A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [180]
“She’s right, Matthew,” I said.
“Come, we should go inside.” He kept a wary eye on his mother. “You’re cold, and we need to talk about Oxford. Then we’ll tackle the subject of magic.”
“I need to tell you what happened here, too.” If this was going to work, we would have to reveal some of our secrets—such as the possibility that I might turn into running water at any moment.
“There’s plenty of time for you to tell me everything,” said Matthew, leading me toward the château.
Marthe was waiting for him when he walked through the door. She gave him a fierce hug, as if he’d returned in triumph from battle, and settled us all in front of the salon’s blazing fire.
Matthew positioned himself next to me and watched me drink some tea. Every few moments he put his hand on my knee, or smoothed the sweater across my shoulders, or tucked a bit of hair back into place, as if trying to make up for his brief absence. Once he’d begun to relax, the questions began. They were innocently ordinary in the beginning. Soon the conversation turned to Oxford.
“Were Marcus and Miriam in the lab when the break-in was attempted?” I asked.
“They were,” he said, taking a sip from the glass of wine Marthe had put beside him, “but the thieves didn’t get far. The two of them weren’t in any real danger.”
“Thank God,” Ysabeau murmured, staring at the fire.
“What were they looking for?”
“Information. About you,” he said reluctantly. “Someone broke in to your rooms at New College as well.”
There was one secret out in the open.
“Fred was horrified,” Matthew continued. “He assured me they’ll put new locks on your doors and a camera in your stairwell.”
“It’s not Fred’s fault. With the new students, all you need to get past the porters is a confident step and a university scarf. But there was nothing for them to take! Were they after my research?” The mere thought of such a thing was ridiculous. Who cared enough about the history of alchemy to engineer a break-in?
“You have your computer, with your research notes on it.” Matthew gripped my hands tighter. “But it wasn’t your work they were after. They tore apart your bedroom and the bathroom. We think they were looking for a sample of your DNA—hair, skin, fingernail clippings. When they couldn’t get into the lab, they went looking in your rooms.”
My hand was shaking slightly. I tried to pull it from his grip, not wanting him to know how badly this news had jangled me. Matthew held on.
“You’re not alone in this, remember?” He fixed his gaze on me.
“So it wasn’t an ordinary burglar. It was a creature, someone who knows about us and about Ashmole 782.”
He nodded.
“Well, they won’t find much. Not in my rooms.” When Matthew looked puzzled, I explained. “My mother insisted that I clean my hairbrush before leaving for school each morning. It’s an ingrained habit. She made me flush the hair down the toilet—my nail clippings, too.”
Matthew now appeared stunned. Ysabeau didn’t look surprised at all.
“Your mother sounds more and more like someone I would have been eager to know,” Ysabeau said quietly.
“Do you remember what she told you?” Matthew asked.
“Not really.” There were faint memories of sitting on the edge of the bathtub while my mother demonstrated her morning and evening routine, but little more. I frowned with concentration, the flickering recollections growing brighter. “I remember counting to twenty. Somewhere along the way, I twirled around and said something.”
“What could she have been thinking?” Matthew mused out loud. “Hair and fingernails carry a lot of genetic information.”
“Who knows? My mother was famous for her premonitions. Then again, she could just have been thinking like a Bishop. We’re not the sanest bunch.”
“Your mother was not mad, Diana, and not everything can be explained by your modern science, Matthew. Witches have believed for centuries that hair and fingernails had power,” said Ysabeau.
Marthe muttered in agreement and rolled her eyes at the ignorance of youth.
“Witches use them to work