A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [238]
Calmly I breathed in and out. The water level in my palms rose and fell in response to the changing tides within and underneath me. When I could control the water no longer, the mudras broke open, water cascading from my flattened palms. I was left standing in the middle of the backyard, eyes open and arms outstretched, a small puddle on the ground under each hand.
My vampire stood twelve feet away from me with a proud look on his face, his arms crossed. My aunts were on the back porch, astonished.
“That was impressive,” Matthew murmured, bending to pick up the stone-cold mug of tea. “You’re going to be as good at this as you are at your research, you know. Magic’s not just emotional and mental—it’s physical, too.”
“Have you coached witches before?” I slid back into Sarah’s boots, my stomach rumbling loudly.
“No. You’re my one and only.” Matthew laughed. “And yes, I know you’re hungry. We’ll talk more about this after breakfast.” He held out his hand, and we walked together toward the house.
“You can make a lot of money water witching, you know,” Sarah called as we approached. “Everyone in town needs a new well, and old Harry was buried with his dowsing rod when he died last year.”
“I don’t need a dowsing rod—I am a dowsing rod. And if you’re thinking of digging, do it there.” I pointed to a cluster of apple trees that looked less scraggy than the rest.
Inside, Matthew boiled fresh water for my tea before turning his attention to the Syracuse Post-Standard. It could not compete with Le Monde, but he seemed content. With my vampire occupied, I ate slice after slice of bread hot from the toaster. Em and Sarah refilled their coffee cups and looked warily at my hands every time I got near the electrical appliances.
“This is going to be a three-pot morning,” Sarah announced, dumping the used grounds out of the coffeemaker. I looked at Em in alarm.
It’s mostly decaf, she said without speaking, her lips pressed together in silent mirth. I’ve been adulterating it for years. Like text messaging, silent speech was useful if you wanted to have a private discussion in this house.
Smiling broadly, I returned my attention to the toaster. I scraped the last of the butter onto my toast and wondered idly if there was more.
A plastic tub appeared at my elbow.
I turned to thank Em, but she was on the other side of the kitchen. So was Sarah. Matthew looked up from his paper and stared at the refrigerator.
The door was open, and the jams and mustards were rearranging themselves on the top shelf. When they were in place, the door quietly closed.
“Was that the house?” Matthew asked casually.
“No,” Sarah replied, looking at me with interest. “That was Diana.”
“What happened?” I gasped, looking at the butter.
“You tell us,” Sarah said crisply. “You were fiddling with your ninth piece of toast when the refrigerator opened and the butter sailed out.”
“All I did was wonder if there was more.” I picked up the empty container.
Em clapped her hands with delight at my newest sign of power, and Sarah insisted that I try to get something else out of the refrigerator. No matter what I called, it refused to come.
“Try the cabinets,” Em suggested. “The doors aren’t as heavy.”
Matthew had been watching the activity with interest. “You just wondered about the butter because you needed it?”
I nodded.
“And when you flew yesterday, did you command the air to cooperate?”
“I thought ‘Fly,’ and I flew. I needed to do it more than I needed the butter, though—you were about to kill me. Again.”
“Diana flew?” Sarah asked faintly.
“Is there anything you need now?” inquired Matthew.
“To sit down.” My knees felt a little shaky.
A kitchen stool traveled across the floor and parked obligingly beneath my backside.
Matthew