A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [293]
Late in the morning, there was an authoritative knock on the door. It opened to a small, dark man with intelligent eyes. He was instantly recognizable from pictures taken at celebrity parties in London and television news conferences. Any remaining doubts about his identity were erased by the familiar nudges against my cheekbones.
Our mystery houseguest was Matthew’s friend Hamish Osborne.
“You must be Diana,” he said without pleasure or preamble, his Scottish accent lending length to the vowels. Hamish was dressed for business, in a pin-striped charcoal suit that had been tailored to fit him exactly, a pale pink shirt with heavy silver cuff links, and a fuchsia tie embroidered with tiny black flies.
“I am. Hello, Hamish. Was Matthew expecting you?” I stepped aside to let him in.
“Probably not,” Hamish said crisply, remaining on the stoop. “Where is he?”
“Hamish.” Matthew was moving so quickly I felt the breeze behind me before hearing him approach. He extended his hand. “This is a surprise.”
Hamish stared at the outstretched hand, then turned his eyes to its owner. “Surprise? Let’s discuss surprises. When I joined your . . . ‘family firm,’ you swore to me this would never arrive.” He brandished an envelope, its black seal broken but still clinging to the flaps.
“I did.” Matthew dropped his hand and looked at Hamish warily.
“So much for your promises, then. I’m given to understand from this letter, and from my conversation with your mother, that there’s some kind of trouble.” Hamish’s eyes flickered to me, then back to Matthew.
“Yes.” Matthew’s lips tightened. “But you’re the ninth knight. You don’t have to become involved.”
“You made a daemon the ninth knight?” Miriam had come through the dining room with Nathaniel.
“Who’s he?” Nathaniel shook a handful of Scrabble tiles in his cupped hand while surveying the new arrival.
“Hamish Osborne. And who might you be?” Hamish asked, as if addressing an impertinent employee. The last thing we needed was more testosterone in the house.
“Oh, I’m nobody,” Nathaniel said airily, leaning against the dining-room door. He watched Marcus as he passed by.
“Hamish, why are you here?” Marcus looked confused, then saw the letter. “Oh.”
My ancestors were congregating in the keeping room, and the house was stirring on its foundations. “Could we continue this inside? It’s the house, you see. It’s a little uneasy, given you’re a daemon—and angry.”
“Come, Hamish.” Matthew tried to draw him out of the doorway. “Marcus and Sarah haven’t demolished the whiskey supply yet. We’ll get you a drink and sit you by the fire.”
Hamish remained where he was and kept talking.
“While visiting with your mother, who was far more willing to answer my questions than you would have been, I learned that you wanted a few things from home. It seemed a shame for Alain to make such a long trip, when I was already going to come and ask you what the hell you were up to.” He lifted a bulky leather briefcase with soft sides and a formidable lock, and a smaller, hard-sided case.
“Thank you, Hamish.” The words were cordial enough, but Matthew was clearly displeased at having his arrangements altered.
“Speaking of explanations, it’s a damn good thing the French don’t care about the exportation of English national treasures. Have you any idea of the paperwork that would have been required to get this out of England? If they’d let me remove it at all, which I doubt.”
Matthew took the briefcases from Hamish’s fingers, gripped him by the elbow, and pulled his friend inside. “Later,” he said hastily. “Marcus, take Hamish and introduce him to Diana’s family while I put these away.”
“Oh, it’s you,” said Sophie with delight, coming out of the dining room. The bulge of her belly showed plainly underneath a stretched University of North Carolina sweatshirt. “You’re like Nathaniel, not scatterbrained like me. Your face is on one of my pots, too.” She beamed at Hamish, who looked both charmed and startled.
“Are there more?” he asked me, with a cock of his head that made him resemble a tiny,