“Marcus and Hamish would have made sure we had a way to get to Sept-Tours as planned without calling them for help. They probably have cars waiting all over Europe and America just in case. But they wouldn’t have left one visible,” Matthew continued.
“There’s no garage.”
“The hop barn.” Matthew’s hand automatically moved to slide the key into the pocket at his hip, but his clothing had no such modern conveniences.
“Would they have thought to leave clothes for us, too?” I gestured down at my embroidered jacket and full skirts. They were still dusty from the unpaved, sixteenth-century Oxford road.
“Let’s find out.” Matthew carried the key and the page from Ashmole 782 into the family room and kitchen.
“Still brown,” I commented, looking at the checked wallpaper and ancient refrigerator.
“Still home,” Matthew said, drawing me into the crook of his arm.
“Not without Em and Sarah.” In contrast with the overstuffed household that had surrounded us for so many months, our modern family seemed fragile and its membership small. Here there was no Mary Sidney to discuss my troubles with in the course of a stormy evening. Neither Susanna nor Goody Alsop would drop by the house in the afternoon for a cup of wine and to help me perfect my latest spell. I wouldn’t have Annie’s cheerful assistance to get me out of my corset and skirts. Mop wasn’t underfoot, or Jack. And if we needed help, there was no Henry Percy to rush to our aid without question or hesitation. I slid my hand around Matthew’s waist, needing a reminder of his solid indestructibility.
“You will always miss them,” he said softly, gauging my mood, “but the pain will fade in time.”
“I’m beginning to feel more like a vampire than a witch,” I said ruefully. “Too many good-byes, too many missing loved ones.” I spotted the calendar on the wall. It showed the month of November. I pointed it out to Matthew.
“Is it possible that no one has been here since last year?” he wondered, worried.
“Something must be wrong,” I said, reaching for the phone.
“No,” said Matthew. “The Congregation could be tracing the calls or watching the house. We’re expected at Sept-Tours. Whether our time away can be measured in an hour or a year, that’s where we need to go.”
We found our modern clothes on top of the dryer, slipped into a pillowcase to keep them from getting dusty. Matthew’s briefcase sat neatly beside them. Em at least had been here since we left. No one else would have thought of such practicalities. I wrapped our Elizabethan clothes in the linens, reluctant to let go of these tangible remnants of our former lives, and tucked them under my arms like two lumpy footballs. Matthew slid the page from Ashmole 782 into his leather bag, closing it securely.
Matthew scanned the orchard and the fields before we left the house, his keen eyes alert to possible danger. I made my own sweep of the place with my witch’s third eye, but no one seemed to be out there. I could see the water under the orchard, hear the owls in the trees, taste the summer sweetness in the air, but that was all.
“Come on,” Matthew said, grabbing one of the bundles and taking my hand. We ran across the open space to the hop barn. Matthew put all his weight against the sliding door and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Sarah put a spell on it.” I could see it, twisted around the handle and through the grain of the wood. “A good one, too.”
“Too good to break?” Matthew’s mouth was tight with worry. It wasn’t surprising that he was concerned. Last time we were here, I hadn’t been able to light the Halloween pumpkins. I located the loose ends of the bindings and grinned.
“No knots. Sarah’s good, but she’s not a weaver.” I’d tucked my Elizabethan silks into the waistband of my leggings. When I pulled them free, the green and brown cords in my hand reached out and latched onto Sarah’s spell, loosening the restrictions my aunt had placed on the door faster than even our master thief Jack could have managed it.
Sarah’s Honda was parked inside the barn.
“How the hell are we going to fit you into that?” I wondered.
“I’ll manage,” Matthew said, tossing our clothes into the back. He handed me the briefcase, folded himself into the front seat, and after a few false starts the car sputtered to life.
“Where next?” I asked, fastening my seat belt.
“Syracuse. Then Montreal. Then Amsterdam, where I have a house.” Matthew put the car into drive and quietly rolled it into the field. “If anyone is watching for us, they’ll be looking in New York, London, and Paris.”