“Will you make them on straight legs or with a curved base so they can be rocked?” Fernando asked conversationally.
Matthew frowned. “Make what?”
“The cradles. For the twins.” Fernando let his words sink in. “I think oak is best—stout and strong—but Marcus tells me that cherry is traditional in America. Perhaps Diana would prefer that.”
Matthew picked up his chisel. The worn handle filled his palm. “Rowan. I’ll make them out of rowan for protection.”
Fernando squeezed Matthew’s shoulder with approval and departed.
Matthew dropped the chisel back into the bag. He took out his phone, hesitated, and snapped a photograph. Then he waited.
Diana’s response was swift and made his bones hollow with longing. His wife was in the bath. He recognized the curves of the copper tub in the Mayfair house. But these were not the curves that interested him.
His wife—his clever, wicked wife—had propped the phone on her breastbone and taken a picture down the length of her naked body. All that was visible was the mound of her belly, the skin stretched impossibly tight, and the tips of her toes resting on the curled edge of the tub.
If he concentrated, Matthew could imagine her scent rising from the warm water, feel the silk of her hair between his fingers, trace the long, strong lines of her thigh and shoulder. Christ, he missed her.
“Fernando said you needed lumber.” Marcus was standing before him, frowning.
Matthew dragged his eyes away from the phone. What he needed, only Diana could provide.
“Fernando also said if anyone woke him in the next forty-eight hours, there would be hell to pay,”
Marcus said, looking at the stacks of split logs. They certainly wouldn’t lack firewood this winter. “You know how Ransome loves a challenge—not to mention a brush with the devil—so you can imagine his response.”
“Do tell,” Matthew said with a dry chuckle. He hadn’t laughed in some time, so the sound was rusty and raw. “Ransome has already been on the phone to the Krewe of Muses. I expect the Ninth Ward Marching Band will be here by suppertime. Vampire or no, they’ll rouse Fernando for sure.” Marcus looked down at his father’s leather tool bag. “Are you finally going to teach Jack to carve?” The boy had been begging Matthew for lessons since he arrived.
Matthew shook his head. “I thought he might like to help me make cradles instead.”
Matthew and Jack worked on the cradles for almost a week. Every cut of wood, every finely hewn dovetail that joined the pieces together, every swipe of the plane helped to reduce Matthew’s blood rage.
Working on a present for Diana made him feel connected to her again, and he began to talk about the children and his hopes.
Jack was a good pupil, and his skills as an artist proved handy when it came to carving decorative designs into the cradles. While they worked, Jack asked Matthew about his childhood and how he’d met Diana at the Bodleian. No one else would have gotten away with asking such direct, personal questions, but the rules were always slightly different where Jack was concerned.
When they were finished, the cradles were works of art. Matthew and Jack wrapped them carefully in soft blankets to protect them on the journey back to London.
It was only after the cradles were finished and ready to go that Fernando told Matthew about Diana’s condition.
Matthew’s response was entirely expected. First he went still and silent. Then he swung into action.
“Get the pilot on the phone. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I want to be in London by morning,”
Matthew said, his tone clipped and precise. “Marcus!”
“What’s wrong?” Marcus said.
“Diana isn’t well.” Matthew scowled ferociously at Fernando. “I should have been told.”
“I thought you had been.” Fernando didn’t need to say anything else. Matthew knew who had kept this from him. Fernando suspected that Matthew knew why as well. Matthew’s usually mobile face turned to stone, and his normally expressive eyes were blank.
“What happened?” Marcus said. He told Jack where to find his medical bag and called for Ransome.
“Diana found the missing page from Ashmole 782.” Fernando took Matthew by the shoulders.
“There’s more. She saw Benjamin at the Bodleian Library. He knows about the pregnancy. He attacked Phoebe.”
“Phoebe?” Marcus was distraught. “Is she all right?”
“Benjamin?” Jack inhaled sharply.
“Phoebe is fine. And Benjamin is nowhere to be found,” Fernando reassured them. “As for Diana, Hamish called Edward Garrett and Jane Sharp. They’re overseeing her case.”
“They’re among the finest doctors in the city, Matthew,”