“Not anymore. I’m pregnant, Dad.” My hand settled lightly on my abdomen. It had been doing so a lot lately, without my thinking about it.
“I know.” He smiled. “I figured that out, too, but it’s good to hear you say it.”
“You’ve only been here for forty-eight hours. I don’t like to rush things any more than you do,” I said, feeling shy. My father got up and took me in his arms. He held me tight. “Besides, you should be surprised. Witches and vampires aren’t supposed to fall in love. And they’re definitely not supposed to have babies together.”
“Your mother warned me about it—she’s seen it all with that uncanny sight of hers.” He laughed. “What a worrywart. If it’s not you she’s fussing over, it’s the vampire. Congratulations, honey. Having a child is a wonderful gift.”
“I just hope we can handle it. Who knows what our child will be like?”
“You can handle more than you think.” My father kissed me on the cheek. “Come on, let’s take a walk. You can show me your favorite places in the city. I’d love to meet Shakespeare. One of my idiot colleagues actually thinks Queen Elizabeth wrote Hamlet. And speaking of colleagues: How, after years of buying you Harvard bibs and mittens, did I end up with a daughter who teaches at Yale?” “I’m curious about something,” my father said, staring into his wine.
The two of us had enjoyed a lovely walk, we’d all finished a leisurely supper, the children had been sent to bed, and Mop was snoring by the fireplace. Thus far, it had been a perfect day. “What’s that, Stephen?” Matthew asked, looking up from his own cup with a smile.
“How long do you two think you can keep this crazy life you’re leading under control?”
Matthew’s smile dissolved. “I’m not sure I understand your question,” he said stiffly.
“The two of you hold on to everything so damn tightly.” My father took a sip of his wine and stared pointedly at Matthew’s clenched fist over the rim of his cup. “You might inadvertently destroy what you most love with that grip, Matthew.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Matthew was controlling his temper—barely. I opened my mouth to smooth things over.
“Stop trying to fix things, honey,” my father said before I could utter a word.
“I’m not,” I said tightly.
“Yes, you are,” Stephen said. “Your mother does it all the time, and I recognize the signs. This is my one chance to talk to you as an adult, Diana, and I’m not going to mince words because they make you—or him— uncomfortable.”
My father stuck his hand in his jacket and drew out a pamphlet. “You’ve been trying to fix things, too, Matthew.”
“Newes from Scotland,” read the small print above the larger type of the headline: declaring the damnable life of doctor fian a notable sorcerer, who was burned in edenbrough in januarie last.
“The whole town is talking about the witches in Scotland,” my father said, pushing the pages toward Matthew. “But the creatures are telling a different tale than the warmbloods are. They say that the great and terrible Matthew Roydon, enemy to witches, has been defying the Congregation’s wishes and saving the accused.”
Matthew’s fingers stopped the pages’ progress. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Stephen. Londoners are fond of idle gossip.”
“For two control freaks, you certainly are stirring up a world of trouble. And the trouble won’t end here. It will follow you home, too.”
“The only thing that is going to follow us home from 1591 is Ashmole 782,” I said.
“You can’t take the book.” My father was emphatic. “It belongs here. You’ve twisted time enough, staying as long as you have.”
“We’ve been very careful, Dad.” I was stung by his criticism.
“Careful? You’ve been here for seven months. You’ve conceived a child. The longest I’ve ever spent in the past is two weeks. You aren’t timewalkers anymore. You’ve succumbed to one of the most basic transgressions of anthropological fieldwork: You’ve gone native.”
“I was here before, Stephen,” Matthew said mildly, though his fingers drummed on his thigh. That was never a good sign.
“I’m aware of that, Matthew,” my father shot back. “But you’ve introduced far too many variables for the past to remain as it was.”
“The past has changed us,” I said, facing down my father’s angry stare. “It stands to reason that we’ve changed it, too.”