LIMITS

Sept-Tours was thrumming with the muted din of hundreds of mourners and well-wishers who had gathered to say their farewells to the Bishop half of the Bishop-Clairmont scion. Marcus, in his dual role as the de facto head of the Bishop-Clairmont clan in Matthew's absence and as Grand Master of the Knights of Lazarus, of which many of the congregants were members, had spent the past few days and nights tirelessly receiving a continuous stream of guests.

Phoebe was invaluable at times like these. As soon as it was clear that Diana's end was near, she worked with Alain to send word to friends, family members, close allies, and powerful adversaries, and to prepare for the hordes that were bound to descend upon Sept-Tours. She went through the names and determined which individuals and families warranted invitations to stay at the chateau, and made enquiries with hotels and inns in the neighboring villages to see which establishments would be suitable to house those who were slightly lower down on the pecking order. Phoebe oversaw the opening up of the entire castle—cleaning and airing out rooms that were closed up, removing sheets from furniture, preparing fireplaces and fresh bedding—to provide sleeping accommodation to those who would need it. She accompanied Alain to the wine cellar and together they selected the 8000 bottles that should be brought up to the main house. She made sure Marthe had the help she needed in the kitchen and hired staff and servers and sommeliers. Once the house began to fill, she flitted about the chateau keeping a weather eye on things, asking after visitors and their families, making sure there was plenty of food and drink for those who needed it, deftly steering guests into optimal groupings, and making prudent introductions and strategic separations. For Marcus and Phoebe, as well as Alain, Marthe, and, to a lesser extent, Ysabeau, the true mourning wouldn't begin until the house was empty again.

Marcus and Phoebe snatched whatever brief moments they could with each other and with those closest to them. They found a restorative oasis in the form of Miriam, Chris, Nathaniel, Ransome, and Evelyn, who were clustered in a corner of the garden. Seeing Chris was a pleasant surprise. He was in his 90s and wheelchair bound, so he hadn't traveled internationally for quite a few years, but he was determined to be there for Diana's funeral and everyone was thrilled to see him. He hadn't changed a bit. Age and infirmity hadn't dulled his intellect or his easy humor, and he injected a welcome sense of levity into the proceedings. It had been a few years since Ransome and Evelyn had seen each other, and many years since any of them had seen Nathaniel, so it was a safe, comfortable, and familiar respite from the darkness of the occasion.

To Marcus's chagrin, he spotted Alain making his way toward the group, indicating that he was needed back at the house. Reluctantly, he made his excuses to his friends and rallied himself to mingle with whatever distant relatives or distinguished luminaries required his attention. In fact, Alain informed him that Diana had died, and that Gallowglass, Ysabeau, Rebecca, and Violet were in Matthew's tower seeing to Philip, who had become the Book of Life. Marcus's head swam at this bewildering turn of events—of the many variables that had the potential to throw the proceedings into chaos, this was the last thing he expected to have to contend with. He wended his way through the garden and into Matthew's tower, where he found Philip in much the same condition that Diana had been a handful of decades before him, right down to the tree branches that fanned out from his hairline onto his forehead and temples, the complex braids of tree roots that climbed down the sides of his neck, and the crystal blue eyes that went milky white and flashed letters and symbols in response to questions. Philip was taking it in stride as he did most things, and Violet, though shaken, wryly declared the whole phenomenon to be just another bizarre day in the life of a de Clermont. For better or worse, this development did at least eclipse the grief a bit for the small group congregated in the tower. While Ysabeau was adept at compartmentalizing her feelings when necessary to keep up appearances, having smaller crises to focus on aided her in her objective. Gallowglass would put on a convincing show either way, but the need to provide support to his godson was a well-timed distraction from his tangled feelings toward Diana and the de Clermonts. Philip found that the disguising spell he'd designed decades ago to cloak his weaver's shimmer was no match for the tenacious tree of life, so he set himself the task of devising a new spell that would minimize the outward signs of the book of life in time for the funeral the next morning. Rebecca channeled her grief into irritation with Philip for covering himself up when he knew very well that Diana hated it when he wore a disguising spell, and she made no effort to hide her satisfaction that he couldn't seem to do anything about his eyes.

The conspicuous absence of another protective godfather prompted Marcus to ask Ysabeau where Jack was. With a pointed look that indicated she had done so against her better judgment, she informed him that she'd permitted him to go to the church to wait for Matthew. Marcus's only response was a cocked eyebrow and a smirk as if to say, You're on your own with that one. Ysabeau's eyes narrowed, and he could practically feel her cold glare as he descended the stairs. He burst into laughter.

When the door to the church opened and a long, gaunt figure trudged into the garden, Jack's first impulse was to wonder who had been in the chapel with Matthew. When he realized that this shadow was in fact his father, his heart constricted and a flash of rage threatened to erupt, and he had to close his eyes and center himself before he could move forward.

"Dad?" Jack said by way of greeting.

Matthew, always so robust and erect, so polished and composed, a towering pillar of quiet strength and wisdom, was desiccated and disheveled. His shirt was untucked and wrinkled, with rusty smears of dried blood on his collar, sleeves, and along the bottom hem, as though he'd been crying and used it to wipe the tears away. His hair was on end, with bits of dried blood throughout, as though he'd gripped it with bloody hands. His eyes were black and bore a haunted expression, and his posture was stooped as though he were carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders. When he heard Jack speak to him, he hastily drew himself upright, and tried to surreptitiously smooth his hair into place, but it was evident that any effort to put himself together without Jack noticing was a lost cause.

"Jack," Matthew responded, making his way toward him. He looked down at himself in acknowledgement of his appearance and held out his hands in helpless appeal. "I look dreadful, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you see me like this."

Jack was reminded of the Matthew who came back from Poland having been mentally and physically tortured by Benjamin. It was not easy for Jack to keep his composure in the face of his own grief at the loss of his mother, the disturbing state of his father, and the trauma that those memories dredged up. He employed every trick he knew to keep himself in control for Matthew's sake. "Don't apologize," he said. "Actually, I brought something for you." Jack nervously held out a duffle bag to Matthew. Matthew took it and eyed Jack questioningly. It appeared to be empty. "Open it," Jack instructed. "I tried not to touch it."

Matthew unzipped the bag and the scent that floated out was like opium to him. He removed the contents—a pillowcase last used by Diana—and buried his face in it, drinking deeply. His head lolled back in ecstasy and he was so overcome that he was knocked to his knees. It did bear traces of Jack's scent, but then so did Diana so much of the time. While a pure, unadulterated aroma would have called to mind intimate caresses and murmured words of love in the dark, this comingled scent evoked domesticity and abundance—the very essence of Diana as the heart of the family. Matthew hugged the pillowcase to him, still nuzzling his face into it, and rocked back and forth. "Oh, Diana," he sighed. "I love you, my darling, I love you."

Jack discreetly turned to leave, and the movement caught Matthew's eye.

"Jack?" he rasped. Jack paused and looked back at Matthew. "Your mother loves you. And so do I. Thank you."

Jack's throat constricted with emotion, but he managed a faint smile and slight nod of acknowledgement before he headed back to the chateau in need of comfort that only Evelyn could provide. A comfort Matthew would never know again.

Shortly after dawn broke the following morning, Matthew heard Alain approaching and knew that his solitude was coming to an end.

He was sitting on the church steps, on the very spot he'd spoken his wedding vows to Diana simultaneously 65 and 485 years before. He rested his cheek serenely on his hand which still clenched the pillowcase that bore the ever-diminishing scent of Diana. It was the only thing in the world that could bring him a measure of peace at that moment.

"Sieur," Alain began. "Madame Ysabeau has requested you join her in her rooms."

"Yes, Alain," he replied bleakly. He knew what was waiting for him back at the house. Today was the day they would bury Diana's body.

Matthew entered the castle through a back entrance and took a labyrinthine route through the cellars in order to avoid seeing anyone in the main part of the house. When he emerged into the corridor that led to the entrance of the south tower that housed Ysabeau's set of apartments, he heard the familiar post-covenant sound of the muted activity and hushed conversations of vampires accustomed to sharing a space with sleeping warmbloods. Mercifully, no one noticed his presence, or if they did, they were tactful enough to ignore it, so he was able to make his way to Ysabeau's sitting room unseen. He found her perched on a Ruhlmann sofa of ebony and sharkskin incongruously placed in front of the gilded rococo fireplace. Her face was as sleek and as sinuous as the furniture, hardened into the placid mask she adopted during times of crisis. At the pitiful sight of her son, her eyes softened in concern. He appeared weak, broken. His head hung as though it was too heavy for his neck. His eyes were glassy and lifeless. His blood-crusted cheeks were sunken under sharp cheekbones, and his breath was oddly labored, as though he couldn't get enough air. His arms were lifeless weights at his sides, and his skeletal hands shook spasmodically. His impeccably tailored shirt was untucked, the cuffs dangling open at his wrists, and patched with stiffened blotches of dried blood. His trousers were wrinkled and scuffed on the knees and the seat. Something in her reaction to his appearance frightened him, and his shaking increased. He brought the bunched-up pillowcase to his face and inhaled deeply so that Diana's scent, like a hit of heroin, dulled his pain and fear. Ysabeau's lips pressed together in disapproval. Like heroin, this relief was temporary, and also like heroin, one could easily become dependent upon it to the extent that it could control—or destroy—one's life. She didn't know who would have given him this dangerous object, but she could think of a few likely suspects who would be hearing from her in short order. Matthew could sense what she was thinking, and the prospect of having the item stolen from him set his lips twitching and a growl burbled in this throat, and he instinctually angled his body away from Ysabeau, shielding his treasure from this would-be rival predator. She'd never had the slightest intention of taking it from him, which he realized the second his mind caught up to his instincts, and his face fell in shame.

"I'm ill," he said simply, doubling down on what he told Fernando.

"You are nothing of the sort," Ysabeau replied with characteristic severity in the face of self-pity. "Would you like to know how your son is doing?"

Matthew responded by raising dismal eyes to hers in assent.

The barest hint of a smile touched the edges of her mouth. "Philip is perfectly fine. He is already weaving himself a new disguising spell and is carrying on as though nothing has changed. Rebecca is far more agitated about his disguising spell than he is about his transformation."

A glimmer of life flickered in Matthew's eyes, and for just an instant, his love for his children bloomed inside of him, easing the weight of his loss. "And Violet?"

"Has asked if he requires daily watering."

The clenched muscles around Matthew's mouth relaxed momentarily in some approximation of a smile. He already knew he needn't worry about the two of them. And as long as Rebecca was easily piqued, she was perfectly fine as well. The time to worry about her was when she became acquiescent. Which had never happened.

The healing blossom promptly withered to ash, but that tiny, brief spark of vitality did not go unnoticed by Ysabeau, who recognized it as a very good sign that the love of his children was already penetrating the darkness of his anguish.

"Philip is asleep in your tower, so I had your luggage brought to my bedroom," said Ysabeau, returning to the business at hand. "Clean yourself up and get dressed. Do what you must to prepare yourself for the day ahead." She looked pointedly at the pillowcase. "Diana is laid out in the library. The family will convene there at nine thirty, with the procession to begin at ten." She made a move to leave, but turned back and put her hand on Matthew's arm. "Love comes at a price," she said. "But it is yours forever." She squeezed his arm and left.

Matthew went into her bedroom and saw the garment bag that held his suit draped on the bed, and his suitcase on the ground in front of it. He went to draw himself a bath, and while he waited for it to fill with water, he turned to get a towel and caught sight of himself in the mirror. A wave of revulsion crashed over him and his eyes blackened, his shaking worsened, and nausea boiled in his stomach. Something inside of him started screaming voicelessly, and the only thing he knew was that his soiled, disgusting clothes were binding him, squeezing him tighter and tighter, on the verge of crushing the life out of him, and he began tearing at them in a frenzy, ripping them to shreds in his desperation to free himself. When he had finally unfettered himself, he stared down at the harmless pile of scraps in stony stillness, and then flung himself at the toilet just in time for a geyser of dark, sticky blood to expel forth from his mouth. When he was done being sick, he flushed the toilet and, shaking from head to foot, crawled his way to the bath and climbed in, hugging his knees to his chest. The clear water quickly took on a rusted pink hue as the bath filled, with swirling strands of coagulated blood floating and then melting around him. When the bath was full, he turned off the tap and used his cupped hands to splash water on himself and scrub his skin clean. He shampooed his hair, picking through the tangled patches of dried blood with his fingers. The water in the bath had gone completely red, so he opened the drain to empty the tub, and filled it up with water again, and again it took on a pink hue as it filled. After he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, he ran his hands through it only to find that there were still sticky clumps that he'd missed. He scrubbed himself again and washed his hair again, picking through the clumps with his fingers. When the water had turned dark pink, he drained it and filled the bath up again. When the same thing happened for the third time, he began to whimper in frustration. He was exhausted and emptied out, shaking from hunger and trauma, walking the fine line between madness and sanity. He felt oddly cold, and he filled his fourth bath with the hottest water that would come out. His pallid skin turned an angry pink in response to the extreme heat, but he reveled in the sharp sting of the scalding water while it lasted. He emptied out the tub again and again filled it with scorching water. His skin blistered with second degree burns, and he squeezed his eyes shut and sucked air in sharply through his teeth at the shock of the pain. Again, his body cooled down the water and his skin smoothed back into its marble perfection. He pulled the plug on the bath and reached for the tap once more, but he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, and was able to resist the pull of that delicious pain. He stepped out of the bath and his stomach sank. The entire room looked like an abattoir. The toilet and its surroundings were splashed with blood, there was a messy trail from where he crawled to the bathtub, and the bottom two thirds of the tub was stained pink. He was embarrassed, and couldn't bear the thought of Ysabeau or anyone else seeing the evidence of how low he had come. He hadn't the faintest idea where any cleaning products were, so he looked around helplessly wondering what to do. In the end, he squirted shampoo on the stains and got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed the surfaces using all of the towels he could find. By the time he'd finished, his hair had dried into his natural soft curls. He heaped the towels up and threw them into a corner, and would worry about disposing of them later. He got dressed from the waist down and went back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and fix his hair.

He retrieved his watch from his suitcase. Ten after nine. A clink of metal caught his attention and he reached back into the pocket and pulled out the leather cord that held his pilgrim's badge, only now it was accompanied by Diana's wedding rings. He didn't know who had packed them for him, but he brought it to his mouth and kissed it. He placed it over his head so that it hung down to his sternum, and he clasped his hand around the familiar ampulla and fingered the linked rings. For hundreds of years, he'd worn the ampulla whenever he feared he might lose control. It was a dark reminder of what he was capable of, and a crutch in times of uncertainty. By contrast, the delicate rings that spent so many years on Diana's hand were a symbol of beauty and hope.

Dark and light. Vampire and witch. Man and woman.

Matthew concealed the pendants under his black shirt and tie. He shrugged on his suit jacket and gave himself one last glance in the mirror. It was time to be a de Clermont.