“Is that . . . a dragon?” Caleb asked.
“No, it’s a souvenir,” Sarah said. “Diana brought it back with her from Elizabethan England.”
“Corra’s not a souvenir. She’s my familiar,” I whispered.
Sarah snorted. “Witches don’t have familiars.”
“Weavers do,” I said. Matthew’s hand rested on my lower back, lending quiet support. “You’d better call Vivian. I need to tell you something.”
* * *
“So the dragon—” Vivian began, her hands wrapped tight around a steaming mug of coffee.
“Firedrake,” I interrupted.
“So it—”
“She. Corra is a female.”
“—is your familiar?” Vivian finished.
“Yes. Corra appeared when I wove my first spell in London.”
“Are all familiars dragons . . . er, firedrakes?” Abby shifted her legs on the family-room couch. We were all settled around the television, except for John, who had slept peacefully through the excitement.
“No. My teacher, Goody Alsop, had a fetch—a shadow self. She was inclined toward air, you see, and a weaver’s familiar takes shape according to a witch’s elemental predisposition.” It was probably the longest utterance I’d ever made on the subject of magic. It was also largely unintelligible to any of the witches present, who didn’t know a thing about weavers.
“I have an affinity for water as well as fire,” I explained, plunging on. “Unlike dragons, firedrakes are as comfortable in the sea as in the flames.”
“They’re also able to fly,” Vivian said. “Firedrakes actually represent a triplicity of elemental power.”
Sarah looked at her in astonishment.
Vivian shrugged. “I have a master’s degree in medieval literature. Wyverns—or firedrakes, if you prefer—were once common in European mythology and legends.”
“But you . . . you’re my accountant,” Sarah sputtered.
“Do you have any idea how many English majors are accountants?” Vivian asked with raised eyebrows. She returned her attention to me. “Can you fly, Diana?”
“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly. Flight was not a common talent among witches. It was showy, and therefore undesirable if you wanted to live quietly among humans.
“Do other weavers shimmer like you?” Abby asked, tilting her head.
“I don’t know if there are other weavers. There weren’t many left, even in the sixteenth century. Goody Alsop was the only one in the British Isles after the Scottish weaver was executed. There was a weaver in Prague. And my father was a weaver, too. It runs in families.”
“Stephen Proctor was not a weaver,” Sarah said tartly. “He never shimmered and had no familiar. Your father was a perfectly ordinary witch.”
“The Proctors haven’t produced a really first-rate witch for generations,” Vivian said apologetically.
“Most weavers aren’t first-rate at anything—not by traditional standards.” It was even true at a genetic level, where Matthew’s tests had revealed all sorts of contradictory markers in my blood. “That’s why I was never any good with the craft. Sarah can teach anybody how to work a spell—but not me. I was a disaster.” My laugh was shaky. “Daddy told me I should have let the spells go in one ear and out the other and then make up my own.”
“When did Stephen tell you that?” Sarah’s voice cracked across the room.
“In London. Daddy was there in 1591, too. I got my timewalking abilities from him, after all.” In spite of Matthew’s insistence that I didn’t have to tell Sarah everything at once, that’s how the story was coming out.
“Did you see Rebecca?” Sarah was wide-eyed.
“No. Just Daddy.” Like meeting Philippe de Clermont, seeing my own father again had been an unexpected gift on our journey.
“I’ll be damned,” Sarah murmured.
“He wasn’t there long, but for a few days, there were three weavers in London. We were the talk of the town.” And not only because my father kept feeding plot points and lines of dialogue to William Shakespeare.
Sarah opened her mouth to fire off another question, but Vivian held her hand up for quiet.
“If weaving runs in families, why are there so few of you?” Vivian asked.
“Because a long time ago, other witches set out to destroy us.” My fingers tightened on the towel that Matthew had wrapped around my shoulders.
“Goody Alsop told us that whole families were murdered to ensure that no children carried on the legacy.” Matthew’s fingers pressed into the tense muscles in my neck. “Those who survived went into hiding. War, disease, and infant mortality would have put considerable stress on those few remaining bloodlines.”
“Why eradicate weavers? New spells would be highly desirable in any coven,” Caleb asked.
“I’d kill for a spell that would unfreeze my computer when John jams the keys,” Abby added. “I’ve tried everything: the charm for stuck wheels, the spell for broken locks, the blessing for new endeavors. None of them seem to work with these modern electronics.”
“Maybe weavers were too powerful and other witches were jealous. Maybe it was just fear. When it comes right down to it, I don’t think creatures are any more accepting of difference than humans are. . . .” My words faded into silence.
“New spells.” Caleb whistled. “Where do you start?”
“That depends on the weaver. With me it’s a question or a desire. I focus on that, and my cords do the rest.” I held my hands up. “I guess my fingers will have to do it now.”
“Let me see your hands, Diana,” Sarah said. I rose and stood before her, palms outstretched.
Sarah looked closely at the colors. Her fingers traced the pentacle-shaped knot with five crossings on my right wrist.
“That’s the fifth knot,” I explained while Sarah continued her examination. “Weavers use it to cast spells to overcome challenges or heighten experiences.”
“The pentacle represents the elements.” Sarah tapped my palm where the brown, yellow, blue, and red streaks twined together. “Here are the four colors that traditionally represent earth, air, water, and fire. And the green on your thumb is associated with the goddess—the goddess as mother in particular.”
“Your hand is a magical primer, Diana,” Vivian observed, “with the four elements, the pentacle, and the goddess all inscribed on it. It’s everything a witch needs to work the craft.”