a solution when a magical one already exists. If any member of Matthew’s family acts on their blood rage, I will spellbind them,” I said. “Agreed?”
Matthew stared at me in shock. And with good reason. This time last year I was still clinging to the belief that science was superior to magic.
“No,” Baldwin said with a shake of his head. “Your word is not good enough. You would have to prove it. Then we would all have to wait and see if your magic is as good as you think it is, witch.”
“Very well,” I said promptly. “Our probation starts now.”
Baldwin’s eyes narrowed. Matthew looked up at his brother.
“Queen checks king,” Matthew said softly.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, brother.” Baldwin hoisted Matthew to his feet. “Our game is far from over.”
“It was left in Père Antoine’s office,” Fernando said. “No one saw who brought it.”
Matthew looked down at the preserved stillborn fetus. A girl.
“He’s even more insane than I thought.” Baldwin looked pale, and not just because of what had happened in the church.
Matthew read the note again.
“Congratulations on your children’s birth,” it said. “I wanted you to have my daughter, since I will soon possess yours.” The note was signed simply “Your son.”
“Someone is reporting your every move to Benjamin,” Baldwin said.
“The question is who.” Fernando put his hand on Matthew’s arm. “We won’t let him take Rebecca—or Diana.”
The prospect was so chilling that Matthew could only nod.
In spite of Fernando’s assurances, Matthew would not know another moment’s peace until Benjamin Fuchs was dead.
After the drama of the christening, the rest of the winter holiday was a quiet family affair. Our guests departed, except for the extended Wilson family, who remained at Sept-Tours to enjoy what Agatha Wilson described as “very merry mayhem.” Chris and Miriam returned to Yale, still committed to reaching a better understanding of blood rage and its possible treatment. Baldwin took off for Venice at the earliest opportunity to try to manage the Congregation’s response to any news trickling in from France.
Matthew flung himself into Christmas preparations, determined to banish any lingering sourness after the christening. He went off into the woods on the other side of the moat and came back with a tall fir tree for the great hall, which he draped with tiny white lights that shone like fireflies.
Remembering Philippe and his decorations for Yule, we cut moons and stars out of silver and gold paper. With the combination of a flying spell and a binding charm, I swirled them into the air and let them settle onto the branches, where they winked and sparkled in the firelight.
Matthew went to Saint-Lucien for mass on Christmas Eve. He and Jack were the only vampires in attendance, which pleased Père Antoine. After the christening he was understandably reluctant to have too many creatures in his pews.
The children were fed and sleeping soundly when Matthew returned, stomping the snow from his shoes. I was sitting by the fire in the great hall with a bottle of Matthew’s favorite wine and two glasses. Marcus had assured me that a single glass every now and again wouldn’t affect the babies, provided I waited a couple of hours before I nursed.
“Peace, perfect peace,” Matthew said, cocking his head for signs that the babies were stirring.
“Silent night, holy night,” I agreed with a grin, leaning over to switch off the baby monitor. Like blood-pressure cuffs and power tools, such equipment was optional in a vampire household.
While I fiddled with the controls, Matthew tackled me. Weeks of separation and standing up to Baldwin had brought out his playful side.
“Your nose is freezing,” I said, giggling as he drew its tip along the warm skin of my neck. I gasped. “Your hands, too.”
“Why do you think I took a warmblood for a wife?” Matthew’s icy fingers rummaged around underneath my sweater.
“Wouldn’t a hot-water bottle have been less trouble?” I teased. His fingers found what they sought, and I arched into his touch.
“Perhaps.” Matthew kissed me. “But not nearly so much fun.”
The wine forgotten, we marked the hours until midnight in heartbeats rather than minutes. When the bells of the nearby churches in Dournazac and Châlus rang to celebrate the birth of a child in long ago and far-away Bethlehem, Matthew paused to listen to the solemn yet still-exuberant sound.
“What are you thinking?” I asked as the bells died away.
“I was remembering how the village celebrated Saturnalia when I was a child. There were not many Christians, apart from my parents and