Lead Demon

Congregation

“Oui,” I said warily, certain that this conversation was taking a multilingual turn for the worse.

“Hmm.” Michael frowned. “Dicunt mihi vos es philologus.” “She is a scholar,” Seven interjected testily. “If you want a rehearsal of her credentials, I’ll be pleased to provide it, in private, after breakfast.”

“Loquerisne latine?” Michael asked me, as if his son hadn’t spoken. “Milás elliniká?”

“Mea lingua latina est mala,” I replied, putting down my wine. Michael’s eyes shot wide at my appallingly schoolgirl response, his expression taking me straight back to the horrors of Latin 101. Put a Latin alchemical text in front of me and I could read it. But I wasn’t prepared for a discussion. I soldiered bravely on, hoping I had deduced correctly that his second question probed my grasp of Greek. “Tamen mea lingua graeca est peior.”

“Then we shall not converse in that language either,” murmured Michael in a pained tone. He turned to Seven in indignation. “Den tha ekpaidéfsoun gynaíkes sto méllon?”

“Women in Stephanie’s time receive considerably more schooling than you would think wise, Father,” Seven answered. “Just not in Greek.”

“They have no need for Aristotle in the future? What a strange world it must be. I am glad that I will not encounter it for some time to come.” Michael gave the wine pitcher a suspicious sniff and decided against it. “Stephanie will have to become more fluent in French and Latin. Only a few of our servants speak English, and none at all belowstairs.” He tossed a heavy ring of keys across the table. My fingers opened automatically to catch them.

“Absolutely not,” Seven said, reaching to pluck them from my grasp. “Stephanie won’t be here long enough to trouble herself with the household.”

“She is the highest-ranking woman at Sept-Tours, and it is her due. You should begin, I think, with the cook,” Michael said, pointing to the largest of the keys. “That one opens the food stores. The others unlock the bakehouse, the brewhouse, all the sleeping chambers save my own, and the cellars.”

“Which one opens the library?” I asked, fingering the worn iron surfaces with interest.

“We don’t lock up books in this house,” Michael said, “only food, ale, and wine. Reading Herodotus or Aquinas seldom leads to bad behavior.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” I said under my breath. “And what is the cook’s name?”

“Chef.”

“No, his given name,” I said, confused.

Michael shrugged. “He is in charge, so he is Chef. I’ve never called him anything else. Have you, Matthaios?” Father and son exchanged a look that had me worried about the future of the trestle table that separated them.

“I thought you were in charge. If I’m to call the cook ‘Chef,’ what am I to call you?” My sharp tone temporarily distracted Seven, who was about to toss the table aside and wrap his long fingers around his father’s neck.

“Everyone here calls me either ‘sire’ or ‘Father.’ Which would you prefer?” Michael’s question was silky and dangerous.

“Just call him Michael,” Seven rumbled. “He goes by many other titles, but those that fit him best would blister your tongue.”

Michael grinned at his son. “You didn’t lose your combativeness when you lost your sense, I see. Leave the

household to your woman and join me for a ride. You look puny and need proper exercise.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“I am not leaving Stephanie,” Seven retorted. He was fiddling nervously with an enormous silver salt, the ancestor of the humble salt crock that sat by my stove in New Haven.

“Why not?” Michael snorted. “Alain will play nursemaid.”

Seven opened his mouth to reply.

“Father?” I said sweetly, cutting into the exchange. “Might I speak with my husband privately before he meets you in the stables?”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. He stood and bowed slowly in my direction. It was the first time the vampire had moved at anything resembling normal speed. “Of course, madame. I will send for Alain to attend upon you. Enjoy your privacy—while you have it.”

Seven waited, his eyes on me, until his father left the room.

“What are you up to, Stephanie?” he asked quietly as I rose and made a slow progress around the table.

“Why is Ysabeau in Trier?” I asked.

“What does it matter?” he said evasively.

I swore like a sailor, which effectively removed the innocent expression from his face. There had been a lot of time to think last night, lying alone in Louisa’s rose-scented room—enough time for me to piece together the events of the past weeks and square them with what I knew about the period.

“It matters because there’s nothing much to do in Trier in 1590 but hunt witches!” A servant scuttled through the room, headed for the front door. There were still two men sitting by the fire, so I lowered my voice. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss your father’s current role in early-modern geopolitics, why a Catholic cardinal allowed you to order him around Mont Saint-Michel as if it were your private island, or the tragic death of Anthony’s father. But you will tell me. And we definitely will require further time and privacy for you to explain the more technical aspects of vampire mating.”

I whirled around to get away from him. He waited until I was far enough away to think escape was possible before neatly catching my elbow and turning me back. It was the instinctive maneuver of a predator. “No, Stephanie. We’ll talk about our marriage before either of us leaves this room.”

Seven turned in the direction of the last huddle of servants enjoying their morning meal. A jerk of his head sent them scurrying.

“What marriage?” I demanded. Something dangerous sparked in his eyes and was gone.

“Do you love me, Stephanie?” Seven’s mild question surprised me.

“Yes,” I responded instantaneously. “But if loving you were all that mattered, this would be simple and we would still be in Madison.”

“It is simple.” Seven rose to his feet. “If you love me, my father’s words don’t have the power to dissolve our promises to each other, any more than the Congregation can make us abide by the covenant.”