“We think some fire and a bit of blood might have been involved,” Matthew explained, shaking out one of the blankets and following Caleb. The two had been chatting all evening about everything from academic politics to Matthew’s hospital work at the John Radcliffe to the fate of the polar bears.
Matthew arranged a blanket on the floor for John, while Caleb ran his fingers over the bark on the Blasted Tree.
This is what Matthew needs, I realized. Home. Family. Pack. Without other people to take care of, he retreated to that dark place where his past deeds haunted him. And he was especially prone to brooding now, given Benjamin’s recent reappearance.
I needed this, too. Living in the sixteenth century, in households rather than simply in houses, I had grown accustomed to being surrounded by other people. My fear of being discovered had receded, and in its place had grown a wish to belong.
As a result I’d found the coven potluck surprisingly enjoyable. The Madison witches had occupied an intimidating place in my imagination, but tonight the assembled witches were pleasant and, except for my high-school nemeses Cassie and Lydia, welcoming. They were also surprisingly powerless when compared to the witches I’d known in London. One or two of them had some elemental magic at their disposal, but none were as formidable as the firewitches or waterwitches of the past. And the Madison witches who could work the craft couldn’t hold a candle to Sarah.
“Wine, Abby?” Fernando offered her a glass.
“Sure.” Abby giggled. “I’m surprised you made it out of the potluck alive, Fernando. I was positive that someone was going to work a bit of love magic on you.”
“Fernando shouldn’t have encouraged them,” I said with mock severity. “There was no need to both bow and kiss Betty Eastey’s hand.”
“Her poor husband is going to hear nothing but ‘Fernando this’ and ‘Fernando that’ for days,” Abby said with another giggle. “The ladies will be very disappointed when they discover they are trying to saddle the wrong horse,” Fernando replied. “Your friends told me the most charming stories, Diana. Did you know that vampires are really quite cuddly, once we find our true love?”
“Matthew hasn’t exactly been transformed into a teddy bear,” I said drily.
“Ah, but you didn’t know him before.” Fernando’s smile was wicked.
“Fernando!” Sarah called from the kitchen. “Come help me light this stupid fire. I can’t get it to catch.”
Why she felt it was necessary to light a fire in this kind of heat was beyond me, but Sarah said Em had always lit a fire on Lughnasadh, and that was that.
“Duty calls,” Fernando murmured, giving Abby a little bow. Like Betty Eastey, she blushed.
“We’ll go with you.” Caleb took Grace by the hand. “Come on, sprout.”
Matthew watched the Pratts troop off to the kitchen, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“That will be us soon,” I said, slipping my arms around him.
“That’s just what I was thinking.” Matthew kissed me. “Are you ready to tell your aunt about being a weaver?”
“As soon as the Pratts leave.” Every morning I promised to tell Sarah about all that I’d learned from the London coven, but with every passing day it got harder to share my news.
“You don’t have to tell her everything all at once,” Matthew said, running his hands over my shoulders. “Just tell her you’re a weaver so you can stop wearing this shroud.”
We joined the others in the kitchen. Sarah’s fire was now crackling merrily in the stillroom, adding to the warmth of the summer evening. We sat around the table, comparing notes on the party and gossiping about the latest coven happenings. Then the talk turned to baseball. Caleb was a Red Sox fan, just like my dad.
“What is it about Harvard men and the Red Sox?” I got up to make some tea.
A flicker of white caught my eye. I smiled and put the kettle on the stove, thinking it was one of the house’s missing ghosts. Sarah would be so happy if one of them were ready to apparate again.
That was no ghost.
Grace tottered in front of the stillroom fireplace on unsteady, two-year-old legs. “Pretty,” she cooed.
“Grace!”
Startled by my cry, Grace turned her head. That was enough to upset her balance, and she tipped toward the fire.
I’d never reach her in time—not with a kitchen island and twenty-five feet between us. I reached into the pocket of my shorts and pulled out my weaver’s cords. They snaked through