A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [169]
With a pang of sadness, I realized it was a child’s toy.
Matthew had made it for Lucas before Matthew became a vampire, while he was building the first church. He’d tucked it into the corner of a shelf where no one would notice it—except him. He couldn’t fail to see it, every time he sat at his desk.
With Matthew at my side, it was all too easy to think we were the only two in the world. Not even Domenico’s warnings or Ysabeau’s tests had shaken my sense that our growing closeness was a matter solely between him and me.
But this little wooden tower, made with love an unimaginably long time ago, brought my illusions to an end. There were children to consider, both living and dead. There were families involved, including my own, with long and complicated genealogies and deeply ingrained prejudices, including my own. And Sarah and Em still didn’t know that I was in love with a vampire. It was time to share that news.
Ysabeau was in the salon, arranging flowers in a tall vase on top of a priceless Louis XIV escritoire with impeccable provenance—and a single owner.
“Ysabeau?” My voice sounded hesitant. “Is there a phone I could use?”
“He will call you when he wants to talk to you.” She took great care placing a twig with turning leaves still attached to it among the white and gold flowers.
“I’m not calling Matthew, Ysabeau. I need to speak to my aunt.”
“The witch who called the other night?” she asked. “What is her name?”
“Sarah,” I said with a frown.
“And she lives with a woman—another witch, yes?” Ysabeau kept putting white roses into the vase.
“Yes. Emily. Is that a problem?”
“No,” Ysabeau said, eyeing me over the blooms. “They are both witches. That’s all that matters.”
“That and they love each other.”
“Sarah is a good name,” Ysabeau continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know the legend, of course.”
I shook my head. Ysabeau’s changes in conversation were almost as dizzying as her son’s mood swings.
“The mother of Isaac was called Sarai—‘quarrelsome’—but when she became pregnant, God changed it to Sarah, which means ‘princess.’”
“In my aunt’s case, Sarai is much more appropriate.” I waited for Ysabeau to tell me where the phone was.
“Emily is also a good name, a strong, Roman name.” Ysabeau clipped a rose stem between her sharp fingernails.
“What does Emily mean, Ysabeau?” Happily I was running out of family members.
“It means ‘industrious.’ Of course, the most interesting name belonged to your mother. Rebecca means ‘captivated,’ or ‘bound,’” Ysabeau said, a frown of concentration on her face as she studied the vase from one side and then the other. “An interesting name for a witch.”
“And what does your name mean?” I said impatiently.
“I was not always Ysabeau, but it was the name Philippe liked for me. It means ‘God’s promise.’” Ysabeau hesitated, searching my face, and made a decision. “My full name is Geneviève Mélisande Hélène Ysabeau Aude de Clermont.”
“It’s beautiful.” My patience returned as I speculated about the history behind the names.
Ysabeau gave me a small smile. “Names are important.”
“Does Matthew have other names?” I took a white rose from the basket and handed it to her. She murmured her thanks.
“Of course. We give all of our children many names when they are reborn to us. But Matthew was the name he came to us with, and he wanted to keep it. Christianity was very new then, and Philippe thought it might be useful if our son were named after an evangelist.”
“What are his other names?”
“His full name is Matthew Gabriel Philippe Bertrand Sébastien de Clermont. He was also a very good Sébastien, and a passable Gabriel. He hates Bertrand and will not answer to Philippe.”
“What is it about Philippe that bothers him?”
“It was his father’s favorite name.” Ysabeau’s hands stilled for a moment. “You must know he is dead. The Nazis caught him fighting for the Resistance.”
In the vision I’d had of Ysabeau, she’d said Matthew’s father was