I would never forget what I’d seen in the bottle. The tone of my voice alerted both Matthew and Baldwin that there was more to come. Matthew rested his hand on my shoulder in support.

  “That bastard boasted that he viewed Mom’s memories on Isola della Stella, over and over again. It made her sick to think of him inside her. There was something sadistic—even pornographic—about Knox’s interest.”

  “The witches possess more memories than Rebecca’s,” Janet said softly.

  “You shouldn’t—” Gwyneth tried to stop her from saying anything further.

  “I must,” Janet said with firm refusal. “I’ll lose my seat, and you’ll be censured for failing to stop me, but after seeing Mam’s memories, it hardly matters.” Janet drew a deep breath.

  “How many bottles do they have?” Baldwin asked.

  “We lost count centuries ago,” Janet replied. “Every time there was a war, a change of monarch, a religious controversy, or a famine, the Congregation sent someone out to gather whatever memories they could find that had survived what a witch’s mortal body could not withstand. They returned them to Isola della Stella and put them into storage. Today, they’re among the most treasured relics the witches possess.”

  “What did they intend to do with them?” Matthew wondered.

  “I’m not sure anyone had a plan for them—at first. We had been persecuted for centuries. Whole villages were destroyed, and communities lost. Memories were all we had left, and we were determined to keep them,” Janet replied. “Initially, the witches’ efforts were focused solely on preservation. Now, the witches open them when they are seeking to appoint a new member to the Congregation. We did so recently, when we replaced Satu Järvinen with Tinima Toussaint.”

  Peter Knox had opened my mother’s bottles repeatedly. Had he violated other witches’ privacy as well?

  “The memory palace at Isola della Stella contains a bottle for every witch who walked the Labyrinth and advanced to the rank of adept since the 1890s,” Gwyneth explained. “Part of becoming an adept requires you leave your unique experiences behind so that they remain sacred—and secret.”

  “Whatever happens to a witch in the Labyrinth, there’s one thing I know for sure,” Janet remarked. “It lays bare her soul. I’ve seen the adepts emerge from their trials, blasted with power and eyes filled with a terrible wonder. It’s only after their memories are taken away that they return to some semblance of normality.”

  “And the witches use the collection as a talent pool from which to draw only the best and brightest to sit in the Congregation chamber,” Baldwin mused. “You have no recollection of what happened to you there?”

  “None of us do,” Janet said. “Sometimes, a shred of tattered memory rises to the surface of an adept’s mind, but it’s never enough to fully understand what the Labyrinth ceremony meant to us.”

  “My grandfathers, my grandmother, Mom, Dad’s sister, Naomi.” I ticked off the litany of names. “All of their experiences—whatever they were, whatever magic they stirred up—are on a shelf in Venice.”

  Matthew’s lips parted in horror.

  “There’s a gap during World War I, when it was impossible for the Congregation to receive any new bottles,” Gwyneth explained, hoping to lower Matthew’s level of concern. “But after the Armistice, the witches renewed their commitment to developing the talents of the most gifted witches. It was seen as a way to prevent further damage to our culture and traditions.”

  “Why are the witches so interested in the memories from the Labyrinth?” Matthew finally asked, ominously quiet.

  “To succeed in the Labyrinth and become an adept, a witch must face not only her deepest fears, as she does at the Crossroads, but her greatest desires, too,” Gwyneth explained. “Dark, Shadow, or Light, what a witch experiences at the heart of the maze reveals her strengths and weaknesses, as well as the contours of her power.”

  “Her power.” Matthew was thoughtful. Then his lips turned gray as the blood drained from his face. “They’ve been practicing eugenics. The witches are picking through the memory bottles looking not just for signs of talent but for specific, rare forms of magic.”

  Eugenics was bloodcraft by another name, one that masked the darkest side of scientific endeavor. Proponents of eugenics like Francis Galton believed that they could engineer a better human by banishing what they considered undesirable or uncivilized characteristics, including racial difference, sexual diversity, and disability.

  “You say this emphasis on memory bottles started in the 1890s, and then revived in the 1920s?” Matthew asked Gwyneth.

  She nodded.

  “The timing is perfect,” Matthew murmured.

  “Wait, Matthew.” Baldwin held up his hand. “Creatures have bred—and been bred—to improve their lineage since time immemorial, whether by marrying the daughters of tall men because height was an advantage in battle, or putting your neighbor’s horse to stud with your mare because it was faster and better-looking than yours. It doesn’t necessarily mean this was about achieving some ideal level of magical purity in a witch’s blood.”

  “They’re not vampires, Baldwin.” Matthew’s expression was grim. “The witches’ goal wasn’t greater purity—it was greater power.”

  Janet agreed. “The Congregation’s witches were terribly concerned with our waning power in general, and the decline of higher magic in particular. It’s not a huge leap from higher magic to higher races.”

  Baldwin continued to look skeptical.

  “Witches always preserve family records—grimoires, spellbooks, oracle cards—but Granny Alice thought we could do better,” Gwyneth said. “When she was Congregation librarian, she put out a worldwide call for witches to gather their family memories, too, so they could be preserved in Venice for future generations.”

  “When was this?” Matthew opened his notebook and uncapped his pen.

  “From 1875 to 1890,” Gwyneth said, “during the first eugenics movement.”

  I never foresaw they would put my work to evil purposes! Granny Alice shouted as she sailed by on the library ladder.

  “Were the witches hoping to learn something particular from these family memories, Gwyneth?” Matthew’s hand raced across a page in his notebook as he recorded his thoughts.

  “From what Granny Alice said—and mind you, I was a child and it was a long time ago—they were particularly interested in the rites. It’s what led to the Rites Revision Covenant of 1919.”

  “What rites?” Baldwin frowned.

  “The bell, book, and candle ceremony at age thirteen; choosing a path at the Crossroads before age twenty-one; walking the Labyrinth, for those witches who showed promise in higher magic,” Gwyneth said. “It was Granny Alice who advocated for adding a new exam at age seven for children with a family history of higher magic, to see if there were early clues that it would later manifest.”

  “A test the Congregation’s witches will administer to Rebecca and Philip in a few weeks.” Matthew swore. “The witches may rely on the Labyrinth bottles to select their representatives, but testing children must be connected to a desire to groom that next generation of higher magic adepts.”

  “No one is grooming my children,” I said, filled with rage at the prospect.

  “What about Gallowglass?” Sarah asked. “Maybe he could help—if we could find him.”

  “What about Bridget’s prophecy?” Gwyneth suggested. “If we focus on that, and decipher what it means, it might illuminate the path forward.”

  “What about the memory bottles on Isola della Stella?” Janet cried. “There’s no telling what they might reveal!”

  Baldwin held up his hand for silence. The clash of conversation died down.

  “What will be done is up to Matthew,” Baldwin said. “And Diana, of course. It’s their responsibility to clean up this mess before the de Clermont family is publicly implicated in it.”

  When Baldwin had recognized Matthew’s kin as a scion of the de Clermont clan, he had made it clear that any problems stemming from our branch of the family were ours to solve.

  “Diana?” Matthew turned to me.

  I considered the evidence of Peter Knox’s malfeasance, and the mention of three families in Bridget Bishop’s prophecy.

  “We need to recover all of the family memory bottles from Isola della Stella,” I said. “Three families joined in joy and in struggle, / Will each bear witness to the black bird oracle. The Bishops. The Proctors…”

  “The de Clermonts.” A spark of fury flamed in Baldwin’s eyes.

  “Fingers would naturally point in that direction,” I admitted.

  Baldwin’s focus moved to another part of the prophecy.

  “Two children, bright as Moon and Sun, / Will Darkness, Light, and Shadow make one.” Baldwin swore. “We must claim what’s ours, for the sake of Rebecca and Philip.”

  I held up my hands, where weaver’s cords snaked across my palms and wrists, creating a palimpsest with my veins and the words of the Book of Life. “We might not understand what the prophecy means, but it’s clear the stakes couldn’t be higher.”

  Matthew nodded, his eyes black.

  “But—how will we reclaim them?” Janet said. “If I remove even one bottle from Celestina, the alarm bells will be heard in Milan.”

  “I’ll go.” This was not only my responsibility but something I felt compelled to do for my mother’s sake.

  “No, Diana. You’d have to pass through the Labyrinth to reach them,” Gwyneth said. “On Isola della Stella, there are no second chances, and you don’t have the knowledge or the skill to navigate its challenges right now. I should go.”

  My octogenarian great-aunt was not going to walk into the lion’s den, either, not while I still had breath in my body. I was about to say so when Baldwin spoke.

  “Matthew?”

  My husband was astonished by Baldwin’s deference. He soon regained his composure and flipped through his laboratory notebook. What the family tree and Mendelian Punnett squares had to do with memory bottles and stealing them from the Congregation, I couldn’t imagine.

  “Our priorities have shifted,” he said, glancing through the pages. “First, we were concerned about the Congregation’s examination of the twins, then about Diana’s test at the Crossroads, as if they were isolated issues. But these are both rites of passage, as is the Labyrinth ceremony.”

  “Four drops of blood on an altar stone,” I murmured. “Do you think Bridget’s prophecy may refer to another, connected ritual?”

  “I think we need to find out,” Matthew replied. “The bottles on Isola della Stella may represent our best chance of determining if—and, even more importantly, how—the pieces of this puzzle fit together.”

  Baldwin shot me a glance. In the de Clermont family, Matthew was known for his impulsive, often-bloody, responses to crises, not this methodical approach.

  The black bird oracle hopped and buzzed in my pocket. I reached in and drew out the card that leaped into my fingers. The Queen of Vultures—the card of silence, and secrets. I put it down on the table so everyone could see.

  “We need to call Ysabeau,” I said.

  “She’s bound to remember something useful about this memory palace, perhaps some quirk of its construction that will help us storm the witches’ stronghold.” Baldwin cast an avaricious glance over the card as he spoke, no doubt wondering if he could use it to manipulate the international stock market.

  Left to Baldwin, this dispute would rapidly escalate into something as ambitious and ill-fated as the siege of Damascus.

  Matthew dialed her number, putting her on speaker.

  “Oui?” Ysabeau’s response was immediate. I suspected my mother-in-law had been waiting—perhaps for weeks—for this call.

  “Hello, Maman,” Matthew said.

  “Who are we destroying today?” Ysabeau demanded. “They must have threatened Rebecca and Philip, or Baldwin would be in Berlin. I would recognize his death march heartbeat anywhere.”

  Ten steps ahead, as usual.

  “We’re not at war, Maman. We’re gathering intelligence, and wondered if you know anything about a memory palace the witches have in Venice. It would be part of the Celestina complex,” Matthew replied, referring to the buildings that housed the Congregation on Isola della Stella.

  “Does this have something to do with Lieutenant Proctor and Captain Lloyd?” Ysabeau’s frank question stunned Matthew into silence.

  The Queen of Vultures seemed to wink at me from the table, exuding satisfaction as she brooded over her pile of carrion. The likeness to Ysabeau was unmistakable. I decided to add to the heap.

  “Matthew’s been analyzing some new DNA evidence, and I’ve been at the Bishop House with my grandmother’s ghost, and it seems both of my grandfathers visited you to discuss Philippe’s situation.” Hopefully these new morsels of information would be enough to stop the verbal jousting of which the de Clermonts were so fond. “We’ve learned that Janet’s mother, Griselda, was in the Salem jail in 1692 to care for my ancestors. Gallowglass was there, too.”

  “Eric was in Salem in 1692?” Ysabeau asked, breezing past the revelation about Thomas Lloyd and Taliesin Proctor as though it were old news. “How extraordinary. I thought he was in Goa then, with Fernando. I shall have to make a note of it in my aide-mémoire.”

  Ysabeau’s version of memory bottles took the form of slender volumes of appointments, cases filled with calling cards, and dance programs that still had their ribbons and tiny pencils attached so a woman could make note of to whom she’d promised the next waltz.

  “We’re concerned, Maman, because Griselda preserved her memories of Salem in a magical bottle.” Matthew continued his vain attempt to bring his mother’s wide-ranging recollections into focus.

  “Just one?” Ysabeau made a dismissive sound. “N’importe quoi. I take it you have this bottle?”

  “Yes, but Janet tells us there are more on Isola della Stella that contain Bishop and Proctor family memories,” Matthew replied, pinching the bridge of his nose as though it would summon more patience.

  “Ah,” Ysabeau said. “Baldwin is afraid the Congregation will learn that the de Clermont family has been connected to Diana for longer than they suspected.”

  This, too, was old news to my mother-in-law.

  “You don’t sound surprised, Ysabeau.” Baldwin’s expression never changed, but his eyes glimmered with a dangerous combination of frustration and anger.

  “It wasn’t my tale to tell” was Ysabeau’s prim reply. “Surely you do not need my help finding this cellar filled with old bottles, Baldwin. You and Matthew have spent far more time at Celestina drinking Philippe’s wine than I have.”

  “The witches’ memory palace, Maman,” Matthew said, grinding the words out between his teeth. “Think. Please. Any scrap of information about how it was built, or when, could help us.”

  “Memory palace. Hmm. Mais—non. You cannot be referring to that vulgar folly the witches built in their water garden?” Ysabeau’s tone conveyed an audible shudder. “It was so hastily constructed I thought it must have fallen into the lagoon by now. The witches wanted it to display their antiquities—old bones, a stuffed crocodile, their pyxes and amphoras—and trinkets they considered sacred relics, like Matthew’s little vials of saints’ blood. I do not know why they bothered, for few creatures were allowed to see them.”

  “Did you ever see them?” Matthew drove his fingers through his hair with frustration.

  “Admission to their holy place was by invitation only.” Ysabeau’s response was a classic nonanswer. When had something like an invitation ever mattered to Ysabeau?

  “Must you make this so difficult, Maman? I feel like I’m pulling teeth.”

  “I cannot imagine what you mean,” Ysabeau said. “I am happy to tell you what you want to know, Matthew. As it happens, I went there several times with Roberto Rio, the daemon who drew up the plans. Construction was underway during the witches’ Troubles, and the place was often unguarded. There were so few witches left, you see.”

  I winced, unable to meet the eyes of Sarah and Gwyneth. I was used to Ysabeau’s dismissive remarks about witches, but her casual prejudice was nevertheless painful.

  “As for these bottles, I never saw any there. I did look to see if they might have a few flaçons de souvenirs oubliés hidden away that would please Gerbert.”

  Leave it to vampires to come up with a more elegant name than memory bottles.

  “He locked his collection in a casket—like the one he kept the head of Meridiana in.” Ysabeau continued to drop breadcrumbs before us, this one relating to the powerful witch who had been an oracle of great repute. “Philippe possessed three flaçons, too, all very old. He considered them great treasures, but threw them into the Aegean in a fit of temper over something Gallowglass said.”

  If Gerbert and Philippe both showed an interest in memory bottles, then we were on the right track.

  “I’m going to Venice,” I said, my stool scraping the floor as I pushed back from the table.

  “I’m going with you,” Matthew said.

  “I’ll drive you to Boston,” Sarah offered.

  “No one is going anywhere.” Baldwin scowled.

  “What?” I was furious. “You saw the memories in Grissel’s bottle! And heard what Peter Knox did with my mother’s memories! We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Diana’s right,” Janet agreed. “Sidonie and Tinima find a great deal to do in the Congregation archives these days. Rima told me they’ve been tracing early references to illicit vampire-witch unions, and noting down every strange power and odd occurrence that accompanied them.”

  I did not know the Haitian Tinima Toussaint—the newest member of the Congregation. She brought a fresh perspective to Congregation deliberations and highlighted the issues threatening Indigenous magical practices and its practitioners. The priestess’s spell-casting skills were legendary, and her knowledge of African magic profound.