“I am without kith or kin. My maker is gone. My mate is gone. I have no children of my own.”

Fernando bit into his wrist and clenched his fist. The blood welled up from the wound, streaming over his arm and splashing onto the black-and-white floor. “I dedicate my blood and body to the service and honor of your family.”

“Blimey,” Leonard breathed. “That’s not how Father H does it.” I had seen Andrew Hubbard induct a creature into his flock, and though the two ceremonies weren’t identical, they were similar in tone and intent.

Once again everyone in the house waited for my response. There were probably rules and precedents to follow, but at that moment I neither knew nor cared what they were. I took Fernando’s bloody hand in mine.

“Thank you for putting your trust in Matthew,” I said simply.

“I have always trusted him,” Fernando said, looking up at me with sharp eyes. “Now it is time for Matthew to trust himself.”

25

“I found it.” Phoebe put a printed e-mail before me on the Georgian writing desk’s tooled-leather surface. The fact that she hadn’t first knocked politely on the door to the sitting room told me that something exciting had happened.

“Already?” I regarded her in amazement.

“I told my former supervisor that I was looking for an item for the de Clermont family—a picture of a tree drawn by Athanasius Kircher.” Phoebe glanced around the room, her connoisseur’s eye caught by the black-and-gold chinoiserie chest on a stand, the faux bamboo carvings on a chair, the colorful silk cushions splashed across the chaise longue by the window. She peered at the walls, muttering the name Jean Pillement and words like “impossible” and “priceless” and “museum.”

“But the illustrations in weren’t drawn by Kircher.” Frowning, I picked up the email. “And it’s not a picture. It’s a page torn out of a manuscript.”

“Attribution and provenance are crucial to a good sale,” Phoebe explained. “The temptation to link the picture to Kircher would have been irresistible. And if the edges of the parchment were cleaned up and the text was invisible, it would have commanded a higher price as a stand-alone drawing or painting.”

I scanned the message. It began with a tart reference to Phoebe’s resignation and future marital state. But it was the next lines that caught my attention:

[BEGIN MESSAGE]

I do find record of the sale and purchase of “an allegory

of the Tree of Life believed to have once been displayed

in the museum of

Athanasius Kircher, SJ, in Rome.” Could this be the image

the de Clermonts are seeking?

[END MESSAGE]

“Who bought it?” I whispered, hardly daring to breathe.

“Sylvia wouldn’t tell me,” Phoebe said, pointing to the final lines of the e-mail. “The sale was recent, and the details are confidential. She revealed the purchase price: sixteen hundred and fifty pounds.”

“That’s all?” I exclaimed. Most of the books Phoebe had purchased for me cost far more than that.

“The possible Kircher provenance wasn’t firm enough to convince potential buyers to spend more,”

she said.

“Is there really no way to discover the buyer’s identity?” I began to imagine how I might use magic to find the out more.

“Sotheby’s can’t afford to tell their clients’ secrets.” Phoebe shook her head. “Imagine how Ysabeau would react if her privacy was violated.”

“Did you call me, Phoebe?” My mother-in-law was standing in the arched doorway before the seed of my plan could put out its first shoots.

“Phoebe’s discovered that a recent sale at Sotheby’s describes a picture very like the one I’m looking for,” I explained to Ysabeau. “They won’t tell us who bought it.”

“I know where the sales records are kept,” Phoebe said. “When I go to Sotheby’s to hand in my keys, I could take a look.”

“No, Phoebe. It’s too risky. If you can tell me exactly where they are, I may be able to figure out a way to get access to them.” Some combination of my magic and Hubbard’s gang of thieves and lost boys could manage it. But my mother-in-law had her own ideas.

“Ysabeau de Clermont calling for Lord Sutton.” The clear voice echoed against the room’s high ceilings.

Phoebe looked shocked. “You can’t just call the director of Sotheby’s and expect him to do your bidding.”

Apparently Ysabeau could—and did.

“Charles. It’s been too long.” Ysabeau draped herself over a chair and let her pearls fall through her fingers. “You’ve been so busy, I’ve had to rely on Matthew for news. And the refinancing he helped you arrange—did it achieve what you had hoped?”

Ysabeau made soft, encouraging sounds of interest and expressions of appreciation at his cleverness. If I had to describe her behavior, I would be tempted to call it kittenish—provided the kitten were a baby Bengal tiger.

“Oh, I am so glad, Charles. Matthew felt sure it would work.” Ysabeau ran a delicate finger over her lips. “I was wondering if you could help with a little situation. Marcus is getting married, you see—to one of your employees. They met when Marcus picked up those miniatures you were so kind as to procure for me in January.”

Lord Sutton’s precise reply was inaudible, but the warm hum of contentment in his voice was unmistakable.

“The art of matchmaking.” Ysabeau’s laugh was crystalline. “How witty you are, Charles. Marcus has his heart set on buying Phoebe a special gift, something he remembers seeing long ago—a picture of a family tree.”

My eyes widened. “Psst!” I waved. “It’s not a family tree. It’s—”

Ysabeau’s hand made a dismissive gesture as the murmurs on the other end of the line turned eager.

“I believe Sylvia was able to track the item down to a recent sale. But of course she is too discreet to tell me who bought it.” Ysabeau nodded through the apologetic response for a few moments. Then the kitten pounced. “You will contact the owner for me, Charles. I cannot bear to see my grandson disappointed at such a happy time.”

Lord Sutton was reduced to utter silence.

“The de Clermonts are fortunate to have such a long and happy relationship with Sotheby’s.

Matthew’s tower would have collapsed under the weight of his books if not for meeting Samuel Baker.”

“Good Lord.” Phoebe’s jaw dropped.

“And you managed to clear out most of Matthew’s house in Amsterdam. I never liked that fellow or his pictures. You know the one I mean. What was his name? The one whose paintings all look unfinished?”

“Frans Hals,” Phoebe whispered, eyes round.

“Frans Hals.” Ysabeau nodded approvingly at her future daughter-in-law. “Now you and I must convince him to let go of the portrait of that gloomy minister he has hanging over the fireplace in the upstairs parlor.”

Phoebe squeaked. I suspected that a trip to Amsterdam would be included in one of her upcoming cataloging adventures.

Lord Sutton made some assurances, but Ysabeau was having none of it.

“I trust you completely, Charles,” she interrupted—though it was clear to everyone, Lord Sutton in particular, that she did not. “We can discuss this over coffee tomorrow.”

It was Lord Sutton’s turn to squeak. A rapid stream of explanations and justifications followed.

“You don’t need to come to France. I’m in London. Quite close to your offices on Bond Street, as a matter of fact.” Ysabeau tapped her cheek with her finger. “Eleven o’clock? Good. Give my regards to Henrietta. Until tomorrow.”

She hung up. “What?” she demanded, looking at Phoebe and me in turn.

“You just manhandled Lord Sutton!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I thought you said diplomacy was required.”

“Diplomacy, yes. Elaborate schemes, no. Simple is often best.” Ysabeau smiled her tiger smile.

“Charles owes Matthew a great deal. In time, Phoebe, you will have many creatures in your debt, too.

Then you will see how easy it is to achieve your desires.” Ysabeau eyed me sharply. “You look pale, Diana. Aren’t you happy that you will soon have all three missing pages from the Book of Life?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then what is the problem?” Ysabeau’s eyebrow lifted.

The problem? Once I had the three missing pages, there would be nothing standing between me and the need to steal a manuscript from the Bodleian Library. I was about to become a book thief.

“Nothing,” I said faintly.

Back at the desk in the aptly named Chinese Room, I looked again at Kircher’s engravings, trying not to think what might happen should Phoebe and Ysabeau find the last missing page. Unable to concentrate on my efforts to locate every engraving of a tree in Kircher’s substantial body of work, I rose and went to the window. The street below was quiet, with only the occasional parent leading a child down the sidewalk or a tourist holding a map.

Matthew could always jostle me out of my worries with a snatch of song, or a joke, or (even better) a kiss. Needing to feel closer to him, I prowled down the vacant second-floor hallway until I reached his study. My hand hovered over the knob. After a moment of indecision, I twisted it and went inside.

The aroma of cinnamon and cloves washed over me. Matthew could not have been here in the past twelve months, yet his absence had made me more sensitive to his scent.

Whichever decorator had designed my opulent bedchamber and the confection of a sitting room where I’d spent the morning had not been allowed in here. This room was masculine and unfussy, its walls lined with bookshelves and windows. Splendid globes—one celestial, the other terrestrial—sat in wooden stands, ready to be consulted should a question of astronomy or geography present itself.

Natural curiosities were scattered here and there on small tables. I trod a clockwise path around the room as though weaving a spell to bring Matthew back, stopping occasionally to examine a book or to give the celestial globe a spin. The oddest chair I’d ever seen required a longer pause. Its high, deeply curved back had a leather-covered book stand mounted on it, and the seat was shaped rather like a saddle. The only way to occupy the chair would be to sit astride it, as Gallowglass did whenever he turned a chair at the dining-room table. Someone’s sitting astride the seat and facing the book stand would put the contraption at the perfect height for holding a book or some writing equipment. I tried out the theory by swinging my leg over the padded seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I imagined Matthew sitting here, reading for hours in the ample light from the windows.

I dismounted the chair and turned. What I saw hanging over the fireplace made me gasp: a life-size double portrait of Philippe and Ysabeau.

Matthew’s mother and father wore splendid clothes from the middle of the eighteenth century, that happy period of fashion when women’s gowns did not yet resemble birdcages and men had abandoned the long curls and high heels of the previous century. My fingers itched to touch the surface of the painting, convinced that they would be met with silks and lace rather than canvas.

What was most striking about the portrait was not the vividness of their features (though it would be impossible not to recognize Ysabeau) but the way the artist had captured the relationship between Philippe and his wife.

Philippe de Clermont faced the viewer in a splendid cream-and-blue silk suit, his broad shoulders square to the canvas and his right hand extended toward Ysabeau as if he were about to introduce her. A smile played at his lips, the hint of softness accentuating the stern lines of his face and the long sword that hung from his belt. Philippe’s eyes, however, did not meet mine as his position suggested they should. Instead they were directed in a sidelong glance at Ysabeau. Nothing, it seemed, could drag his attention away from the woman he loved. Ysabeau was painted in three-quarter profile, one hand resting lightly in her husband’s fingers and the other holding up the folds of her cream-and-gold silk dress as though she were stepping forward to be closer to Philippe. Instead of looking up at her husband, however, Ysabeau stared boldly at the viewer, her lips parted as if surprised to be interrupted in such a private moment.

I heard footsteps behind me and felt the tingling touch of a witch’s glance.

“Is that Matthew’s father?” Sarah asked, standing at my shoulder and looking up at the grand canvas.

“Yes. It’s an amazing likeness,” I said with a nod.

“I figured as much, given how perfectly the artist captured Ysabeau.” Sarah’s attention turned to me. “You don’t look well, Diana.”

“That’s not surprising, is it?” I said. “Matthew is out there somewhere, trying to stitch together a family. It may get him killed, and I asked him do it.”

“Not even you could make Matthew do something he didn’t want to do,” Sarah said bluntly.

“You don’t know what happened in New Haven, Sarah. Matthew discovered he had a grandson he didn’t know about—Benjamin’s son—and a great-grandson, too.”

“Fernando told me all about Andrew Hubbard, and Jack, and the blood rage,” Sarah replied. “He told me that Baldwin ordered Matthew to kill the boy, too—but you wouldn’t let him do it.”

I looked up at Philippe, wishing that I understood why he had appointed Matthew the official de Clermont family executioner. “Jack was like a child to us, Sarah. And if Matthew killed Jack, what would stop him from killing the twins if they, too, turn out to have blood rage?”