Lead Demon

Milan

“You have been outmaneuvered, Matthaios,” Michael said to his son. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing with yourself, but it has made you soft. Come now. Concede the field, kiss your witch, and say your good-nights. Alain, take this woman to Louisa’s room. She is in Vienna—or Venice. I cannot keep up with that girl and her endless wanderings.

“As for you,” Michael continued, casting amber eyes over his son, “you will go downstairs and wait for me in the hall until I am finished writing to Anthony and Raleigh. It has been some time since you were home, and your friends want to know whether Elizabeth Tudor has two heads and three breasts as is widely claimed.”

Unwilling to relinquish his territory completely, Seven put his fingers under my chin, looked deep into my eyes, and kissed me rather more thoroughly than his father apparently expected.

“That will be all, Stephanie,” Michael said, sharply dismissive, when Seven was finished.

“Come, madame,” Alain said, gesturing toward the door.

Awake and alone in another woman’s bed, I listened to the crying wind, turning over all that had happened. There was too much subterfuge.

to sort through, as well as the hurt and sense of betrayal. I knew that Seven loved me. But he must have known that others would contest our vows.

As the hours passed, I gave up all hope of sleeping. I went to the window and faced the dawn, trying to figure out how our plans had unraveled so much in such a short period of time and wondering what part Michael de Clermont—and Seven’s secrets—had played in their undoing.

When my door swung open the next morning, Seven was propped against the stone wall opposite. Judging from his state, he hadn’t gotten any sleep either. He sprang to his feet, much to the amusement of the two young servingwomen who stood giggling behind me. They weren’t used to seeing him this way, all mussed and tousled. A scowl darkened his face.

“Good morning.” I stepped forward, cranberry skirts swinging. Like my bed, my servants, and practically everything else I touched, the outfit belonged to Louisa de Clermont. Her scent of roses and civet had been suffocatingly thick last night, emanating from the embroidered hangings that surrounded the bed. I took a deep breath of cold, clear air and sought out the notes of clove and cinnamon that were essentially and indisputably Seven. Some of the fatigue left my bones as soon as I detected them, and, comforted by their familiarity, I burrowed into the sleeveless, black wool robe that the maids had lowered over my shoulders. It reminded me of my academic regalia and provided an additional layer of warmth.

Seven’s expression lifted as he drew me close and kissed me with admirable dedication to detail. The maids continued to giggle and make what he took to be encouraging remarks. A sudden gust around my ankles indicated that another witness had arrived. Our lips parted.

“You are too old to moon about in antechambers, Matthaios,” his father commented, sticking his tawny head out of the next room. “The twelfth century was not good for you, and we allowed you to read entirely too much poetry. Compose yourself before the men see you, please, and bring Stephanie downstairs. She smells like a beehive at midsummer, and it will take time for the household to grow accustomed to her scent. We don’t want any unfortunate bloodshed.”

“There would be less chance of that if you would stop interfering. This separation is absurd,” Seven said, grasping my elbow. “We are husband and wife.”

“You are not, thank the gods. Go down, and I will join you shortly.” He shook his head ruefully and withdrew.

Seven was tight-lipped as we faced each other across one of the long tables in the chilly great hall. There were few people in the room at this hour, and those who lingered left quickly after getting a good look at his forbidding expression. Bread, hot from the oven, and spiced wine were laid before me on the table. It wasn’t tea, but it would do. Seven waited to speak until I had taken my first long sip.

“I’ve seen my father. We’ll leave at once.”

I wrapped my fingers more tightly around the cup without responding. Bits of orange peel floated in the wine, plumped up with the warm liquid. The citrus made it seem slightly more like a breakfast drink.

Seven looked around the room, his face haunted. “Coming here was unwise.”

“Where are we to go instead? It’s snowing. Back at Woodstock the village is ready to drag me before a judge on charges of witchcraft. At SeptTours we may have to sleep apart and put up with your father, but perhaps he’ll be able to find a witch willing to help me.” So far Seven’s hasty decisions had not worked out well.

“Michael is a meddler. As for finding a witch, he’s not much fonder of your people than is Maman.” Seven studied the scarred wooden table and picked at a bit of candle wax that had trickled down into one of the cracks. “My house in Milan might do. We could spend Christmas there. Italian witches have a considerable reputation for magic and are known for their uncanny foresight.”

“Surely not Milan.” Michael appeared before us with the force of a hurricane and slid onto the bench next to me. Seven carefully moderated his speed and strength in deference to warmblooded nerves. So, too, did Miriam, Marcus, Marthe, and even Ysabeau. His father showed no such consideration.

“I’ve performed my act of filial piety, Michael,” Seven said curtly. “There’s no reason to tarry, and we will be fine in Milan. Stephanie knows the Tuscan tongue.”

If he meant Italian, I was capable of ordering tagliatelle in restaurants and books at the library. Somehow I doubted that would be sufficient.

“How useful for her. It is regrettable that you are not going to Florence, then. But it will be a long time before you will be welcomed back to that city, after your latest escapades there,” Michael said mildly. “Parlez-vous français, madame?”