Matthew stared at me in silence for so long that I became concerned he’d been struck dumb.
“Never again,” he finally murmured with a shake of his head. “After today I will never make this mistake again.”
“The word ‘never’ is not in our family vocabulary, Matthew.” My anger with him boiled over and I dug my fingers into his shoulders. “Ysabeau says ‘impossible’ isn’t French? Well, ‘never’ is not Bishop Clairmont. Don’t ever use it again. As for mistakes, how dare you—”
Matthew stole my next words with a kiss. I pounded on his shoulders until my strength—and my interest in beating him to a pulp—subsided. He pulled away with a wry smile.
“You must try to allow me to finish my thoughts. Never”—he caught my fist before it made contact with his shoulder—“never again will I make the mistake of underestimating you.”
Matthew took advantage of my astonishment to kiss me more thoroughly than before.
“No wonder Philippe always looked so exhausted,” he said ruefully when he was through. “It’s very fatiguing pretending you’re in charge when your wife actually rules the roost.”
“Hmph,” I said, finding his analysis of the dynamics of our relationship somewhat suspect.
“While I have your attention, let me make myself clear: I want you to tell Sarah about being a weaver and what happened in London.” Matthew’s tone was stern. “After that, there will be no more disguising spells at home. Understood?”
“Promise.” I hoped he didn’t notice my crossed fingers. Alain was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs, wearing his usual look of circumspection and a dark suit.
“Is everything ready?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he murmured, handing me the final menu.
My eyes darted over it. “Perfect. The place cards are arranged? The wine was brought up and decanted? And you found the silver cups?”
Alain’s mouth twitched. “All of your instructions were followed to the letter, Madame de Clermont.”
“There you are. I was beginning to think you two were going to leave me to the lions.”
Gallowglass’s efforts to dress for dinner had yielded only combed hair and something leather in place of his worn denims, though I supposed cowboy boots qualified as formalwear of a sort. He was, alas, still wearing a T-shirt. This particular garment instructed us to KEEP CALM AND HARLEY ON. It also revealed a staggering number of tattoos.
“Sorry about the shirt, Auntie. It is black,” Gallowglass apologized, tracking my glances. “Matthew sent over one of his shirts, but it split down the back when I did up the buttons.”
“You look very dashing.” I searched the hall for signs of our other guests. I found Corra instead, perched on the statue of a nymph like an oddly shaped hat. She’d spent the whole day flying around Sept-Tours and Saint-Lucien in exchange for promises of good behavior tomorrow while we were traveling.
“What were you two doing up there all this time?” Sarah emerged from the salon and gave Matthew a suspicious once-over. Like Gallowglass, Sarah took a limited view of formalwear. She was wearing a long lavender shirt that extended past her hips and a pair of ankle-length beige trousers. “We thought we were going to have to send up a search party.”
“Diana couldn’t find her shoes,” Matthew said smoothly. He slid an apologetic glance toward Victoire, who was standing by with a tray of drinks. She had, of course, left my shoes next to the bed. “That doesn’t sound like Victoire.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed.
Corra squawked and chattered her teeth in agreement, blowing her breath through her nose so that a rain of sparks fell down onto the stone floors. Thankfully, there was no rug.
“Honestly, Diana, couldn’t you have brought home something from Elizabethan England that wasn’t so much trouble?” Sarah looked at Corra with a sour expression.
“Like what? A snow globe?” I asked.
“First I was subjected to witchwater falling from the tower. Now there is a dragon in my hallway.
This is what comes of having witches in the family.” Ysabeau appeared in a pale silk suit that perfectly matched the color of the Champagne in the glass she took from Victoire. “There are days when I cannot help thinking the Congregation is right to keep us apart.”
“Drink, Madame de Clermont?” Victoire turned to me, rescuing me from the need to respond.
“Thank you,” I replied. Her tray held not only wine but also glasses filled with ice cubes containing blue borage flowers and mint leaves, topped up with sparkling water.
“Hello, sister.” Verin sauntered out of the salon behind Ysabeau wearing knee-high black boots and an