowflakes drifted across my face as he watched me survey his belongings.
“It’s a Matthew museum,” I said softly, knowing that every object there told a story.
“It’s just my study.”
“Where did you—” I began, pointing at the microscopes.
“Later,” he said again. “You have thirty more steps to climb.”
Matthew led me to the other side of the room and a second staircase. This one, too, curved up toward the heavens. Thirty slow steps later, I stood on the edge of another round room dominated by an enormous walnut four-poster bed complete with tester and heavy hangings. High above it were the exposed beams and supports that held the copper roof in place. A table was pushed against one wall, a fireplace was tucked into another, and a few comfortable chairs were arranged before it. Opposite, a door stood ajar, revealing an enormous bathtub.
“It’s like a falcon’s lair,” I said, peering out the window. Matthew had been looking at this landscape from these windows since the Middle Ages. I wondered, briefly, about the other women he’d brought here before me. I was sure I wasn’t the first, but I didn’t think there had been many. There was something intensely private about the château.
Matthew came up behind me and looked over my shoulder. “Do you approve?” His breath was soft against my ear. I nodded.
“How long?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“This tower?” he asked. “About seven hundred years.”
“And the village? Do they know about you?”
“Yes. Like witches, vampires are safer when they’re part of a community who knows what they are but doesn’t ask too many questions.”
Generations of Bishops had lived in Madison without anyone’s making a fuss. Like Peter Knox, we were hiding in plain sight.
“Thank you for bringing me to Sept-Tours,” I said. “It does feel safer than Oxford.” In spite of Ysabeau.
“Thank you for braving my mother.” Matthew chuckled as if he’d heard my unspoken words. The distinctive scent of carnations accompanied the sound. “She’s overprotective, like most parents.”
“I felt like an idiot—and underdressed, too. I didn’t bring a single thing to wear that will meet with her approval.” I bit my lip, my forehead creased.
“Coco Chanel didn’t meet with Ysabeau’s approval. You may be aiming a bit high.”
I laughed and turned, my eyes seeking his. When they met, my breath caught. Matthew’s gaze lingered on my eyes, cheeks, and finally my mouth. His hand rose to my face.
“You’re so alive,” he said gruffly. “You should be with a man much, much younger.”
I lifted to my toes. He bent his head. Before our lips touched, a tray clattered on the table.
“‘Vos etz arbres e branca,’” Marthe sang, giving Matthew a wicked look.
He laughed and sang back in a clear baritone, “‘On fruitz de gaug s’asazona.’”
“What language is that?” I asked, getting down off my tiptoes and following Matthew to the fireplace.
“The old tongue,” Marthe replied.
“Occitan.” Matthew removed the silver cover from a plate of eggs. The aroma of hot food filled the room. “Marthe decided to recite poetry before you sat down to eat.”
Marthe giggled and swatted at Matthew’s wrist with a towel that she pulled from her waist. He dropped the cover and took a seat.
“Come here, come here,” she said, gesturing at the chair across from him. “Sit, eat.” I did as I was told. Marthe poured Matthew a goblet of wine from a tall, silver-handled glass pitcher.
“Mercés,” he murmured, his nose going immediately to the glass in anticipation.
A similar pitcher held icy-cold water, and Marthe put this in another goblet, which she handed to me. She poured a steaming cup of tea, which I recognized immediately as coming from Mariage Frères in Paris. Apparently Matthew had raided my cupboards while I slept last night and been quite specific with his shopping lists. Marthe poured thick cream into the cup before he could stop her, and I shot him a warning glance. At this point I needed allies. Besides, I was too thirsty to care. He leaned back