The Vine Witch

by Smith, Luanne G.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Where I come from we pay our storytellers.” The woman smiled briefly, revealing a row of gold and ivory teeth.

  “And where is that?”

  “The most beautiful desert of pink and gray sand. Where palm trees sway in the morning breeze, and figs grow as big as your fist.”

  She wanted the blanket but hesitated to accept it, unsure if there were strings attached to accepting a gift from a desert sorceress. What else might she owe in return?

  “Take it,” Sidra said, tossing it gently as if amused by Elena’s inner conflict. “Honestly, I never feel the cold.”

  “Thank you.” She accepted the blanket and retreated as far away from the commode bucket as she could manage. She would find no comfort wedged between the cold stone floor and the weight of her own fear pressing down on her, but she knew she had nothing to confess. She hadn’t killed anyone.

  And yet Bastien was dead. Murdered to serve some part in a blood magic ritual, if the inspector was to be believed. Old, dark magic that had mostly flown from the world. And for good reason. How many mortals had died during the witch hunts because they couldn’t defend themselves with the same quicksilver thoughts of a malevolent witch? She stretched out under her blanket and thought of the midwives, the herb women, and the poor widowed wretches who’d paid the price for the crimes done by coven witches too cunning to be caught. There’d been some improvement in the aftermath, of course, led by reformist witches sick of the killing. The Great Conclave of 1745 had finally brought all sides together. There they’d drawn up the Covenant Laws that all were bound to obey to this day.

  Yet it was little salve for the innocent souls still crying out for mercy in the prison’s halls.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jean-Paul stood in his kitchen, bewildered by the sudden warren of cupboards and drawers surrounding him. He’d lived in the château for three years yet had never cooked or prepared a meal. Not even a late-night snack. Madam, he realized, had taken care of his every need. Sometimes before he even knew he needed it. And now he could strangle himself with his own ignorance when what he needed to know was where to find a box of allumettes.

  He had no idea where Madame had gone. One minute she was rummaging through the storage room in the cellar, upset over Elena’s arrest, and the next she was grabbing her umbrella and storming out the front door, mumbling about charlatans and madmen. She’d said not to worry, to take care of the place while she was gone. Or was it when she was gone? At any rate, she hadn’t returned. And now he couldn’t find a damn thing, just when Elena was counting on him.

  He banged his head against the cupboard, one thunk followed by another. How could he lose Elena now? He’d only just found her.

  He straightened, gave his suit vest a good tug, and forced himself to think logically. He was a trained attorney, for God’s sake. He ought to be able to reason out a witch’s kitchen. Matches would be on a shelf near the stove in any normal setup, but as he thought about it now he couldn’t recall Madame actually striking a match. Ever. He turned on a hunch and opened the drawer beside the icebox where the odd bits of twine and broken paraffin candles awaited their usefulness. Miraculously he found the elusive allumettes buried beneath a tin of leftover anise candies. He slipped the box in his trouser pocket, buttoned his suit coat, and donned his gray homburg. He’d just tugged the hat snug on his head when a loud and persistent knocking banged against the front door.

  He debated ignoring whoever it was, but they would see him in the courtyard. And he couldn’t delay any longer. The prison was twelve miles away, and the first court hearing was in the afternoon. If he wanted to have a proper visit with Elena first, he needed to leave within the next few minutes. After a glance at his pocket watch, he opened the front door just as a fist prepared to pound out another round of insistent knocking. The fist might as well have hit him straight between the eyes.

  “Well, are you going to invite us in or just stand there lollygagging all afternoon?”

  Marion Martel stood on the threshold dressed in an ecru skirt and jacket ensemble and wide-brimmed hat—a little showy with the white plume and two hydrangeas cocked on the side, but subdued enough for daytime wear, at least for a woman as wealthy as the widow of Monsieur Philippe Martel.

  Jean-Paul kissed his mother on both cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s a fine hello.” She pushed past him and plucked off her linen gloves one finger at a time as she took in the château’s modest salon. Jean-Paul’s uncle, tall and thin but with a complexion suggestive of peptic upset, followed inside.

  “We caught the first train out this morning. As soon as we heard.” Georges Martel removed his straw boater and gave his hair a quick comb to the side with his fingers.

  “Heard what?”

  His uncle fumed. “Good God, how do you think this looks? Bastien du Monde was one of the firm’s most important clients. He turns up dead, and an employee of yours is arrested for his murder? Of course I had to come straight down.”

  “She’s not an employee. She’s . . .”

  “She’s what?” His mother folded her gloves in her hand and peered at him the way she had when he was a child and suspected him of something. He looked away, and then she had him. “Oh, not another trollop from the country.”

  He shot his head back up. “It’s not like that, Maman. She’s a . . . vigneron.” He held back the word “witch,” still too uncertain to trust its verity on his tongue.

  “A woman winemaker?”

  “You have a case of her prized pinot noir sitting in your cellar. Yes, she’s the one who coaxed that spectacular Renard vintage you love to serve at dinner parties to life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to leave so I may see her. There’s a hearing this afternoon, and I need time to speak with my client.”

  “Your client?” The color in his uncle’s face went slightly orange. “You can’t be serious. You’re representing Bastien’s murderer? This is outrageous. We didn’t send you to law school so you could defend that unscrupulous woman.”

  “On the contrary. It’s the first noble thing I’ve done with my degree.”

  “Jean-Paul, be reasonable.” When he clenched his jaw, daring his mother to say another word, she settled like a mourning dove tucking her feathers back. “Are you saying you actually care for this one?”

  “I do. Of course I do. She’s an invaluable asset to the vineyard,” he said. “And I know she’s innocent.”

  “Nothing more?”

  He faltered then. Damn his mother and her intuition. She might as well be half witch herself, the way she could read him. He’d not said it aloud. He’d barely admitted it to himself. But, yes by God, he was falling for Elena, and happily so.

  The admission must have shown on his face. His mother gave him one of her intuitive nods before her mouth broke into a half smile.

  “It’s not too late to come home on the evening train,” she said. “Save your reputation in the city.”

  He took her hand and held it between his own. “Yes, Maman, it is.”

  Her eyes teared up at the gentle rebuff, but she shook it off. “Well, I suppose anyone that valuable in my son’s eyes deserves, at least, the benefit of the doubt.” His uncle was about to pile on more accusations, but she put her hand on his arm to silence him, much the way she’d reined in her husband when he was alive. “Come along. I think it only proper we prepare a small care package for your client, don’t you?”

  She hooked her arm through her son’s, and, despite his need to leave, she packed a well-thought-out basket containing a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of newly ripened cheese, and a handful of dried apricots she’d discovered in the pantry. Like a magician, she covered it all under a plain black wool shawl taken from a hook in the hallway, which she folded into a neat triangle.

  Three hours later, after seeing his family to a respectable hotel so they might return to the city on the next day’s train, Jean-Paul unhooked
the basket from his saddle and stood on the curb outside Maison de Chêne. He tied off the reins and then scratched the back of his head where a headache was hatching. He’d thought of nothing but the law on his ride out—the prosecution’s strength, the grounds for his defense, and the complication of dealing with a crime committed with magic he didn’t fully understand. Yet she was innocent. He knew it. And so he would do this for her. He would go back to the law and step into his father’s shoes once more to see Elena free, and then this vigneron would be done with motions and writs and corpus delicti for good.

  Elena was sitting alone at the table with her head down when he entered. She stood when she saw him, her eyes full of hope. And for a second he believed it too. And then the chains binding her wrists clattered against the edge of the table, enough to snuff out any false notions this would be an easy visit.

  “Are you all right?” It was a dumb question, but she nodded bravely. The tainted smell of confinement lingered in her hair and on her clothes. “Of course you’re not. How could you be?” He reached out and took her hand, damn the consequences.

  The jailer who had let him in the room cleared her throat. “I was told you are her attorney, monsieur.”

  He gave Elena’s hand a squeeze to let her know everything would be fine and then stiffened his manner to more accurately reflect his position. “Yes, I am representing this woman, so you will kindly wait outside the door while I confer with my client in private.”

  Jean-Paul closed the door behind the guard, then sat across the table from Elena as the runes on her cuffs glowed an iridescent blue even his eyes could see.

  “Tell me this isn’t real,” she said, peering at him with those golden eyes of hers as he removed his hat. “Have I swallowed a dreaming potion? Did someone feed me the underside of a bad mushroom?” She sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling while holding up her bound hands in a cupped position.

  He didn’t have an answer for her. He barely understood the context of her complaint. But he did know she was in terrible danger of losing everything, including her life.

  “I’m going to do my best to get you out of here.” He paused, catching himself before he added my love. How quickly the words nearly leaped to his lips of their own free will.

  Elena stood instead and began to pace. “Where is Grand-Mère? Did she come with you? Is she well?”

  He cleared his throat and brought out his notepad and fountain pen. “She went out first thing this morning and hadn’t returned by the time I left.” When he saw a look of alarm in Elena’s eyes he added, “I’m sure she’s fine.” But then he hesitated. He couldn’t imagine where the old woman had gone. She hadn’t left the house without him for an escort into town the entire time he’d known her.

  “Didn’t she say where she was going?”

  “To be honest, she didn’t make much sense. She kept muttering about ‘that crazy man.’”

  “What crazy man? Nettles? Bastien? Who?”

  “I don’t know. She went into your workroom in the cellar, and when she came out she told me to take care of the place. I offered to bring her, but she said there was something she had to do, and then she headed for the footpath leading over the hill.”

  Elena dropped into her chair and stared at the wall behind him as if dumbfounded by the account. A moment later, eyes back on him, she asked, “How confident are you that you can get me released?”

  He set his pen down. “If I’m going to defend you, we must be completely honest with each other.” He leaned in closer and set his hand on hers again. “I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out of here, but if I fail you will have to remain until your trial, which could take months. The prosecution has indicated they wish to make an example with your arrest to show the community they’ve got the situation under control.”

  “But they don’t. And if we fail later at trial, I proffer my neck before the guillotine for a crime I didn’t commit while the real killer goes free.”

  He saw the truth take hold in its merciless way, yet she forced a brave face when he confirmed everything she’d said. It was then he realized she might doubt his abilities.

  “I can try and find you another lawyer,” he said. “There must be someone who specializes in cases of the supernatural, if you’re not comfortable with me representing you, but I’d have to put the vineyard up as collateral for payment. I have no more money left, and no one to borrow from.” His uncle had said as much when he dropped him off at the hotel. Defend her if you like, but there will be no association with the law firm. Ever. The confrontation had bruised him harder than he’d thought. Cut loose of the family business, he was left as pocket-poor as any beggar on the street. If his flailing attempt to make wine didn’t improve, he was finished. And without Elena it never would.

  “No, I want you,” she said. “Only you.”

  Her words, as strong as any spell she could have conjured, rallied his confidence again. He picked up his pen, and they spent the remaining time together preparing for her court hearing. When they’d gone through all the charges and how he wished to proceed with her defense, he knocked on the door to alert the guard he was ready to leave. As the keys jangled in the lock, he slipped a tin of cigarettes and the box of allumettes from the kitchen drawer in her pocket.

  “What is this?”

  “Think of it as currency. At least in the city that’s how it worked. I assume it might be the same in a witch’s prison without access to your . . . ability.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, patting the tin and matches in her pocket. “Thank you for thinking of this.”

  He wished then to embrace her, to feel her hair in his hands. They had only a moment left together. But already the door had opened, and she would soon be whisked to the courtroom.

  “One more thing,” he said as the guard searched her basket of food for contraband one more time. “I’ve arranged to interview Gerda du Monde in the morning to get her account. I want to see for myself what she thinks of the charges. It’s possible Bastien was involved in something he shouldn’t have been that got him killed, something she might be able to shed some light on.”

  Elena’s face tightened in concern as she nodded. “All right, but take care not to upset her. And see if you can learn anything more about those witch sisters I told you about. There’s something not right about them.”

  And with that she was gone, and he felt once more the pinch of his shoes as he walked toward the courtroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Elena sank with her back against the wall, landing in a defeated slump on the floor. She’d maintained her composure in front of Jean-Paul, the judge, and even the guard who’d escorted her back to her cell, but now anger and frustration had frayed her resolve. Bail had been denied. She wasn’t getting out. She’d be stuck inside these walls for months. Trapped once more in Old Fox’s teeth. She dug her fingers in her hair and tugged at the roots until she wanted to scream.

  “Doesn’t mean you’ll be convicted,” Yvette said.

  The young woman chewed on an apricot and glanced expectantly at her from the opposite wall. She no longer made threats with her hairpin, but Elena couldn’t be sure if that was a permanent change or they’d merely struck a silent truce after she’d given away her basket of food.

  “I can’t do this again.”

  Yvette spit out a sliver of pit. “What’d they say in court?”

  Sidra was better at keeping her thoughts from her face, but she looked up from cooing and petting the little sparrow perched on her bent knee, eager to hear.

  “The prosecutor called me a deviant and said it would be a crime to release someone so dangerous onto the streets. Apparently the magistrate agreed.”

  “You? A deviant?” Yvette’s mouth fell open. “Believe me, I know deviant, and the only thing weird about you is that missing toe of yours.”

  Mortified, Elena quickly covered her bare feet with the hem of her skirt, proving the young woman’s point. The reaction el
icited a chortle out of Sidra, whose gold and ivory teeth gleamed in a wide smile. It spread to Yvette, who giggled before falling over on her side in a fit of laughter. Finally Elena succumbed as well, chortling like a madwoman until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

  A moment later, out of breath yet relieved of the pressure like a newly opened bottle of champagne, she sobered and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. She could still smell Jean-Paul on her skin. She inhaled, feeling herself calm. With luck the scent would last the night so she might dream of him instead of the nightmare her life had become.

  “You got to see your man in court?” The kohl smudges under Yvette’s eyes had turned to watercolor streaks of black across her cheeks.

  “He’s my lawyer.”

  The young woman sniffed, as if trying to catch his scent too. “That’s convenient. I’ll have to keep that in mind next time a lawyer comes to me for my services. We might just have to make a trade.”

  Reminded of trades, Elena reached in her pocket for the cigarettes. They were no use to her as currency. Other than the basket she’d brought back with her, there was nothing to buy—no extra food, no spare blankets, no shoes—but if the cigarettes encouraged small talk, they would at least help pass the time and make life easier.

  She drew the blue tin and box of matches out of her pocket and waved them at Yvette. “Here. A small consolation for the deviants.”

  “Cigs!” Yvette pounced in that sprightly way of hers, crossing the floor with a dancer’s lightness at the sight of the tin. “How did you sneak them past the guards?” she whispered.

  “They’re not allowed?” She held the cigarettes and matches in her palm.