“That sounds like a wonderful dream.”
Her expressive eyes grew wide as an owl’s. “Oh, it wasn’t a dream at all.”
“Why, it must have been. Trees can’t take people inside them.”
“This one can. Plus, my breathing problem is better. Look.” She inhaled deeply for effect. “See? No more coughing.”
“I’m glad to see the fresh morning air and sunshine has done you good.”
She wriggled in his arms. “No. It was the tree. I think he made me better.”
Ian stopped and set her feet on the ground. They were close to her house now, and some of the workers were heading toward the attached winery for lunch. He knelt to her level. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, petit agneau. But I doubt my old oak had anything to do with your improvement.” He stood. “Come, let’s find your maman.”
She didn’t argue or say anything more, but simply slid her tiny hand into his very large one, tilting her head up to look at him with a bright smile. Ian thought he caught a special spark within her beautiful blue eyes. It made him wonder what he was missing as they continued on.
When he was young, before he’d been called to his role as an immortal Guardian, he’d been smitten with a young lass. He remembered one rainy day in particular when they’d built a fort out of a drying cow hide and played pretend games, as kids sometimes do, of being parents and having a family and a farm and predicting their naive version of the future.
His life had turned out nowhere close to his imaginings. The lack of family was a sore spot for him, one he often managed to push aside. But in moments like this, when he’d longed to have a child and family of his own, well, it sucked to be immortal. Eventually, everyone passed on and left him alone. He had long ago stopped trying to have a normal life, refusing to go through the pain of losing anyone again.
If he’d had a child, though, he fancied she’d be much like Maely—sweet, intelligent, caring, and adventurous.
He approached Madame Dubois. “I walked your daughter home. I found her asleep beside my old oak. She seemed to be having a bad dream.”
Her mother gasped. “Maely, I thought you were playing with the kittens!”
Running into her mother’s open arms, the child laughed. “I was! Then a horrible man came and chased me. I ran and ran until I hid behind the tree. The tree saved me. And look!” She placed her hands on each side of her ribs, drawing air deep into her lungs and releasing the breath. “The rattles are gone!”
Madame Dubois eased her hands onto the girl’s back. “I don’t feel any vibration of fluid.” She gave a puzzled frown. “Your lungs seem clear.”
“They are.” Maely pushed away and twirled around. “What’s for lunch?”
“Thank you for bringing her home,” Madame Dubois said to Ian. “It was very kind of you.”
“Not at all.” He frowned as he watched the child dance over to the food. “She certainly has a vivid imagination.”
“Yes. She does.”
Ian crossed his arms, putting on a stern expression. “Perhaps you could speak with her about not roaming onto my property?”
Madame Dubois straightened her spine. “I’m sure Maely meant no harm.”
“Nonetheless. I worry about my vines.”
“Of course. I’ll encourage her to be more careful and to remain near the house.”
“Excellent. We understand each other, then.” And hopefully the child would not get any more inquisitive about his Divine Tree.
2
Three months later
“Dammit, I’ve tried everything. The vines keep dying,” Ian said. He tore a dead, shriveling leaf from the thick woody stalk of the sick grapevine and gently smoothed it flat against his palm, unfurling its sickly, curled edges. His inner beasts thrashed in his chest, restless, as if they sensed something he did not yet discern. “It’s like something is devouring the vine from the inside out, leaving a paper-thin skeletal outer layer.”
François Lagarde, a fellow winegrower and friend, leaned over Ian’s outstretched hand. “The blood-red coloring is most unusual,” he exclaimed. “Most unusual, indeed.”
The sun had crested the surrounding trees and shone a bright golden glow on all it touched, making everything, even the dying vines, look healthier in its radiance. Ian knew better. These vines weren’t coming back.
He inhaled the scent of rich soil and ripening grapes. “So what do you think is killing my plants? A fungus? Bacteria? Some microscopic insect?”
His friend stepped back, moving his hands behind him and stretching his torso. “It’s not the fruit fly that spread acid rot in parts of the northern Rhône, that much I can tell you.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the vines are being poisoned.”
“What?”
“Remember the Burgundy threat in 2010? Someone held the Romanée-Conti vineyard for ransom, threatening to poison the vines. Perhaps this is something like that.”
Ian straightened. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening here. I haven’t received a ransom note. And as you can see, my vines are already suffering.”
“Just the eight vines?” François asked.
“Yes, but I’ve been removing dying vines for the past three months. Now there are more and they’re situated practically in the middle of the vineyard. If it spreads, the damage will be done in only a matter of days. My vineyard will be wiped out by the time we reach harvest.”
“Well, my best recommendation is to keep removing the affected plants. Then have them tested to determine the cause.”
Ian sighed. “I’d thought the same but had hoped you’d be able to identify the problem.” He directed his friend back to where their horses stood. “I’m at a loss.”
They mounted as the horses sidestepped anxiously, seeming to pick up on Ian’s tension.
François grasped his reins with a firm hold. “Your situation is a concern to us all, my friend. This could behave like an epidemic and strike every plant in the area.”
“I won’t allow that. The plants will be eradicated by this evening. I will personally see to it.” Ian set his horse in motion and led the way back to the house and stables.
Minutes ticked by as they passed vine after vine draped with young bunches of grapes. Beyond and to the north, Ian could see the expansive canopy of the Divine Tree rising above everything else. A slice of unease cut through him. Could whatever was attacking the vines hurt the tree? It was a plant after all, albeit one with magical abilities.
Back at the house, the stable hands were at the ready to see to the horses. “Would you like to join me for some refreshments?” Ian asked François before sending him on his way.
“Thank you, but not today. You have work to do, my friend. And I won’t keep you from it.” François gave Ian a meaningful stare, one that relayed his concern.
Ian nodded. “Another time, then. Though I will see you at my gala Saturday evening, no?”
“But of course.”
He walked François around to the front drive where his friend slid behind the wheel of his Ferrari and drove away.
Immediately, Ian pulled out his phone and sent a text to his foreman, instructing him to bring over the necessary equipment and manpower to remove the vines. He’d meant it when he’d told François that he’d personally remove the sick vines.
Bernard, his delegato, the assistant provided to him by his Divine Tree to be his intermediary with the outside world beyond his home, came out of nowhere, as he frequently did. “May I be of some service?”
“Perhaps,” Ian responded. “I need to remove some vines.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The man’s voice expressed his sincerity.
“I’ve called the foreman, but as you see, he hasn’t arrived yet. Will you drive the truck down that row?” He pointed to which one he meant. “You can’t miss the dead vines. I’ll meet you there.”
The Divine Tree had chosen to root in this plot of land, and it wasn’t long before Ian had discovered that grapes, and just about anything
he could think of, thrived in the soil. The land had become a part of him, almost as important to him as the ancient oak. It was his family, the only thing that had been with him over all the centuries he’d lived here.
He was about to put his phone back in his pocket, when it thrummed and vibrated. He swiped his finger over the screen. His foreman was set already? Viewing the message, he blinked, hard. No, it was not the foreman. It was his brother, Venn.
Dismay coursed through him as he read the text.
Our train is being rerouted because of a landslide. Will be delayed.
Venn and his wife–by God, Ian still wasn’t sure how that had happened—were coming to France to visit. But now he wondered if they would ever get here. First their plane had needed to be changed out, and now the train from Paris to Avignon was having issues?
His heart rate increased. Thankfully they were safe.
He hadn’t seen any of his brothers face-to-face in the hundreds of years since they’d all become Guardians. Sure, they used today’s technology to see each other on screens now. But that was all he’d had. No handshakes, no claps on the shoulder, no fierce bear hugs. He swallowed a hit of emotion, his throat tightening.
They had so much to discuss, so much to catch up on. Not only was Venn now married but evidently, Seth, that crazy archangel who’d changed he and his brothers into Divine Tree Guardians, had agreed to watch over Venn’s Divine Tree for a spell. Who knew that was even possible? But they had delayed their trip until his tree had grown strong enough after some sort of trauma. Even now, that tree still couldn’t communicate with the other Divine Trees.
Ian thumped his fist to his chest a time or two as he forced his feet to walk toward the vineyard. Venn had alluded to some scary shit going down at his Divine Tree in America that he wanted to discuss. Ian wondered what that was about. He knew the Dark Realm was behind the near death of Venn and his Divine Tree, but there were more details yet to discover.
He needed to get this situation with the vineyard under control, though, so he could devote all his attention to the Thousand Days until the Age of Atonement. He’d recalled Seth had spoken of a coming of the Age of Atonement, when the doers of evil would answer for their deeds. But life had a way of linking one day to the next and he had grown complacent, forgetting the conflict was on the horizon. Perhaps he had involved himself too deeply in his vineyard.
* * *
Either people believed in supernatural phenomenon or they didn’t. That’s what Grace Wenger had discovered while producing her TV show, From the Far Side. Sometimes she found it best to test the waters before jumping into the real reason she was visiting a place. Otherwise, people turned her away before she could even say hello. Ghosts, spirits, and unexplainable occurrences weren’t your average topic of conversation. And when the events involved a child… Well, that called for even more caution and finesse.
As the late August day warmed, she introduced her assistant Skylar and herself to the Dubois family they were about to interview, claiming to be random travelers just stopping in for lunch at the small winery.
Grace found the Dubois family of four charming. The couple was much younger than she’d imagined, closer to her own age of twenty-eight. Perhaps they were even into their midthirties, given their two adorable children—a boy around four and a girl named Maely, who was a year older. Monsieur Dubois conversed enthusiastically with a group of vineyard workers at an outdoor table on the veranda overlooking the vineyards. Madame Dubois, with a riot of long, curly, brownish-red hair was more subdued.
With a smile and a “Merci!” Grace accepted the crusty bread and glass of rosé Madame Dubois offered in hospitable welcome. The view was gorgeous, and Grace could have sat there for hours all alone and taken it in; however, she didn’t have that luxury.
“Are you staying in town?” the young mother asked.
“Yes, for the time being. But I’d like to extend my stay, so I’m looking for just the right place,” Grace said. Small mom-and-pop wineries like theirs dotted the area, many offering bed-and-breakfast accommodations, as well as workaway projects to supplement their vineyard operation and attract extra workers.
“We have a room available, if you’re interested.” Madame Dubois paused, her eyes assessing. “Sixty-five euros per day.”
“That’s fair.” Grace looked off across the fields of grapes. “Is that the Chêne Sacré Winery over there?” She nudged her chin toward the grand estate a good distance away and up the hill, pondering its English translation, Sacred Oak.
Madame Dubois raised a perplexed brow. “You’ve heard of it, non?”
“There was some discussion in the village. A miracle, they say.”
Actually, there were whispers in town about the healing of a child. But that wasn’t how Grace had come to learn of it. She belonged to an active underground network of believers who kept her updated about new and unusual paranormal events. Usually, they were thrilled if she chose to investigate a ghost sighting or such for her program. But this story had piqued her interest immediately, and she’d come all the way to France to learn more.
Madame Dubois narrowed her eyes, clearly growing cautious. “Do you believe in such miracles?”
Grace searched the woman’s eyes. “Yes, I do.”
The woman glanced across to her little girl, whose light-brown hair just touched her delicate shoulders. As if sensing her mother’s apprehension, the child fled her father’s knee and skipped over to them from the head of the table. She had the clearest, brightest blue eyes Grace had ever seen. She danced along carrying a dilapidated handful of wildflowers that flopped over her tiny hand.
Grace stifled an inhaled breath. She hadn’t expected to meet the little girl so soon.
“Your daughter was the child in the stories…wasn’t she?” Grace asked softly.
A long moment passed as Madame Dubois seemed conflicted, possibly weighing manners and a mother’s protective instinct. “Maely, this is Mademoiselle Wenger. She might be a guest for a little while.”
With childish abandon, the girl held out her small hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said as she dipped in a curtsy.
The instant Maely’s hand touched Grace’s, tingles rushed up into her arm and through her chest. Maely smiled, appearing aware of what had transpired between them yet at the same time remaining innocently unfazed.
She looked up at her mother. “I told Fletcher not to pick these, Maman. Now look at them.” The child heaved a sigh.
“Hmm, let me see.” Grace leaned in, stroking the foliage. “Go put them in some water. They’ll perk up.”
Even after Grace’s slight touch, life bloomed in the flowers in the girl’s hand. The child looked from the flowers to Grace’s eyes, yet she didn’t question the sudden deepening of color of the cut plants. She only grinned. Then she glanced at Skylar, seeming to consider the purple streaked highlights. A hint of uncertainty touched the child’s gaze. Given the sheltered country life out here, Grace suspected the girl had never seen such unusual hair coloring.
“I like your hair,” Grace said.
Skylar set her glass on the table. “Thank you.”
Maely spun to face her mother. “May I go play with the kittens now?”
“Yes, ma petite. For a few minutes.”
“She’s so sweet,” Grace said. “I’m happy to hear she is cured of her illness.”
“Who are you?” Madame Dubois inquired, stiffening now.
Grace finished the last bite of her bread and wine. They were both delicious. Another reason to be eager to stay at the Dubois’s place, she thought as she deposited the glass on a nearby tray. She clasped her hands together low in front of her, knowing full well that she might not be welcome when she finished what she had to say.
“I produce a television program in the United States about unusual things,” she began. “Such as the extraordinary healing of a child who had a terminal form of cystic fibrosis yet is left today with no sign the disease ever existed.”
<
br /> Madame Dubois opened her mouth to speak, then pressed her lips together. She made the sign of the cross and glanced around.
From the corner of her eye, Grace noticed Monsieur Dubois close his knife and stand. The other guests followed suit. The pointed look in his eyes said he’d overheard her explanation and that he was going to turn her away.
“Non, non,” he interjected with a shooing motion. “We’ve had enough of reporters. Please, you must leave.”
His eyes darted from hers to the other guests, and she knew he didn’t want a scene. Actually, Grace didn’t want one, either. News spread rapidly in quaint areas such as this, and she didn’t want the locals clamming up before she’d had a chance to really begin her investigation.
“Very well,” she said, taking a step back. “My interest is more in the location where this miracle took place, anyway. At Chêne Sacré, if my information is correct. Perhaps I should begin there.”
Seeing that Grace was immediately willing to give in and leave, Monsieur Dubois turned from them, mumbling, “Good luck with that.”
“What did he mean?” Grace inquired, as Madame Dubois ushered her toward the exit.
The woman lifted a shoulder. “Monsieur Hearst is the most inhospitable man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. His place is guarded as if his vines were made of gold. Don’t expect to find a tasting room at that fancy winery. There isn’t one. Very few people even know what the man looks like.”
“I had heard he was an eccentric recluse. I wasn’t able to find any photos of him, and only a few of the estate with regards to Maely’s…incident.” She pictured a grumpy old Scottish expat who lived in a moldy, crumbling château while indulging in an expensive hobby.
They came to a stop when they reached the driveway, where Grace had left their rented Peugeot. Skylar slid in behind the steering wheel while Grace hesitated, looking back over her shoulder.
“Please understand, Mademoiselle Wenger. We must protect our daughter.”
Grace touched the woman’s arm and leaned in. She felt a connection to this woman, in the way one knew they’d enjoy someone’s company. Call it instinct, intuition, a vibe that they shared. “I get it.” Grace smiled. “But I have a personal stake in this. Whether the piece ever airs or not, I need to find out how Maely was made well.” It was her only chance for healing her tumor. And a long shot at that.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Secret Garden Page 10
