Free The Book of Life by Deborah Harkness Page A

separating into their original strands and hues. The cords snaked up my arms and wormed their way into my hair as if they were looking for something. I pulled them free and tucked the silks away.
    I was supposed to be the weaver. But would I ever comprehend the tangled web that Philippe de Clermont had been spinning when he made me his blood-sworn daughter?

4
    “W ere you ever going to tell me you were the de Clermont family’s assassin?” I asked, reaching for the grapefruit juice.
    Matthew looked at me in silence across the kitchen table where Marthe had laid out my breakfast.
    He had sneaked Hector and Fallon inside, and they were following our conversation—and my selection of foods—with interest.
    “And Fernando’s relationship with your brother Hugh?” I asked. “I was raised by two women. You couldn’t possibly have been withholding that piece of information because you thought I might disapprove.”
    Hector and Fallon looked to Matthew for an answer. When none was forthcoming, the dogs looked back at me.
    “Verin seems nice,” I said, deliberately trying to provoke him.
    “Nice?” Matthew beetled his eyebrows at me.
    “Well, except for the fact she was armed with a knife,” I admitted mildly, pleased that my strategy had worked.
    “Knives,” Matthew corrected me. “She had one in her boot, one in her waistband, and one in her bra.”
    “Was Verin ever a Girl Scout?” It was my turn to lift my brows.
    Before Matthew could answer, Gallowglass shot through the kitchen in a streak of blue and black, followed by Fernando. Matthew scrambled to his feet. When the dogs got up to follow, he pointed to the floor and they immediately sat down again.
    “Finish your breakfast, then go to the tower,” Matthew ordered just before he vanished. “Take the dogs with you. And don’t come down until I come and get you.”
    “What’s going on?” I asked Marthe, blinking at the suddenly vacant room.
    “Baldwin is home,” she replied, as though this were a sufficient answer.
    “Marcus,” I said, remembering that Baldwin had returned to see Matthew’s son. The dogs and I jumped up. “Where is he?”
    “Philippe’s office.” Marthe frowned. “I do not think Matthew wants you there. There may be bloodshed.”
    “Story of my life.” I was looking over my shoulder when I said it and ran smack into Verin as a result. A dignified older gentleman who had a tall, gaunt frame and kind eyes was with her. I tried to get around them. “Excuse me.”
    “Where do you think you’re going?” Verin asked, blocking my way.
    “Philippe’s office.”
    “Matthew told you to go to his tower.” Verin’s eyes narrowed. “He is your mate, and you’re supposed to obey him like a proper vampire wife.” Her accent was softly Germanic—not quite German, or Austrian, or Swiss, but something that borrowed from all three.
    “What a pity for all of you that I’m a witch.” I stuck my hand out to the gentleman, who was watching our conversation with thinly veiled amusement. “Diana Bishop.”
    “Ernst Neumann. I’m Verin’s husband.” Ernst’s accent placed his origins squarely in the neighborhood of Berlin. “Why not let Diana go after him, Schatz? That way you can follow. I know how you hate to miss a good argument. I will wait in the salon for the others.”
    “Good idea, my love. They can hardly fault me if the witch escapes from the kitchen.” Verin regarded him with open admiration and gave him a lingering kiss. Though she looked young enough to be his granddaughter, it was obvious that she and Ernst were deeply in love.
    “I have them occasionally,” he said with a definite twinkle in his eye. “Now, before Diana runs off and you give chase, tell me: Shall I take a knife or a gun with me in case one of your brothers goes on a rampage?”
    Verin considered the matter. “I think Marthe’s cleaver should be sufficient. It was enough to slow down Gerbert, and his hide is far thicker than