She was hoping Grand-Mère would tell them to get their disgraceful cart out of their sight when the jars clinked again.
The second sister, who used an obvious enhancement spell to keep her long golden hair curled in perfect ringlets, crooked her finger. “Two-for-one special, if you’re in the market. Fresh too. Dug them out of their holes myself just this morning.”
Grand-Mère and Elena both leaned in to see what they had buried in the back of the cart. There, perched side by side beneath the seat, were two hedgehogs bottled up in separate jars with holes poked in the lids for air. They pawed and sniffed against the glass, desperate to be free.
“What are you keeping them for?” Grand-Mère asked.
“Me, I skin them and sell the quills along with my voodoo dolls,” said the second sister. “City folk’ll buy my souvenirs by the armload on market days, but I can always get another pair if you’ve got a stew brewing to throw them in. I know where the little hotchi-witchis like to hide.”
The sister showed her fake smile again, and Elena’s disgust hit a flashpoint. “I’ll take them.”
“With pleasure, if you’ve got the coins.”
Elena reached in and removed the bottles by their necks. The witches demanded their money again as she checked each animal for shadow. When she detected none, she gently laid their bottles on the ground.
The witches grew more agitated but kept their stained-teeth smiles. “I said you’ve got to pay for them first.”
Elena knelt and freed the hedgehogs from their glass cages, then rose up. “How about I give you a case of boils on your face instead? Have you no conscience, trapping and selling animals for profit?”
The witch sisters lost their smiles. “Oh, always so high and mighty, you vine witches. Not above stealing from a pair of defenseless cart women, though, are you?” The golden-haired witch took a shriveled badger’s foot from the wagon bed and spit on the ground in a feckless attempt to throw a hex. “I want my money.”
Elena felt a warning pinch from the spell. “So be it.” She reached in her pocket as the sister righteously nodded. But instead of coins, she took out the rabbit hairs she’d collected earlier and a leftover strand of wolf’s fur. She quickly twisted the hairs together, drawing up the magic she had left in reserve, then recited a favorite childhood prank. “Hunter and prey, be on your way,” she said and blew the hairs at the mule’s feet. The animal took off, dragging the women’s cart behind as the spell kicked in. The Charlatan sisters fought to hold on to their seats and rein in the mule, but it was no use. His legs wouldn’t stop running as long as the wolf’s hair chased the rabbit’s, which ought to last a good twenty minutes or more.
“You’ll be sorry you done that,” shouted the golden-haired witch as she held on to the runaway cart. “May your fields rot before the harvest!”
But Elena wasn’t sorry, not one bit, as she watched the wagon disappear over the hill. On the ground the hedgehogs sniffed and darted, uncertain which way to go. She whispered where to find some grubs under a fallen log and gave them a gentle nudge in the direction of the forest. She straightened as they scurried off, feeling the weight of the old woman’s stare against her back.
“You know I couldn’t let them kill those poor creatures.”
Grand-Mère scoffed. “This from the woman plotting murder?”
The schism in her intentions baffled even herself for a moment. “Yes, well, some mortals are a different animal altogether, aren’t they?” she answered, hardening her heart again before turning uphill to gather the brouette and head for home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jean-Paul shut the door to the post office and removed his cap, tucking it under his arm. He’d already included the cash for the catalog item in an envelope, which he produced from the pocket of his tweed jacket. All he required was the correct postal code and a stamp. The clerk met the request with a sardonic glance over his spectacles before bringing out the large reference book and letting it thud loudly on the counter. The man ran his finger down the page in careful examination before stopping and tapping it on a probable candidate. Jean-Paul quickly wrote down the number on the envelope, nodded his thanks, and then slid the letter forward. With luck he’d have his new vinoscope in a month.
He’d dropped his change for the stamp on the counter and turned for the door when the clerk stopped him. “Ah, Monsieur Martel?” he said, reading the name on the envelope. “Hold on. I believe I have a letter for you as well. It arrived a few days ago. Yes, here it is,” said the clerk after sorting through several slots on the wall behind him.
He accepted the letter, noted the return address and formal handwriting, and retreated to the farthest corner of the post office lobby to read it. He knew before opening the envelope that it was from his mother. The correspondence began well enough, greeting him with the usual pleasantries about the weather, her arguments on the righteousness of the Union for Women’s Suffrage, and complaining about the ghastly condition of the city’s underground transit system as if it were a black-sheep relative gone astray yet again. He nearly smiled at the familiar news from home.
Then he read the next paragraph. The real reason his mother had written.
Your uncle sends his regards. He wishes to inquire when you think this wine business of yours will be concluded so he can make future plans. He’s had his eye on the Eichman building for years now, and it has finally become available for lease. There are, apparently, two corner offices, one of which he’d gladly provide to his nephew and law partner if he were here. Given the circumstances, he’s been quite generous overall with this folly of yours, but he deserves a partner dedicated to the law and serving the practice your father created.
In other news, I thought you might be interested to know that Madeleine has remarried. She’s expecting a child in May. So you see, there is no reason to avoid returning to the city any longer.
As always,
Mother
Jean-Paul crumpled the letter and shoved it in his pocket.
“Bad news?” asked the clerk.
“Merely an expected disappointment,” he replied and slipped his flat cap on.
The clerk scratched at his nose and shared instead his own interesting tidbit of information. “They’ve found another cat,” he said while sorting a stack of letters into their proper slots. “Head and tail gone like the others. Up on the county road above the Le Deux estate this time.”
“Another one?” He recalled the other grisly finds reported over the years. More than a dozen since he’d moved to the valley three years ago. Sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a small dog, but most often a cat. Everyone speculated who might be behind the deplorable acts, and yet no one ever seemed to state the obvious. “Tell me, why doesn’t anyone ever confront the locals at the vineyards who claim to be witches about this?”
The clerk turned around, his forehead creased. “The vine witches? Why would they have anything to do with butchered animals?”
“Because they profess to be witches? Who are known to deal in the occult?” He’d overemphasized his words, speaking slowly, though his answer did little to convince the clerk, who returned a blank stare.
“Is that what they teach you in the city? Truth is, we’ve barely had a whiff of trouble with malevolent witches around here since the 1745 Covenants were signed. Why, my own grandmother was a vine witch and wouldn’t have harmed a soul. You want to know who I think is behind it? Those university boys who ride out here on the weekends to raise hell with the local girls. Them with their séances and Ouija boards. Who knows what mischief they get up to after dark.”
Jean-Paul let the issue rest. He always underestimated the sharp distinction the villagers drew between the so-called vine witches and the wicked witches who haunted his childhood dreams—the old hags who wouldn’t think twice about wearing a dead cat around their necks if it pleased them. The witches his nanny had warned him about quenched their thirst with human blood, stirred crow’s beaks and frog’s eyes into deadly po
tions, and stole babies out of cribs to roast over the fire for their evening supper. Naturally, he wished as a grown man the world could be rid of such superstition. They were living in the age of technology—automobiles, the cinéma magnifique, electric lights that turned on at the flip of a switch. A man had just flown across the Channel in an airplane for the first time, for God’s sake. Now there was some real magic to behold!
Not wishing to alienate himself further from skeptical locals who already viewed him as an outsider, he nodded as though the idea of college students killing cats for fun on the weekend had merit. He wished the man a good day and left.
Outside, the street bustled with traffic from people preparing for the weekend, a minor local holiday to recognize the siege of some long-forgotten castle. The celebration meant little to him, though he was told often enough if it were not for the victory the town would not be standing. Still, he couldn’t help but join in the festive mood as he walked along the sidewalk.
Normally he would visit the feed store to order grain for the horses or perhaps duck into the shoemaker’s shop to have a pair of boots resoled while he roamed the hardware store for a new shovel or spool of wire. He might even flip through the pages of a Boddington’s catalog and order seeds for a spring garden. But with the letter from home and talk of dead cats still rankling under his skin, he felt the need for a distraction. Turning down a quaint side street he rarely visited, he let his nose lead him forward. Vanilla cakes, cinnamon and sugar, and a hint of toasted almond drew him to the door of a decadent-looking bakery catering to tourists and housewives alike.
He stepped inside the tiny shop, setting the bell above the door jingling. A woman with a cord of black hair secured atop her head by a blue satin scarf, her cheeks brightly rouged, popped out of the back room. She wore gold hoops threaded through her ears, making her a dead-ringer for the bohemian women depicted in those art nouveau posters so ubiquitous in the city at the time of the Great Expo. She brushed flour from her hands and smiled when her eyes found his, the sort of coy-at-the-corners smile Jean-Paul understood immediately. He felt her appraising eye follow him as he surveyed the cakes and tarts in the glass cases.
“I wondered when you’d find your way to my shop,” she said.
“Beg your pardon?” He was certain they hadn’t met before.
“Took you longer than most. How long has it been? Three years since you bought the Renard vineyard, and not once have you paid me a visit. I’ve been ravenously curious to know what your taste is.” The woman tapped the glass above a tray of petits fours. “Macaron? Éclair? Chocolate mousse? Hmm, not the madeleines, though. No, I think those might have left a bad taste once.”
He had been contemplating the coconut cake, wondering if Madame and Mademoiselle Boureanu would approve. He looked up at the shopkeeper, unsure if the mention of his ex’s name had been mere coincidence or something more. Had they met before? Could she know him from the city? Know Madeleine? Perhaps she knew him from gossip in the village. He hoped not.
Her flirtatious smile wavered. She excused herself and ducked in the back room, a quizzical expression overtaking her face just before she disappeared.
Just as Jean-Paul thought it prudent to leave without purchasing anything, she returned carrying a tray of small tarts still warm from the oven. “Never ignore a hunch,” she said, setting the tray down. She cut a slice for him to sample. “I have an inkling you’re going to love the taste of this.”
Despite his desire to leave, the fresh-baked smell captivated him, and he reached for the sticky tart. One bite and the full complexity hit him. The pastry tasted of fruit and nuts, butter and brown sugar, and the rich spices of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom, all heat-seared by fire. Sweet, yes, but also sophisticated, heightened by a hint of salted brandy. Not unlike a well-aged wine, he thought, the way the flavors evolved on the tongue. He’d never tasted anything like it. His mouth demanded more, the desire tunneling deep into his core until he thought he might buy the entire tray.
“It’s fantastic. What is it?”
“Well, isn’t that interesting.” The woman narrowed her eyes as if trying to see something past his head. “My fig and praline tart. Haven’t made any in years. But something told me to dig out that old recipe again this morning.”
Jean-Paul swallowed, then licked the crumbs off his lips. “I’ll take them all, if you could wrap them up please.”
The shopkeeper was about to say something when the doorbell jingled, diverting her attention. She dropped their conversation to greet the new customer.
Gerda du Monde, Bastien’s wife, and the most prominent of the village’s self-proclaimed vine witches. She stood in perfect silhouette in a pale-blue hobble skirt that hugged the soft curve of her derrière, while in her grip she elegantly brandished a matching lace parasol poised as a walking cane. A single plume of ostrich feather graced the brim of her musketeer-inspired hat, as stylish as any woman on the rue de Valeur out for a day of shopping. And just as well perfumed, as the scent of lilacs gently mingled with the shop’s fresh-baked aromas. There was a time after he’d first arrived when her appearance stirred a curious “what if” desire in him, with her perfectly coiffed hair and steady blue eyes. Even now, standing in a bakery with his mouth full of tart, she carried an allure that was difficult to ignore.
“Tilda, whatever have you been up to? Those aren’t any of your usual treats.” The woman peeled off her gloves as she peered over the glass case to better see the pastries being boxed up on the counter. “They’re for you?” she asked, turning to Jean-Paul. “How remarkable.”
The shopkeeper slipped the final tart in the box. “I was just telling him how I hadn’t made these in years, and then suddenly this morning I got one of those nagging impulses. You know the kind? And, voilà, in he comes and buys them before they’re even cooled.”
“Indeed.” Gerda looked at him with the same odd stare that went slightly over his head. He felt a blush coming on, wondering if perhaps he’d committed a faux pas by ordering so many of the freshly baked goods. But he really couldn’t help himself.
“What do you think the timing means, madame?” asked Tilda as she tied up the box with string.
Bastien’s wife tilted her head, thinking it over. “Perhaps a long-lost love has returned? Or an old acquaintance has suddenly become more than just a friend. Oh dear, you and Ariella Gardin haven’t decided to elope, have you?” The women giggled.
“I’m sorry, what does my choice in dessert have to do with long-lost love?” He handed over the coins for the tarts.
“Well, that’s Tilda’s specialty, isn’t it? Love is the main ingredient in her treats.” The woman pointed to the name painted in gold letters on the storefront window: PTISSERIE D’AMOUR. “Not a love potion, per se. She can’t make a person fall in love with you. But she does have a particular talent for matching a person’s appetite for love with an equivalent sweet treat. She’s quite good at it. When Bastien and I first met, he was in here every day for Tilda’s spicy lebkuchen. So charming that he would crave something of my homeland. Whoever your lucky lady is, she must have quite the dark and mysterious side to her, judging by the delicious scent of those tarts.”
“That’s it! I remember now. I used to make those tarts for Bastien when he’d buy them for . . .” Tilda stopped talking a second too late, her eyes white with the horror at what she’d just let slip. “Oh, but that was before you moved here. Years and years ago.”
Gerda’s admiration for the bakery dissolved into a poisonous stare aimed at its owner. Jean-Paul took the awkward moment as his cue to leave. He bid the women good day, grabbed his purchase of tarts, then left as quickly as he could. Back on the street, he turned the corner into the alley and spit the taste of the fig and praline out of his mouth. Bad enough he had to endure superstitious notions from the locals about witches and dead cats at every turn. He certainly didn’t need love potions cooked into his food. In fact, the entire day had left a bad taste in his mouth, he deci
ded, and tossed the tarts in the rubbish bin along with the letter from home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two months had passed since her return, and the counterspells, at least the ones Elena had been able to summon the energy for, seemed to be holding. Little by little she was ridding the vineyard of its invasive hexes, plucking them out like weeds. Yet the deeper melancholy persisted in the oldest vines despite her efforts to understand and treat the affliction. She flipped through the pages of her spell books again, hoping one of them might reveal some forgotten wisdom. She began to suspect there was an altogether different level of magic at work in their veins, something older than even her spell books understood.
She suspected, too, that Grand-Mère knew more about the trouble with the vines than she let on. There were mornings when the ice hung on the windows when she would catch the old woman staring out at the fields, muttering a plea to the All Knowing under her breath. They were the chanted words of someone afraid of the future, as if a spiteful god wielded the passing of time like a scythe in the hand. Had a fear of death nipped too close to her heels? Something was bothering the old woman, but Elena couldn’t find the right words to confront her about it. Time apart had allowed a tangled wall of tension to grow between them. Perhaps it was just ordinary cobwebs in the relationship, the inevitable result of years of disuse, but something blocked the easy flow of energy they once had.
Elena convinced herself it was also why she hadn’t told Grand-Mère the entire truth. She knew more about the witch who had cursed her than she let on. She’d spied one important detail before falling from shadow vision into the hex-void of the transmogrification curse. She’d spotted a pocket watch—small and made of silver, with a green dragon’s eye on the cover. The unusual timepiece practically winked at her as she collapsed on the ground at the hem of the witch’s robes. It was a distinct detail in the small world of witches, and one she hoped might help her find the traitor who’d thought nothing of stealing the life of a sister for the right price. Bastien, after all, wasn’t the only one who deserved to feel the sting of revenge. But until her veins thrummed with the pulse of her full magical power again, there was little she could do to satisfy her heart.
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