A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [51]
Hamish’s differences extended to his work, which was not in the usual daemonic pursuits of art or music. Instead he had a gift for money—for making it and for spotting fatal weaknesses in international financial instruments and markets. He took a daemon’s characteristic creativity and applied it to spreadsheets rather than sonatas, understanding the intricacies of currency exchange with such remarkable precision that he was consulted by presidents, monarchs, and prime ministers.
The daemon’s uncommon predilection for the economy fascinated Matthew, as did his ease among humans. Hamish loved being around them and found their faults stimulating rather than aggravating. It was a legacy of his childhood, with an insurance broker for a father and a housewife as a mother. Having met the unflappable Osbornes, Matthew could understand Hamish’s fondness.
The crackling of the fire and the smooth smell of whiskey in the air began to do their work, and the vampire found himself relaxing. Matthew sat forward, holding his wineglass lightly between his fingers, the red liquid winking in the firelight.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said shakily.
“At the end, of course. Why did you pick up the phone and call me?”
“I needed to get away from a witch.”
Hamish watched his friend for a moment, noting Matthew’s obvious agitation. Somehow Hamish was certain the witch wasn’t male.
“What makes this witch so special?” he asked quietly.
Matthew looked up from under his heavy brows. “Everything.”
“Oh. You are in trouble, aren’t you?” Hamish’s burr deepened in sympathy and amusement.
Matthew laughed unpleasantly. “You could say that, yes.”
“Does this witch have a name?”
“Diana. She’s a historian. And American.”
“The goddess of the hunt,” Hamish said slowly. “Apart from her ancient name, is she an ordinary witch?”
“No,” Matthew said abruptly. “She is far from ordinary.”
“Ah. The complications.” Hamish studied his friend’s face for signs that he was calming down but saw that Matthew was spoiling for a fight instead.
“She’s a Bishop.” Matthew waited. He’d learned it was never a good idea to anticipate that the daemon wouldn’t grasp the significance of a reference, no matter how obscure.
Hamish sifted and sorted through his mind and found what he was seeking. “As in Salem, Massachusetts?”
Matthew nodded grimly. “She’s the last of the Bishop witches. Her father is a Proctor.”
The daemon whistled softly. “A witch twice over, with a distinguished magical lineage. You never do things by half, do you? She must be powerful.”
“Her mother is. I don’t know much about her father. Rebecca Bishop, though—that’s a different story. She was doing spells at thirteen that most witches can’t manage after a lifetime of study and experience. And her childhood abilities as a seer were astonishing.”
“Do you know her, Matt?” Hamish had to ask. Matthew had lived many lives and crossed paths with too many people for his friend to keep track of them all.
Matthew shook his head. “No. There’s always talk about her, though—and plenty of envy. You know how witches are,” he said, his voice taking on the slightly unpleasant tone it did whenever he referred to the species.
Hamish let the remark about witches pass and eyed Matthew over the rim of his glass.
“And Diana?”
“She claims she doesn’t use magic.”
There were two threads in that brief sentence that needed pulling. Hamish tugged on the easier one first. “What, not for anything? Finding a lost earring? Coloring her hair?” Hamish sounded doubtful.
“She’s not the earrings and colored hair type. She’s more the three-mile run followed by an hour on the river in a dangerously tiny boat type.”
“With her background I find it difficult to believe she never uses her power.” Hamish was a pragmatist as well as a dreamer. It was why he was so good with other