Leonard grinned. “Right.”
“Why is that boy always hanging around?” Sarah asked, watching as the gangly vampire bolted toward the back of the house.
“He belongs to Andrew,” I explained.
“In other words he belongs to you,” she said with a nod. My jaw dropped. “Oh, yes. I know all about vampires and their crazy ways.” Apparently, Fernando didn’t have the same reluctance as Matthew and Ysabeau did to tell vampire tales.
Leonard pulled up to the front door with a squeal of tires. He was out of the car and had the rear door opened in a blink. “Where to, madame?”
I did a double take. It was the first time Leonard hadn’t stumbled over my name.
“Diana’s house, Lenny,” Sarah answered. “Her real house, not this overdecorated dust-bunny sanctuary.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not there anymore, miss,” Leonard said, as though the Great Fire of London had been his fault. Knowing Leonard, this was entirely possible.
“Don’t vampires have any imagination?” Sarah asked tartly. “Take me where the house used to be.”
“Oh.” Leonard looked at Gallowglass, wide-eyed.
Gallowglass shrugged. “You heard the lady,” my nephew said.
We rocketed across London, heading east. When we passed Temple Bar and moved onto Fleet Street, Leonard turned south toward the river.
“This isn’t the way,” I said.
“One-way streets, madame,” he said. “Things have changed a bit since you were last here.” He made a sharp left in front of the Blackfriars Station. I put my hand on the door handle to get out and heard a click as the childproof locks engaged.
“Stay in the car, Auntie,” Gallowglass said.
Leonard jerked the steering wheel to the left once more, and we jostled over pavement and rough road surfaces.
“Blackfriars Lane,” I said reading the sign that zipped past. I jiggled the door handle. “Let me out.”
The car stopped abruptly, blocking the entrance to a loading dock.
“Your house, madame,” Leonard said, sounding like a tour guide and waving at the red-and-cream brick office building that loomed above us. He released the door locks. “It’s safe to walk about. Please mind the uneven pavement. Don’t want to have to explain to Father H how you broke your leg, do I?”
I stepped out onto the stone sidewalk. It was firmer footing than the usual mud and muck of Water Lane, as we’d called the street in the past. Automatically I headed in the general direction of St. Paul’s Cathedral. I felt a hand on my elbow, holding me back.
“You know how Uncle feels about you wandering around town unaccompanied.” Gallowglass bowed, and for a moment I saw him in doublet and hose. “At your service, Madame Roydon.”
“Where exactly are we?” Sarah asked, scanning the nearby alleys. “This doesn’t look like a residential area.”
“The Blackfriars. Once upon a time, hundreds of people lived here.” It took me only a few steps to reach a narrow cobbled street that used to lead to the inner precincts of the old Blackfriars Priory. I frowned and pointed. “Wasn’t the Cardinal’s Hat in there?” It was one of Kit Marlowe’s watering holes.
“Good memory, Auntie. They call it Playhouse Yard now.”
Our house had backed up to that part of the former monastery. Gallowglass and Sarah followed me into the cul-de-sac. Once it had been filled to bursting with merchants, craftsmen, housewives, apprentices, and children—not to mention carts, dogs, and chickens. Today it was deserted.
“Slow down,” Sarah said peevishly, struggling to keep up.
It didn’t matter how much the old neighborhood had changed. My heart had provided the necessary directions, and my feet followed, swift and sure. In 1591 I would have been surrounded by the ramshackle tenement and entertainment complex that had sprung up within the former priory. Now there were office buildings, a small residence serving well-heeled business executives, more office buildings, and the headquarters of London’s apothecaries. I crossed Playhouse Yard and slipped between two buildings.
“Where is she going now?” Sarah asked Gallowglass, her irritation mounting.
“Unless I miss my guess, Auntie’s looking for the back way to Baynard’s Castle.”
At the foot of a narrow thoroughfare called Church Entry, I stopped to get my bearings. If only I could orient myself properly, I could find my way to Mary’s house. Where had the Fields’ printing shop been? I shut my eyes to avoid the distraction of the incongruous modern buildings.
“Just there,” I pointed. “That’s where the Fields’ shop was. The apothecary lived a few houses along the lane. This way led down to the docks.” I kept turning, my arms tracing the line of buildings I saw in my mind. “The door to Monsieur Vallin’s silver shop stood here. You could see our back garden from this spot. And here was the old gate that I took to get to Baynard’s Castle.” I stood for a moment, soaking in the familiar feeling of my former home and wishing I could open my eyes and find myself in the Countess of Pembroke’s solar. Mary would have understood my current predicament perfectly and been generous with advice on matters dynastic and political.
“Holy shit,” Sarah gasped.
My eyes flew open. A transparent wooden door was a few yards away, set into a crumbling, equally transparent stone wall. Mesmerized, I tried to take a step toward it but was prevented from doing so by the blue and amber threads that swirled tightly around my legs.
“Don’t move!” Sarah sounded panicked.
“Why?” I could see her through a scrim of Elizabethan shop fronts.
“You’ve cast a counterclock. It rewinds images from past times, like a movie,” Sarah said, peering at me through the windows of Master Prior’s pastry shop.
“Magic,” Gallowglass moaned. “Just what we need.”
An elderly woman in a neat navy blue cardigan and a pale blue shirtwaist dress who was very much of the here and now came out of the nearby apartment building.
“You’ll find this part of London can be a bit tricky, magically speaking,” she called out in that authoritative, cheerful tone that only British women of a certain age and social status could produce. “You’ll want to take some precautions if you plan on doing any more spell casting.”
As the woman approached, I was struck by a sense of déjà vu. She reminded me of one of the witches I’d known in 1591—an earthwitch called Marjorie Cooper, who had helped me to weave my first spell.
“I’m Linda Crosby.” She smiled, and the resemblance to Marjorie became more pronounced. “Welcome home, Diana Bishop. We’ve been expecting you.”