A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [211]
Matthew was already inside, shouting for Diana. “Christ, she’ll be terrified,” he whispered when the echoes faded, running his fingers through his hair.
Baldwin caught up with him and grabbed his brother’s arm. “There are two ways to do this, Matthew. We can split up and search the place from top to bottom. Or you can stop for five seconds and figure out where you would hide something in La Pierre.”
“Let me go,” Matthew said, baring his teeth and trying to pull his arm from his brother’s grip. Baldwin’s hand only tightened.
“Think,” he commanded. “It will be quicker, I promise you.”
Matthew went over the castle’s floor plan in his mind. He started at the entrance, going up through the castle’s rooms, through the tower, the sleeping apartments, the audience chambers, and the great hall. Then he worked his way from the entrance down through the kitchens, the cellars, and the dungeons. He stared at his brother in horror.
“The oubliette.” He set off in the direction of the kitchens.
Baldwin’s face froze. “Dieu,” he whispered, watching his brother’s receding back. What was it about this witch that had made her own people throw her down a sixty-foot hole?
And if she were that precious, whoever had put Diana into the oubliette would be back.
Baldwin tore after Matthew, hoping it was not already too late to stop him from giving the witches not one but two hostages.
Chapter 31
Diana, it’s time to wake up. My mother’s voice was low but insistent.
Too exhausted to respond, I pulled the brightly colored patchwork quilt over my head, hoping that she wouldn’t be able to find me. My body curled into a tight ball, and I wondered why everything hurt so much.
Wake up, sleepyhead. My father’s blunt fingers gripped the fabric. A jolt of joy momentarily pushed the pain aside. He pretended he was a bear and growled. Squealing with happiness, I tightened my own hands and giggled, but when he pulled at the coverings, the cold air swept around me.
Something was wrong. I opened one eye, expecting to see the bright posters and stuffed animals that lined my room in Cambridge. But my bedroom didn’t have wet, gray walls.
My father was smiling down at me with twinkling eyes. As usual, his hair was curled up at the ends and needed combing, and his collar was askew. I loved him anyway and tried to fling my arms around his neck, but they refused to work properly. He pulled me gently toward him instead, his insubstantial form clinging to me like a shield.
Fancy seeing you here, Miss Bishop. It was what he always said when I sneaked into his study at home or crept downstairs late at night for one more bedtime story.
“I’m so tired.” Even though his shirt was transparent, it somehow retained the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the chocolate caramels that he kept in his pockets.
I know, my father said, his eyes no longer twinkling. But you can’t sleep anymore.
You have to wake up. My mother’s hands were on me now, trying to extricate me from my father’s lap.
“Tell me the rest of the story first,” I begged, “and skip the bad parts.”
It doesn’t work that way. My mother shook her head, and my father sadly handed me into her arms.
“But I don’t feel well.” My child’s voice wheedled for special treatment.
My mother’s sigh rustled against the stone walls. I can’t skip the bad parts. You have to face them. Can you do that, little witch?
After considering what would be required, I nodded.
Where were we? my mother asked, sitting down next to the ghostly monk in the center of the oubliette. He looked shocked and moved a few inches away. My father stifled a smile with the back of his hand, looking at my mother the same way I looked at Matthew.
I remember, she said. Diana was locked in a dark room, all alone. She sat hour after hour and wondered how she would ever get out. Then she heard a knocking at the window. It was the prince. “I’m trapped inside by witches!” Diana cried. The prince tried to break the window, but it was made of magic glass and