“What did he mean, ‘Thank you for holding my hand’?” Matthew asked.
“I promised him he wouldn’t be alone in the dark times. That I’d be there, with him.” My eyes brimmed with tears. “How can I have no memory of doing so?”
“I don’t know, my love. But somehow you managed to keep your promise.” Matthew leaned down and kissed me. He looked over my shoulder. “And Philippe made sure he got the last word, as usual.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, wiping at my cheeks.
“He left written proof that he freely and gladly wanted you for his daughter.” Matthew’s long white finger touched the page.
“That is why Sieur Philippe wanted Madame de Clermont to have these as soon as possible,” Alain admitted.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking at Matthew.
“Between the jewels, your dowry, and this letter, it will be impossible for any of Philippe’s children—or even the Congregation—to suggest he was somehow forced to bestow a blood vow on you,” Matthew explained.
“Sieur Philippe knew his children well. He often foresaw their future as easily as any witch,” Alain said, nodding. “I will leave you to your memories.”
“Thank you, Alain.” Matthew waited until the sound of Alain’s footsteps faded before saying anything more. He looked down at me with concern. “All right, mon coeur?”
“Of course,” I murmured, staring at the desk. The past was strewn across it, and a clear future was nowhere to be found.
“I’m going upstairs to change. I won’t be long,” Matthew said, giving me a kiss.
“Take your time,” I said, mustering what I hoped was a genuine smile.
Once Matthew was gone, I reached for the golden arrowhead that Philippe gave me to wear at my wedding. Its weight was comforting, and the metal warmed quickly to my touch. I slipped its chain over my head. The arrowhead’s point nestled between my breasts, its edges too soft and worn to nick my skin.
I felt a squirming sensation in the pocket of my jeans and drew out a clutch of silk ribbons. My weaver’s cords had come with me from the past, and unlike the sleeve from my wedding dress or the faded silk that bound my letters, these strands were fresh and shiny. They twined and danced around my wrists and one another like a handful of brightly colored snakes, merging into new colors for a moment before separating into their original strands and hues. The cords snaked up my arms and wormed their way into my hair as if they were looking for something. I pulled them free and tucked the silks away.
I was supposed to be the weaver. But would I ever comprehend the tangled web that Philippe de Clermont had been spinning when he made me his blood-sworn daughter?
4
“Were you ever going to tell me you were the de Clermont family’s assassin?” I asked, reaching for the grapefruit juice.
Matthew looked at me in silence across the kitchen table where Marthe had laid out my breakfast.
He had sneaked Hector and Fallon inside, and they were following our conversation—and my selection of foods—with interest.
“And Fernando’s relationship with your brother Hugh?” I asked. “I was raised by two women. You couldn’t possibly have been withholding that piece of information because you thought I might disapprove.”
Hector and Fallon looked to Matthew for an answer. When none was forthcoming, the dogs looked back at me.
“Verin seems nice,” I said, deliberately trying to provoke him.
“Nice?” Matthew beetled his eyebrows at me.
“Well, except for the fact she was armed with a knife,” I admitted mildly, pleased that my strategy had worked.
“Knives,” Matthew corrected me. “She had one in her boot, one in her waistband, and one in her bra.”
“Was Verin ever a Girl Scout?” It was my turn to lift my brows.
Before Matthew could answer, Gallowglass shot through the kitchen in a streak of blue and black, followed by Fernando. Matthew scrambled to his feet. When the dogs got up to follow, he pointed to the floor and they immediately sat down again.
“Finish your breakfast, then go to the tower,” Matthew ordered just before he vanished. “Take the dogs with you. And don’t come down until I come and get you.”
“What’s going on?” I asked Marthe, blinking at the suddenly vacant room.
“Baldwin is home,” she replied, as though this were a sufficient answer.
“Marcus,” I said, remembering that Baldwin had returned to see Matthew’s son. The dogs and I jumped up. “Where is he?”
“Philippe’s office.” Marthe frowned. “I do not think Matthew wants you there.