by Sarff, Julie
Although, I have to admit she does have a point. I did go searching for a ghost, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been completely surprised when I ran into one.
“My ghost came back tonight as well,” Noelle states matter-of-factly.
“At Le Denouement?” I ask.
“Precisely, at my shop,” she replies, reaching for a tray of pickled cauliflower that sits in the middle of the table.
“Is he still wailing muur deerrr?” Francine giggles. For some reason, this puts her in a good mood. She smiles a big toothy grin.
“He is, and he also wailed the name of a girl.”
We all lean forward waiting with bated breath.
“He said, ‘Elise.’”
“There are a million Elises in France. Could be anyone,” Hendra snaps, “Pass me the roasted parsnips.” I reach for the tray of beautifully browned vegetables caramelized in a balsamic glaze. Seems to me that Sheila didn’t burn down anything tonight; in fact, that youngest member of our coven has done very well. Our dinner is delicious and everyone seems to be reaching for seconds.
“Or it could be Elise from the electrical shop. The one that wanted to confess to Hendra the other day,” I suggest.
This spurs so much conversation at the table that it’s hard to hear what anyone is saying. When things die down, Noelle states that she is quite keen on stopping by the electrical shop and asking Elise a few questions.
“I can cover for you at the chocolate shop if you like,” Camille replies jovially. All the while, Sheila is coming around and booming out in her Pict dialect, “Who wants pasta with parsnips?”
“What is it with all the parsnips?” Monique complains. By the puckered-up, twisted expression on her face, I can tell she is working herself up. “Parsnips pasta and roasted parsnips. What are we having for dessert, parsnip pudding?”
“Actually,” Sheila says with a warm smile, “We have a rather special dessert.” Sheila is plain and short, but she has the loveliest smile. It always illuminates her face. She’s never looked like a fierce highland warrior to me. Originally from north of the Forth-Clyde, her people were known to be a bane in the Emperor’s side during the Roman invasion. Sheila’s real name is something like Cruthin, although she tells us that we Anglians never pronounce it correctly. I’m glad she changed it to Sheila after we watched some American movie on TV. Unlike the rest of us, she didn’t pick a French name, because, as she put it, “We’re supposed to be pretending to be from the New World.”
“And since we are from the New World, we shouldn’t have names like Manon, Elfie, Noelle or Monique,” she continued matter-of-factly. She was right of course, but none of us changed our minds about the names we had chosen. Although, if I think about it, I don’t believe Elfie is either French or American. I’m not sure where I got the name. All I know is that Noelle says it suits me quite well.
Tonight, as Sheila ladles a healthy pile of pasta on my plate, I smile up at her and mouth encouragingly, “It looks delicious.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile and I try to imagine her as a fierce Pict dripping in inky blue tattoos of wolves and eagles, flying across the highlands with an ax in her hand, chasing off Romans. Despite myself, I let out a laugh. The whole idea is ludicrous.
That’s not to say that Sheila is not brave. She is. She rode all night to escape her tribe and join us for a simpler life in the Forest Fosse. Had she been caught deserting the Picts, she would have been killed. When she first arrived in the forest, she told me her life’s dream was to become as good at midwifery as Hatha. That never really worked out. The one time she was called upon to help with a birth of a noblewoman, she became so nauseated she vomited all over Hatha’s medical instruments. I was there, and I had to fix Sheila’s mess by quickly sterilizing everything anew. Needless to say, Hatha never allowed Sheila near a pregnant woman again.
“Oh, what is it?” Monique calls out, momentarily forgetting about the parsnips and reveling in the idea of Sheila’s surprise dessert. “Is it a sponge cake? Please say yes.”
“You’ll just have to wait to find out,” Sheila replies in a good-natured tone, as she continues to make her way around the dining room table, ladling pasta onto plates.
“I’d like it very much if you could run my shop for a little while so I could run over to La Bonne Chaleur and see what Elise knows,” Noelle whispers, having a side conversation with Camille.
“Probably should run the shop in the afternoon. You remember what happened last time I tried to crack open the cocoa beans,” Camille sighs wistfully. Noelle and I exchange a knowing glance. Who could forget the first time Camille took a hammer to the beans? The woman is so strong that she not only smashed the beans into oblivion (the precious nibs were pulverized), she also cracked the store’s marble countertop in half. It was an expensive mistake.
“In fact, since you’ve been working so much, why don’t I take over your shop for the entire afternoon and you can take some time off? You know I have no problem with sales and if your ghost should show, I’ll chat him up,” Camille continues in her upbeat tone.
“Sounds wonderful,” Noelle purrs like a cat, twirling her pasta around on her fork. “An afternoon away from the store is what I need. And I could make dinner for a change. It’s been so long since I helped out in the kitchen.”
“You’d be most welcome, I could use the extra help,” Sheila perks up, having taken her seat, and unfolding her napkin. “It’s my turn to cook again tomorrow night, and apparently my parsnip-themed meal hasn’t gone over so well.”
She’s right. From her chair at the end of the table Monique is pushing the parsnips around on her plate with her sharp knife and sputtering darkly, “Parsnip flambé, parsnip butter, parsnip flavored pork…”
I meet Sheila’s eyes from across the table and it’s all we can do not to giggle.
“Parsnip pate…” Monique continues.
There are many wonderful things about being part of a coven, but the best thing is the comradery. Another wonderful thing is that we share all the responsibilities –the cooking, the cleaning, the renovation, the working in the two shops in Amboise. We are a team. United, we are hard to beat.
“Parsnip parfait…pastinacam funesti!” Monique switches to Latin and her voice grows louder. Just then, Beatrice pops her head out of the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the dining room. “Call for you, Sister Hatha,” she says and parades in with the surprise dessert –a beautiful tart made from fresh crisp Brittany apples that are ripening at this time of year.
“Thank you, I think I’ll take it in the kitchen.” Hatha pushes back her chair, and it makes a loud scraping noise on the stone floor. As soon as she disappears through the swinging door, Monique grabs up the cake knife. Yelling “Funesti pastinacam!” she brings it swishing through the air, slicing the tart right in half with one mighty stroke.
There are a few gasps around the table, but Monique doesn’t care. Taking the largest half of the cake, she scoops it onto her plate and begins to gobble it with relish.
Goodness, Monique’s table manners are becoming more atrocious by the day. I’m not the only one who thinks so. I see Hendra eying Monique with a concerned eye. Sadly, I know that Hatha and Hendra have had some discussions recently over Monique’s mental state. The discussions led to nothing, although Hatha believes that Monique may be pilfering more than library books from the town of Amboise. I know both she and Hatha search Monique’s room for items, and when they can they return them to their rightful owner. Lately, Hendra has been adamantly saying that Monique might someday have to be locked in her own room for her own good. Hatha always shakes her head and frowns at this.
“That was Claire-Elaine,” Hatha says, coming back through the kitchen door, looking grave. “The ghost at Trisse is becoming more agitated, more violent. Last night it raked its nails down the back of the Count’s youngest daughter.”
“No!” most of us cry, but Hendra uses harsher words, calling the ghost a vengeful coward for attacking a c
hild.
“Why is everybody so quick to blame a ghost?” Francine huffs, “It’s a rare ghost the can actually manifest itself and do something physical. Oh, sure, a ghost can learn to fling a paper clip here or there, but actually touch someone? That would be a ghost with extraordinary powers. Why are you all so sure it was the ghost anyway? Maybe the Count did it himself? Maybe they are covering up for something that’s happening in their family?”
“Come Francine, we don’t have to sit here and take this abuse,” Lizelle pouts and the two of them float up to the ceiling. Quite rudely, they glide back and forth across the table, directly underneath the chandelier. Used to their histrionics, nobody glances their way. When they realize they won’t get a rise out of anyone, they issue a combined “Well, I never.” Then they disappear, their transparent bodies floating straight through the wall that divides the dining room from the living room.
“Now we’ve done it,” Beatrice says sounding like the wise woman she is. “We’ve offended our own resident ghosts; the ones who have taken us in when we had nowhere else to go.”
“Never mind them, I’ll talk to them later,” Hatha states, her face shining with the light of someone who is convinced they are about to fight the good fight. “Who wants to come with me to have a tête-à-tête with the ghost of Trisse?”
Reluctantly, I raise my hand. I am the only volunteer. Hatha looks genuinely annoyed. “Very well then. Hendra, you’re coming too. And Monique stop yelling funesti pastinacam at the top of your lungs. You are also recruited for our little adventure, and we’ll need Camille too. We’ll head out day after tomorrow.”
“FUNESTI PASTINACUM!” Monique wails so shrill I hear the neighbor’s hound dog begin to howl.
“Would you shut it!” Hendra cajoles, “Like most things you say these days, it makes no sense. What do you mean by ‘murderous parsnips’?”
Monique doesn’t reply to Hendra’s question. Instead, she flips Hendra the bird, another thing we witches learned from American movies. I’m not really sure Monique even knows what it means. Standing up on wobbly legs, she mumbles something about wanting to smooth things over with Francine and Lizelle. Then, she hits the swinging door to the kitchen open with a bang of her hand and disappears into the other room.
Chapter 7 (Noelle)
At one o’clock in the afternoon, I close down the chocolate shop for lunch. Camille has come from the chateau carrying an enormous picnic basket. We sit together in the back room and dine on artisan cheeses, a large loaf of brown bread, and an assortment of pickled vegetables.
Around two o’clock, I help Camille reopen the shop. A few late season tourists file in and we become quite busy. I man the cash register until things simmer down, then I hang up my apron.
“I’ll take it from here, don’t worry about me, Noelle.” Camille gives me a faux Roman soldier salute, holding her right fist to her heart. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I grab my sweater and step out into the warm rays of a late autumn day.
Down by the river, the oak, beech, and ash trees are turning ever deeper shades of gold and brown. A gust of wind kicks up and leaves come free from the trees, floating towards the town. It’s such a beautiful sight that I let out a sigh. Like many others, I’ve come to love living in this 15th century French village where everyone seems to know everyone. I think the tourists love it here too. They have smiles on their faces as they take in the city’s tiny, twisting roads, making their way from the Chateau d’Amboise to the Chateau de Clos Luce, the last home of Leonardo di Vinci.
I reach a busy intersection, glimpsing the Chateau d’Amboise on a hill to my left. I head in the opposite direction, slipping down a side street. Reaching my destination, I push open the door to the shop. It creaks like it could use some serious oiling.
“Bonjour Madam,” a handsome man at the front of the store says. This must be Elfie’s Etienne, the one she and the other ladies talked about at dinner last night. They described him as good-looking, but also conceited beyond belief.
“Bonjour,” I reply. Before I can say anything more, Etienne starts rambling. “Oh right, you are one of the Sisters of Perpetual Patience, aren’t you?”
“I rent a room from them,” I lie.
“Then you’re probably here to ask me why I haven’t shown up at Chateau Morcelle this morning. I had to mind the store, but Elise should be here any moment. She took the morning off without bothering to inform my uncle. As soon as she returns, I’ll be up at your place to help out.”
He smiles but I notice the smile doesn’t extend to his eyes.
“Oh, well, that’s fine. I’ll text Elfie and let her know why you haven’t shown up yet,” I say, before turning to exit the store. Since I would really like to find Hugo’s murderer and have the ghost leave my store in peace, I decide to hang out in a café on the other side of the street, watching for Elise’s return. Two café au laits later, I find her sauntering down the Rue des Halles. She’s strolling along with two other teenagers who wear baggy pants and printed t-shirts. One of them has purple hair in a virulent shade that I’m sure Elfie would love. A moment later, the wisp of a girl bids good-bye to her friends and enters the store. From my perch at the café, I can see Etienne exit the back office, yelling and shaking a finger at her.
Some thoughts swirl around in my mind. Is Elise mixed up in something bad? Is she part of the group that drew the upside down pentagram in the sand that Pierre found?
I wait and watch. A moment later, Etienne exits the store with a large black bag, probably his electrician’s tools. He throws the bag in the back of a small, yellow Citroen, slamming the rear door with a loud bang that I’m sure can be heard a mile away. Then he climbs into the front of his car and roars off. I imagine he’s heading out to our chateau, anxious to get to work. Now’s my chance to talk to Elise alone. Quickly, I pay for my café au laits, and hasten across the street, listening once again to the creaky door as I enter the store.
I fine Elise sitting on a tall stool behind the counter with tears in her eyes.
“Hello, dear, my name is Noelle, Hendra sent me.”
Elise looks confused.
“Hendra… she’s the nun to whom you wished to confess the other day. She sent me here to talk with you.”
Elise wipes a tear on the sleeve of her hoodie. Her mascara is so smudged that she resembles the raccoons in the woods behind our chateau. She eyes me up and down with curiosity before she says, “You don’t look like a nun.”
No, I don’t. Today I wear a dark blue tie-around skirt embroidered with autumn leaves and a white blouse.
“Aren’t you the one who runs the chocolate shop?” she asks.
I nod.
“Oh, your chocolates are horrible, really bad.” She twists her face up to emphasize the point.
“Yes, well, getting better every day,” I laugh.
“Non,” she says, tossing her long blond hair. I believe her “non” means that not only are my chocolates not improving in any way, they will never get better.
“You Americans don’t know how to make chocolates. You are used to having everything processed. Your taste buds are all dead.”
“I’m not here to talk about my chocolates,” I say, starting to feel more than a little annoyed by this teenager with an attitude. “I’m here to help you with whatever it is you want to confess.”
“You’re not a nun, I only want to talk to a nun.”
Clearly, I am making no headway.
“Did you know the young man who was killed recently?”
Elise’s somewhat sullen gaze changes and for a moment she looks frightened.
“That boy who was found floating in Parc Leonardo?” she questions, mascara now so runny, it drips down her cheek.
“Yes,” I reply. “That one.”
“Non,” she replies and shakes her head again. “We went to the same school but he was several years ahead of me, I didn’t know him. Although I do know my friend Anna’s cousin used to date him. And that’s all
I know.” She crosses her arms and looks fierce. The meaning is clear: she’s not going to answer any more questions. I need to wait for Hendra to come back from her ghost-hunting trip before I’ll get any further with this line of discourse. It looks like my entire afternoon of sitting in a café, waiting for Elise to return was a waste of time.
“Now do you want something or not? This store is for customers only, not chit chat,” Elise adds obstinately.
I buy a bag of bolts for her trouble, not having the slightest idea what I can use them for, and bid her farewell.
Chapter 9 (Elfie)
The following day finds the four of us tucked up in the minibus again. This time, I drive. I understand how to shift so well that I race across France like I am in the Grand Prix. Beside me, Hendra shouts, “Elfie! Slow down!”
If only Monique were here, she’d be shouting at me to drive even faster. Unfortunately, Monique wasn’t feeling well –Hendra always says the elderly witch is “two heartbeats away from keeling over” –and this morning she was so shockingly pale, I really thought it might be true.
So today at Chateau Trisse, Camille, Hendra, and I help Hatha unpack her supplies. She wants everything set up in the basement so we can call on the ghost at midnight. A shaken Clare-Elaine takes issue with this idea.
“This ghost is behaving frightfully; it seems to be growing in strength. I would feel better if you set up in a more neutral place like the kitchen in case you should need my husband or me in the middle of the night.”
Hatha nods her head. “Alright, if it’ll make you feel better, we’ll set up in the kitchen. This is your house and we’ll do as you wish.”
We carry Hatha’s copious black bags full of jars of herbs, candles, potions, and various assorted accessories into the kitchen. There’s a new item in Hatha’s bag today, a beautifully wrought gold cross that is about two feet tall. It makes me whistle just to see it; it must have cost a mint. Pulling it from the bag, I run my finger along it’s smooth contours. Hendra throws me a get-back-to-work look and I put the cross down on the kitchen counter. After we unpack all of Hatha’s things, Claire-Elaine shows us to a well-appointed room, with a canopied bed, Louis the XVI furniture, and fussy wallpaper in a small floral print. Camille and I are to share this room, but I worry because the bed looks so tiny. With sweet Camille tucked up in it, there won’t be much room leftover for me.