It is where power gathers.

The Congregation meets there, in a space that feels removed from the rest of the world, hidden in plain sight among the canals, palazzos, and narrow streets. It is a city built on layers, where what is visible and what is concealed exist side by side.

That makes it an ideal location.

Because the Congregation itself operates in much the same way.

On the surface, it is structured, formal, and controlled. It defines the rules that separate witches, vampires, and daemons, reinforcing boundaries that are meant to keep the world stable.

But beneath that structure, there is tension.

Venice reflects that.

The city is beautiful, but it is also fragile. It depends on balance, on systems that require constant maintenance. It is shaped by water, by shifting ground, by the need to hold something steady that is never entirely fixed.

That instability matters.

Because the Congregation presents itself as permanent. Its authority is meant to feel absolute, rooted in tradition and reinforced through repetition.

But like Venice, it depends on conditions that are already beginning to change.

The space itself reinforces that sense of controlled visibility. Meetings take place in rooms that are enclosed, formal, and removed. Authority is performed there. Decisions are made within boundaries that are carefully maintained.

Everything is contained.

Everything is observed.

That structure leaves little room for movement.

Which is why Diana’s presence there feels disruptive.

She does not fit easily within the system the space is designed to uphold. Her power does not align neatly with the rules that define the Congregation’s authority. She introduces something the space is not built to accommodate.

And the longer she remains within it, the more that becomes clear.

The setting begins to feel less stable.

Not because the walls change, but because what they are meant to contain no longer fits within them.

This is where Venice moves from backdrop to meaning.

It reflects a world that appears solid, but is already shifting beneath the surface. A system that depends on control, even as that control becomes harder to maintain.

For Matthew, that tension is familiar.

He understands the system. He has lived within it for centuries. But he also recognizes its limits. The structure that once defined everything is no longer enough to account for what is happening now.

And Venice makes that visible.

It holds power in place, but only as long as the conditions allow it to.

The question is not whether the structure exists.

It’s how long it can continue to hold.

It is marked.

Seals appear throughout the series as small, physical objects, often pressed into wax, carried on rings, or attached to documents. They are easy to overlook, but they carry weight. A seal does not just identify the person who uses it. It confirms their place within a larger structure.

It makes authority visible.

Historically, seals functioned in exactly this way. A signet ring or engraved stamp allowed someone to authenticate a document, to stand in for their presence, and to assert identity without needing to be physically there. Once pressed into wax, the mark could not easily be altered. It fixed something in place.

That idea carries directly into All Souls.

For Matthew and Philippe, seals are not just tools. They represent lineage, responsibility, and a system that extends across time. Authority is not something they claim in the moment. It is something they inherit, something already defined before they step into it.

That distinction matters.

Philippe’s use of seals makes that especially clear. When he sends a message, it is often accompanied by a coin, something that must be returned by the recipient. The exchange creates obligation. It is not simply communication. It is a system of accountability, a way of reinforcing authority through action.

Nothing is casual.

Everything is structured to confirm position, loyalty, and response.

Matthew’s relationship to that system is more complicated.

His authority is tied to Philippe, but it is not fully his own until he chooses to accept it. That moment is marked through the Knights of Lazarus. When Marcus breaks Matthew’s Lazarus seal, it is not just a symbolic act. It confirms that Matthew has stepped into his role, that he has accepted the responsibility that comes with it.

The seal does not create the authority.

It confirms it.

This is where the object takes on its full meaning.

A seal does not ask who you are becoming. It reflects who you are expected to be.

For Matthew, that expectation is shaped by centuries of history and by Philippe’s influence. The seal becomes a continuation of that authority, something that carries his father’s presence forward even when he is no longer physically there.

It is a form of control that moves through generations.

That control can be stabilizing. It creates continuity, a way of maintaining order across time. But it also limits. It defines identity in a way that is difficult to change, especially for someone like Matthew, whose life spans centuries.

This is where the seals begin to take on a different meaning.

As the story progresses, the question of authority becomes less fixed. Diana’s presence changes how power is understood, not by removing structure entirely, but by shifting how it operates. Authority is no longer only inherited. It is also shaped.

That tension is reflected in the contrast between objects in this series.

The Bishop House holds identity loosely, allowing it to evolve. Poppets are made in the moment, shaped by intention. The Old Lodge adapts as the life inside it changes.

The seals do something else.

They fix identity in place.

They represent a world where authority is defined before it is questioned, where belonging is determined by lineage and reinforced through repetition.

And yet, even that begins to shift.

Matthew still carries that authority. He still operates within systems that rely on it. But the meaning of those systems changes as his world expands, as new forms of power emerge, and as the boundaries that once defined everything begin to blur.

The seal remains.

But what it represents is no longer as stable as it once was.

And the question is not whether authority exists.

It’s how it changes when it is no longer the only way to define who someone is.

But it is where Diana does.

It sits in the Hudson River Valley, separate from the old systems and inherited structures that define so much of the All Souls world. It is not a house tied to hierarchy or control. It does not belong to an order, a lineage, or a set of rules.

And that absence matters.

The Bishop House carries memory, but not in the way other spaces in the series do. It does not preserve history through structure or discipline. It holds it more loosely, through presence, through objects, and through the people who have lived there.

Because the house is not empty.

It is filled with the presence of Bishop women who came before Diana. Their lives remain in the space, not as something formal or curated, but as something felt. The house remembers them, and in its own way, it responds.

It knows when guests are coming.

It reacts when the Bishop women argue.

It holds onto what matters.

Objects move through the house in a way that feels intentional. A page appears for Diana when she needs it. Books and belongings are not just stored, they are kept in a way that reflects the life inside the house.

The Bishop House is not controlled.

It is responsive.

That difference shapes Diana.

She grows up in a space where knowledge exists, but is not imposed. Where magic is present, but not structured. Where the past is not something she is required to step into, but something that surrounds her quietly.

That freedom allows her to resist magic, to define herself outside of it for as long as she can.

But it also means that when she returns to it, she does so on her own terms.

The Bishop House does not tell her who she is.

It leaves that question open.

That stands in contrast to the spaces she enters later.

At Sept-Tours, history is structured and unavoidable. At the Old Lodge, it is carried forward and reinterpreted. In Oxford, knowledge is controlled and guarded.

The Bishop House offers none of that.

And yet, it is the place that makes all of those later spaces possible.

Because Diana enters those worlds with a sense of independence that does not come from training or tradition. It comes from growing up in a place that allowed her to exist without being fully defined.

The house gives her distance.

And that distance becomes strength.

It allows her to question systems rather than accept them. To move through spaces without immediately submitting to their rules. To carry her own understanding into places that expect something else from her.

Seen this way, the Bishop House is not just a point of origin.

It is a different kind of structure.

One that does not rely on control, but on presence. One that holds memory without fixing it in place. One that allows what comes next to unfold.

And that matters now.

Because as Diana builds a life with Matthew, she is not simply stepping into his world.

She is bringing something with her.

A way of living with history that does not try to contain it, but allows it to move.

The Bishop House may no longer be where she lives.

But it is still part of how she does.

Poppets are something else entirely.

They are small, handmade objects, simple in appearance and made from whatever materials are close at hand. They don’t carry the weight of history in the same way other objects in the series do, and they don’t draw attention to themselves.

But they matter.

Because poppets represent a different kind of magic, one that is physical, immediate, and personal. This is not magic discovered in a book or inherited through a system. It is something that is made.

That distinction is important for Diana.

Her relationship to magic has always been complicated. Early on, it is something she avoids, tied to loss and uncertainty. When she begins to engage with it more fully, it often comes through structure—manuscripts, teaching, rules.

Poppets move in the opposite direction.

They require touch and intention. The act of making becomes part of the magic itself. It is not about control in the abstract. It is about what she chooses to do, in a specific moment, with her own hands.

That makes them feel different from the other objects in this series.

The Book of Life carries knowledge. The Lazarus pendant carries discipline. The Old Lodge carries memory.

Poppets carry intention.

They are not inherently dangerous, despite how they are often portrayed. In many traditions, they are used for protection, healing, or focus. They are a way of directing energy toward something specific, often quietly and without spectacle.

That fits the direction Diana’s magic begins to take.

As her power grows, it becomes less about accessing something external and more about understanding what she can shape herself. Poppets reflect that shift. They are not about unlocking power. They are about using it.

And they require trust.

Not in a system, but in her own ability to act, to decide, and to follow through. That kind of trust is harder to build, especially for someone who has spent so long trying to keep her magic contained.

Which is why these small objects matter so much.

They represent a version of magic that is not overwhelming or distant. It is close. It is made. And it is hers.

Seen this way, poppets are not just tools. They mark a shift.

A move away from inherited systems and toward something more personal, more flexible, and more responsive to the moment.

And the question is no longer whether Diana has power.

It’s how she chooses to use it when it is entirely in her hands.

From the beginning, it feels different.

Deborah Harkness’s inspiration for The Lodge - Speke Hall

The Old Lodge carries history, but not in a distant or decorative way. It feels lived in, shaped by the different versions of Matthew who have passed through it.

In the sixteenth century, it was connected to the world of the School of Night, a place of ideas, experimentation, and intellectual risk. That history doesn’t disappear. It lingers in the structure of the space and in the way it is used.

What makes The Old Lodge especially interesting is how it changes over time.

By the present timeline, it is no longer just a private residence tied to Matthew’s past. While he remains connected to it, the space now exists alongside something new. Amira, a witch, teaches yoga within the estate, bringing witches, vampires, and daemons together in a shared, physical practice.

The presence of yoga within the estate brings witches, vampires, and daemons into the same room, moving together in a way that would not be allowed under the rules of the Congregation. At the Lodge, those boundaries begin to loosen. It becomes one of the few spaces where that kind of gathering feels possible, where different forms of power can exist alongside each other without immediate conflict.

That matters because it offers a glimpse of something larger.

The Old Lodge once held secrecy, control, and carefully managed knowledge. It was a place where ideas were contained and explored within clear boundaries. Now, within the same walls, there is movement, breath, and a different kind of discipline, something more open and shared.

This is where The Old Lodge begins to feel less like a setting and more like something active in the story. It reflects Matthew’s evolution in a way that is easy to miss if you only see it as background.

Earlier in his life, Matthew’s world was structured around control. The School of Night, the Knights of Lazarus, and the systems he built all relied on boundaries and a clear sense of order. The Old Lodge reflects that version of him.

But in the present, those structures are shifting. Diana’s presence changes what the space is used for, just as it changes Matthew himself. What was once private becomes shared. It now serves the role of as a safe, intimate space for new beginnings to take shape between Matthew and Diana.

It becomes the natural place Matthew brings Diana when he wants to step away from the intensity of Oxford. Removed from expectation and scrutiny, it offers something neither of them has had before, a space that feels contained but not controlled.

Within those walls, their relationship begins to shift. They practice yoga. Matthew cooks for her. They settle into small, shared routines that feel ordinary, and their relationship grows.

The Old Lodge has becomes an early version of the world Diana and Matthew are beginning to build together, one where connection replaces separation, and where the structures that once defined everything no longer hold in the same way.

That idea connects to the way Deborah Harkness builds her world. Many of the spaces in All Souls are rooted in real places, like Speke Hall that reflects the kind of layered history the Lodge represents.

These buildings are not preserved as static artifacts. They are lived in, adapted, and reshaped over time. You can walk through them and feel that layering.

The Old Lodge works in the same way.

It is not just where Matthew lives. It is a record of who he has bee and a reflection of who he is becoming. And like Matthew, it continues to evolve, quietly, as the life inside it changes.

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It appears in small, physical moments. He reaches for it when he is trying to stay calm, holding onto it as a way to steady himself. Over time, it becomes clear that this is not just habit. It is something he relies on.

The origin of that object goes much deeper.

Deborah Harkness inspiration for Matthew’s ampulla

The Knights of Lazarus in All Souls are rooted in a real historical order. The Order of Saint Lazarus was established during the Crusades and became known for caring for people with leprosy while also protecting pilgrims traveling through the Holy Land. It was both a religious and military order, built around service, discipline, and survival at the margins.

Deborah Harkness draws directly from that history, but she reshapes it.

In the series, the Knights of Lazarus become something different. Instead of serving a religious hierarchy, they operate as a hidden network that protects creatures, witches, vampires, and daemons, who exist outside the systems meant to control them.

That shift matters. It takes an order originally built around care and containment and turns it into something that protects what does not fit.

The pendant itself reflects that layered history.

It is described as an ampulla, a small vessel traditionally used to carry sacred oil, water, or relics. In the medieval world, these objects were often worn as pilgrimage badges, physical reminders of faith, protection, and connection to something larger.

That meaning carries through to Matthew. The pendant is not decorative. It is something he uses. A way of grounding himself in moments when control is at risk. It connects him to the order he leads, but it also connects him to something more personal.

Atonement.

Matthew’s life is shaped by violence, by long memory, and by the consequences of choices he cannot undo. The pendant becomes a way of holding that awareness close. Not to erase it, but to manage it.

It is a reminder of what he is capable of. And what he is trying not to become.

It is personal and symbolic. A private object that also signals something larger about who Matthew is and what he leads.

And like many objects in All Souls, its meaning shifts over time.

At first, it represents control. A system Matthew has built to manage himself and the world around him. But as the story moves forward, that system begins to strain. The rules that once held everything in place are no longer enough, and the structures Matthew depends on start to change.

The pendant remains, but what it represents becomes less certain.

It is still something he reaches for, but the question is no longer whether it can help him maintain control in the same way.

It’s what it means to carry that symbol forward in a world that is no longer defined by the same rules.

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Next week in Places & Possessions, we step inside The Old Lodge, Matthew’s private residence outside Oxford, and look at how the space holds his past while quietly making room for something new to take shape between him and Diana.

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In the chapel, hanging in the minstrels’ gallery, there is a tapestry depicting a unicorn in a garden. It is exactly the kind of object you would expect to find there, something old, intricate, and quietly symbolic.

And then it’s torn.

Corra, Diana’s familiar, takes refuge in the chapel. As she is chased, she flies upward and claws through the tapestry, ripping straight through the image. What had been preserved for generations is altered in a moment.

That shift matters, because the tapestry itself carries a long artistic tradition. Works like The Unicorn Tapestries depict a unicorn enclosed within a garden, surrounded by carefully rendered plants and animals. These images are often read as symbols of purity and magic, but also of containment. The unicorn is powerful, but it is still held within a defined space.

In All Souls, that symbolism starts to feel familiar in a different way. The unicorn, so closely tied to magic, feels aligned with how witches are portrayed in the series. And when you think about the other animals that appear alongside it in these traditions, especially lions, the connection becomes clearer. Lions carry a sense of strength and control that echoes the vampire world Matthew comes from.

Daemons, as always, are harder to place. They don’t settle neatly into a symbol, which is exactly the point. They exist just outside the structure, resisting the kind of definition the tapestry seems to rely on.

That idea connects directly to the structure of the All Souls world. For much of the series, power exists within systems. The Congregation, the Covenant, and the rules that separate witches, vampires, and daemons all function to keep that power contained and understandable.

The tapestry reflects that logic. Power can exist, but it must be controlled.

What makes this moment different is that the image of control is not preserved. It is broken. Corra does not move around the tapestry or respect its boundaries. She tears through it, disrupting the very idea it represents.

This is where the scene shifts from reference to meaning. Corra represents a form of magic that does not fit within established systems. She is not governed in the same way, and by this point in the story, neither is Diana.

Diana’s magic is no longer something that can be easily categorized or contained. It is expanding beyond the structures that once defined it. The tapestry, with its enclosed and controlled image, reflects an older way of understanding power.

Corra’s action challenges that entirely.

The setting makes that disruption even more significant. This happens in the chapel at Sept-Tours, a place tied to family, continuity, and tradition. The act of tearing the tapestry suggests that what has been preserved for generations may no longer hold in the same way.

That matters for Matthew as well. His world has always been shaped by structure, hierarchy, and control. The tapestry reflects that worldview, one where power is managed and contained within clear boundaries. But Corra does not recognize those boundaries, and her presence changes the space around her.

This is where the object connects back to Diana and Matthew’s story now. They are no longer living within the old systems in the same way. They are navigating forms of power that are still evolving, in a world that has not yet caught up to what they have become.

The idea of containment no longer works as it once did.

The tapestry shows us what that world looked like. Corra shows us what it is becoming. And the question is not whether those old structures will hold, but how Diana and Matthew will respond as they begin to break. Because the rules that once defined their world are no longer enough to explain what is happening inside it.

Maybe that’s the next part of the story we explore in The Falcon and the Rose.

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Not the main house at the manor, but the Lodge’s guest house, the more private space where Matthew lives while Amira teaches yoga to the creatures in the manor house. It is a quieter setting, slightly removed, and that makes what hangs there feel more intentional.

It’s easy to pass over the painting at first. Just another portrait in a house filled with history.

Matthew pauses long enough to explain that the woman in the potrait is Louisa de Clermont, his sister, dressed in yellow, striking and composed in a way that immediately sets her apart.

The portrait Deborah Harkness draws on reflects a specific artistic tradition. Works like Portrait of a Lady by Sir Peter Lely were designed to capture not just likeness, but presence.

The drapery, the lighting, and the pose create a sense of control, while the yellow gown draws the eye and signals visibility, confidence, and a kind of deliberate presence.

That matters in the context of Louisa’s character.

Even before she appears, we are given a version of her through this image. She is positioned within the de Clermont world, but slightly apart from it—visible, distinct, and uncontained.

Matthew tells Diana that Louisa left for Barbados to become “queen of the Indies,” and describes her as someone who absorbed every vice of every age she lived through. He also tells her how it ended. Louisa was executed by local plantation owners, beheaded and burned after becoming too dangerous to control. Her death was later hidden within the chaos of a slave rebellion, allowing those responsible to erase what had really happened.

What stands out is what Matthew does not explain.

There is no clear reason given for why Louisa was sent away, only that she was removed from the center of the family and left to create her own domain.

At this point, Diana feels sympathy for Louisa and for Matthew, who carries that history with him.

That understanding soon changes.

When Diana and Matthew travel back to 1590 in Shadow of Night, Louisa is no longer a story from the past. She is present, and the version Diana encounters is far more immediate, unpredictable, and dangerous than the portrait suggests.

Looking back, that shift changes how the painting reads.

The portrait, once a piece of history, becomes a warning she didn’t yet know how to read.

This connect to to the larger pattern in the All Souls worlds.

Objects don’t just reflect the past. They prepare you for what is coming. They introduce tension before it fully unfolds and draw your attention to what will matter later.

Louisa’s portrait does exactly that. It places her in the story early, establishes her presence before her arrival, and quietly signals that when she does intersect with Diana and Matthew’s lives, it will not be neutral.

Maybe that’s the next part of the story we explore in The Falcon and the Rose.

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They are proof.

While Diana and Matthew are living in Elizabethan England, those they have left behind are searching for any sign that they survived their journey into the past. Ysabeau watches auction houses closely, looking for something tangible. Something that confirms they existed in that time.

And then the miniatures appear.

Painted in the sixteenth century and attributed to Nicholas Hilliard, they show Diana and Matthew exactly where they should not exist, in the 1590s. Marcus is sent to secure them, and in doing so, the present timeline finally has confirmation.

They made it. They lived there. They left a trace.

That is what makes these objects so powerful.

Miniature portraits in the Elizabethan world were never just decorative. They were deeply personal, but they were also records. They captured not only a likeness, but a moment in time. A person’s presence. Their place within a specific world.

They could be carried, hidden, exchanged, or displayed. But they always functioned as something concrete.

Evidence that someone existed.

The connection to Diana and Matthew is exact.

These portraits do what all good objects in All Souls do. They anchor the story. They take something uncertain and make it real. Without them, the people in the present are left with theory and belief. With them, they have confirmation.

The miniatures also reflect the structure of Diana and Matthew’s relationship.

They are painted separately, two distinct images, but held together in a single object. That pairing mirrors what we see again and again in the series. Two different identities, two different histories, existing side by side without being reduced to one.

But what matters most is what they represent now.

At the time they are discovered, the miniatures answer one question. They prove that Diana and Matthew survived the past.

Now, that question has been answered, and the role of the object shifts.

It is no longer just about proof. It becomes about what is remembered, what is preserved, and what is carried forward.

Diana and Matthew are no longer trying to prove they existed. They are deciding what parts of their story will shape what comes next.

The twins will grow up knowing this history not as something discovered, but as something inherited. They are not looking for proof. They are living with the consequences of it.

Which makes the miniatures feel different.

They’re no longer just evidence of survival.

They’re a record of who Diana and Matthew were at a particular moment in time. A version of them that can be held, returned to, and remembered.

And the question now is not whether that moment happened.

It’s how much of it they choose to carry forward, raising children with abilities no one has seen before or fully understands.

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It’s a small detail. A hand holding a flower.

But in a series where objects carry meaning, this feels like a deliberate choice.

So what does it tell us?

First, it places us in a very specific visual world. The composition, the stylized flowers, and the controlled position of the hand all align with sixteenth-century portraiture. This is the same visual language we see when Diana and Matthew travel back to Elizabethan England in Shadow of Night.

That immediately gives us a clue about tone and timeframe. Whether or not the story returns fully to that period, the reference is clear. We are being pulled back into a world shaped by Renaissance thinking, court culture, and coded forms of communication.

Second, the flowers themselves matter.

These are not loose, naturalistic blooms. They are structured and almost emblematic. In Elizabethan imagery, flowers often functioned as symbols. A rose could signal lineage, identity, or continuity. A carnation might suggest loyalty or attachment. When flowers appear like this, they are meant to be read.

The pairing is important, but so is the way the flowers are positioned.

The red rose is held in the hand, lifted slightly forward. The paler rose is not held in the same way. It appears tucked into the fabric, part of the figure rather than something being actively presented.

That difference matters.

In sixteenth-century England, the Tudor rose combined the red rose of the House of Lancaster and the white rose of the House of York after decades of civil war known as the Wars of the Roses. When Henry VII united the two lines through marriage, the red and white rose became a single emblem of stability and a new political order.

But that symbol represents a moment after unity has already been achieved.

This image feels earlier than that.

The flowers are not fused into one form. They are not even equally held. One is chosen and brought forward into the hand. The other is already present, woven into the clothing of the figure itself.

Seen this way, the image suggests not a completed union, but something in the process of being brought together.

The hand reinforces that interpretation.

It is not gripping the stem tightly. It holds the rose with control and intention. In portraiture of this period, hands were used to communicate meaning just as clearly as facial expression. A gesture like this can suggest offering, but it can also suggest decision.

This is where the image connects most directly to the structure of the All Souls world.

Objects are rarely neutral. Manuscripts, rings, portraits, and artifacts all carry layered significance. They point backward to history and forward to consequence. They help the reader understand what is at stake before it is fully explained.

This image works in the same way.

It sets a historical frame. It establishes a tone rooted in symbolism and control. And it suggests that whatever the rose represents in this next book, it is not incidental.

It is something chosen and something carried.

And in a story shaped by Diana’s growing power and Matthew’s long memory, that distinction matters.

Because their journey is no longer about whether two worlds can come together. That has already happened.

Now they are living with the consequences of that union.

The twins are growing into their own forms of power, something neither history nor tradition has fully prepared them for.

Diana’s magic is no longer something she is simply learning to control. It is changing, expanding, becoming something new.

Seen this way, the image feels less like a symbol of unity and more like a moment of transition.

One force already present, woven into who they are.Another being actively brought forward, shaped, and chosen. Not a finished emblem, but something still forming.

So, the question is no longer whether Diana and Matthew can hold these forces together. It’s how they manage what comes next, raising children with abilities no one fully understands in a world that hasn’t caught up yet.

Maybe that’s the next part of the story we explore in The Falcon and the Rose.

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Next week in Places & Possessions, we’ll look at the miniature portraits of Diana and Matthew, and what it meant, in the Elizabethan world, to hold someone’s likeness in your hand and keep it close.