The Vine Witch

by Smith, Luanne G.

  “Let’s hope it’s enough to confuse the dogs. Come on.”

  With Yvette on Elena’s heels, the two ran for their lives in the opposite direction. Thorns, twigs, and stones ravaged their unshod feet as they cut through a meadow. They crossed a shallow creek lined with silver birch, then clawed through mud and weeds to climb the opposite bank. When they emerged from the water they followed a dirt road as far as they dared, then ducked beneath a stone bridge to catch their breath.

  “Are they coming?”

  Elena listened, watching for the flicker of torches. An owl hooted. A frog croaked in the reeds. A firefly blinked above the meadow. “I don’t think so.”

  “I haven’t run like that since I was a kid stealing bread from the boulangerie on the corner.” Yvette leaned her head against the stone, breathing hard but smiling.

  Elena tried not to think about how deep her life had plunged into disaster. Instead, she eyed the weeds that clung to the patch of ground beside the bridge. Spotting a familiar stem, she plucked gray-green mallow leaves off by the fistful.

  “Show me your feet,” she said.

  Yvette pretended to be annoyed but did as she was told, peeling her stockings off. Elena inspected the cuts on the soles, then rubbed the mallow leaves over both feet while whispering a quick healing spell to seal the skin for the long walk still ahead.

  “How’d you know how to do that? Or that trick with the dandelions?”

  “The healing spell? I’ve known about that since I was eight. Got my share of slivers running around a vineyard in my bare feet, I can tell you.”

  “Is your maman a witch too?”

  “I’m told she was. A country hedge-witch who made potions and wine. I barely remember. She died when I was a young girl.”

  “Who taught you all those spells, then?”

  “Grand-Mère . . . well, she’s not really my grandmother. She took me in and raised me. Trained me how to be a vine witch.”

  “Didn’t know my mother, neither.”

  The frogs croaked again, making them jump.

  Elena craned her neck to search for signs of searchlights or dogs. “Would we have a better chance if we split up?”

  “Are you kidding?” Yvette rolled her tattered stockings back on and tested her feet against the soil, ready to move again. “You wouldn’t last the night without me. Come on. I know which way to go.”

  Their pursuers hadn’t yet picked up their trail. And her primitive calculations of the stars confirmed they were headed in the direction of the answers she sought. With nothing to stop her, Elena quickly rubbed the mallow over her bare feet and then chased after the young woman who darted, lithe as a pixie, through the meadow grass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jean-Paul arrived ten minutes early but knocked anyway. A servant in a black dress and white apron answered the door of the grand château and let him in. He waited in the foyer, hat in hand, while the servant walked to the back of the house to announce him. In her absence he stared at the floor. He could hardly do otherwise. But the black-and-white contrast of the harlequinesque marble soon gave him a bout of vertigo, so he lifted his eyes to follow the hand-carved mahogany banister leading to the upper floors. It curved in graceful sinuosity, like a woman’s back arched in the act of lovemaking. Art nouveau style at its grandest. Intrigued, his eye climbed even higher to where a gas-fed chandelier, adorned with a hundred teardrop crystals, gleamed fully bright directly above his head. He took three instinctive steps to the left in the off chance a bolt should suddenly come loose. The house, he reflected, was old and graced with envious prerevolutionary bones, yet it reeked from the scent of new money. What his mother called nouveau riche. He wondered, briefly, if the newly widowed owner was planning to sell.

  The servant returned and escorted him to the rear of the house, where a domed solarium overlooked the south slope of the vineyard. The addition was typical of other well-to-do homes he’d visited, with its copper-green metalwork and arched glass. Though this one bore a distinct difference on the inside. A bureau Mazarin, carved from ebony and walnut, sat against one wall. It resembled one he’d seen in a museum, only this example was much more elaborate in scale. The ornate desk had to be hundreds of years old, yet dried herbs and dead flowers dangled by their muddy roots from a rack suspended above, raining dirt onto the bottles, tincture jars, and row of ancient-looking books arranged on top. He wished to peek inside the drawers, but the servant snuffed the impulse by offering him a seat in one of four damask chairs arranged around a mahogany table in the center of the room.

  He thanked her and tossed his hat on the chair as he admired the remarkable vigor of the plants growing in pots near the windows. Exotic palm fronds arced toward the ceiling, and tiny succulents were perched under glass domes, along with containers of foxglove, belladonna, and one beautiful ornamental bush he didn’t know. Reddish leaves and spiky flowers were just coming into bloom. He saw no lilacs among them, though the air hung heavy with their heady scent. Then he remembered the scent of her perfume. He turned to his left to find Gerda du Monde standing at a potter’s bench behind one of the massive palms.

  She was dressed in black mourning lace as she stood before a row of white orchids. The effect was as stark as seeing a raven in the snow. She snipped a piece of twine with her shears, then tied it around the neck of a bloom-heavy flower head, securing it to a wooden stake in the pot. “Well, well, well, Monsieur Martel,” she said without looking up. “The attorney for my husband’s murderer.”

  “I hope to prove otherwise.” She laughed without humor at his claim. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said. “As my telegram stated, I hope I might ask you some questions about that night.”

  “You’re free to ask, though I’ve already given my statement to the police and that twaddling fool agent from the Covenants Regulation Bureau.”

  “Yes, I’ve read your remarks. After discovering your husband’s body, it was you, in fact, who demanded the police contact Agent Nettles to report a supernatural crime had taken place. It’s one of the things I’m curious about. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, but can you tell me what it was about the scene that convinced you it was a crime involving witchcraft? Was there a mark? A scent of brimstone in the air? Some kind of aura?”

  She turned the potted orchid from side to side as if deciding which angle suited it best. “Do you have much experience with the occult, monsieur?”

  “No, not really.” He had even less experience with murder cases, but he wasn’t about to advertise that.

  “Never sat in on a séance? Never had your palm read? Never bought a love potion at a carnival?”

  “Doesn’t everyone play those games when they’re young?”

  She finally turned her head and peered at him with those ice-chip-blue eyes. “You don’t consider those to be part of the supernatural arts, then? Is it possible you already understand that real magic isn’t about parlor tricks? Perhaps you’re further along than I thought.”

  Jean-Paul thought back to his conversation with Brother Anselm on the night he’d seen the beast materialize in the vineyard. It pricked his palms with sweat even now to recall the image, knowing it was real. Or at least knowing the gargoyle existed in some unseen plane of existence. The experience had profoundly transformed his view of the supernatural.

  “I mean to defend Elena—that is, Mademoiselle Boureanu—to the best of my ability. I’m willing to learn whatever I need to about the occult to make that happen. I’m aware it will require a deeper acquaintance with magic than I have now.”

  “Not just any magic.” She turned the orchid once more and tapped a finger under its delicate petal chin. “Blood magic is a very old and revered form of sorcery. Also quite gruesome. Most witches today don’t have the stomach for it,” she said, picking up the potted orchid and crossing the floor to the desk.

  To deflect from his own discomfort with the subject, he took pen and paper out of his jacket pocket and vowed to keep a profess
ional demeanor for Elena’s sake. “Can you tell me how blood magic is different? What it’s used for?” And even as he said the words he had to fight off a shiver that warned him he was trespassing on dangerous ground.

  Her back was to him as she ran her finger over the tincture bottles on the desk, yet he sensed a smile in her response. “Blood is the fuel that powers certain spells,” she said and took down a bottle of aquamarine liquid. She unstoppered the cork and passed the solution under her nose. “Bloodletting releases the energy so it can be harnessed and used. Not unlike petrol in an automobile.”

  Despite the macabre subject, the comparison made sense. Magic could work much like chemistry, or physics, or perhaps even mathematics, only on a grander scale. It must follow its own set of rules, a formula, or some exotic principle, the same as any science, albeit taken to an extreme beyond what the normal human could do or comprehend.

  And then the reality of what Gerda had said struck his conscience. Bloodletting. The severing of a vein or artery, that’s what she’d meant.

  She spun around as if reading his mind, her brows pinched together as tears formed in her eyes. “My husband was killed for his blood. If you’d seen the body, you’d understand the difference between a ritual murder and a mortal wound. The heart was cut clean out.”

  He nodded as if he understood her pain, yet there was no comprehending something so heinous. He expressed his condolences again and then thought it best to veer the conversation back into the more mundane aspects of the investigation lest she shut down and refuse to answer any more questions.

  “I know this is a difficult time, but can you recall your husband’s movements that day? Did he have any unusual visitors or appointments?”

  “Unusual?” Gerda poured a drop of the blue liquid on a square of cloth, then dabbed it over the orchid’s leaves and petals. “Bastien was a popular and powerful man. People were here all the time. Everybody wanted something from him.”

  “Elena didn’t.”

  “She wanted him dead. That’s something.”

  Taken aback by her directness, he fought for a response but was interrupted by the servant, who’d returned bearing a tray with a silver coffee service for two and an envelope.

  “This just arrived, madame. The courier said it was urgent.”

  Gerda finished applying the liquid on the orchid—blue vitriol, in all likelihood, the same mixture he used to treat fungus—then set it in the center of the coffee table before snapping up the envelope and flicking it open with her fingernail. Her left eyebrow arched in interest as she read its contents. “Thank you, Marguerite. You’re dismissed for the day. You may go to your room.”

  “Shall I pour the coffee first?”

  “I’ll reserve that pleasure for myself.”

  The servant bowed her head as one wise to the consequences of lingering and turned on her heel. Gerda stuffed the note back in its envelope, then gestured for Jean-Paul to sit.

  He’d rather thought it was time to be on his way. Given her mood he doubted he’d gain as much useful information as he’d hoped, and he still needed to inquire with the Bureau about the black-market witches Elena had mentioned, but he didn’t wish to appear impolite. Reluctantly Jean-Paul sat in one of the damask chairs. At any rate, he could certainly do with a jolt of caffeine to get him through the research that lay ahead of him.

  He’d just settled, crossing his leg, when Madame dropped the note she’d been delivered. He bent forward to retrieve it, awkwardly stretching his arm under the table.

  “Tell me, do you know if the inspector tried to get a confession out of your client?” Gerda asked as she sat on the chair opposite and poured the coffee. “I’ve heard he can be quite rough, once the door is closed.”

  His eyes locked on the note as he handed it back. The return address was for the prison at Maison de Chêne. “She was questioned, of course,” he said distractedly, “but she has nothing to confess.”

  “Cream?”

  “Please.” He accepted the coffee and took two sips, curious about her urgent news.

  Madame stirred sugar into her cup and smiled. “Are you in love with her?” She blew gently on her coffee, then took a drink. The orchid swayed slightly, as if her breath had carried over the cup. The peculiar scent of the flower hit him full in the face along with the bluntness of her question. “I’m curious because I saw you spit out the tarts at the bakery that day we met in the village. Tilda rarely gets it wrong, so I wasn’t quite sure what to make of your reaction.”

  Jean-Paul tripped over a series of “ums” and “ahs” as he set his cup down. “I don’t know how—”

  “You see, so much of what I do as a witch is reading the tea leaves of a person’s life after it’s been drained of pretense. Interpretation truly is the greater part of the art of magic.” She set her cup down and leaned forward. “So let me ask another way. Does Mademoiselle Boureanu feel the same about you, full of ‘hmms’ and ‘ahs’ and blushing denials?”

  God, what was in that note? “What is this about? Has something happened?”

  Gerda clicked her tongue behind pouted lips three times. “It seems your client has escaped.”

  “What? Are you certain?” She held out the note long enough for him to get a glimpse of Inspector Nettles’s signature. His body tensed, ready to fly to Elena. “I must leave at once.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” She fanned the letter at the flower so that a cloud of pollen-like particles wafted toward Jean-Paul’s face. “Wouldn’t it be much more fun to see how long it takes for her to come to you?”

  He’d had enough of this woman, despite her tragic circumstances. He reached for his hat and stood. Or at least he thought he’d risen out of his chair. Instead, his legs seemed to float beneath him, watery and weak. He fell back against the damask. His head swam as if caught in a whirlpool. The floor undulated, the light dimmed, and a final thought drifted through his brain.

  That wasn’t blue vitriol in the bottle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Elena woke to the smell of camphor. She opened her eyes to find her nose pressed against the side of a wooden trunk, the decorative type used to store blankets and clothing against the threat of hungry winter larvae. The medicinal scent of the wood worked like smelling salts to revive her, and she rolled onto her back. Above her hung a kaleidoscope of colorful fabrics embellished with feathers and sequins, confirming she’d spent the night on the floor of a carnival wagon.

  “Good morning, free bird.” A smudgy-eyed Yvette grinned down from the sleeping berth above.

  Something pointy dug into Elena’s backside. She reached down and removed a red lace-up boot, its toe slightly squashed. “What time is it?” she asked and tossed the boot aside.

  Yvette had sworn in the middle of the night that she knew a safe place only a few miles away where they could hide. Where exactly, Elena hadn’t asked. All she knew was at the time she was cold and damp from tromping through the waist-high grass moist with dew and would take any bolt-hole, so long as it was dry. Yvette had led them straight to the carnival following an instinct a bloodhound would envy.

  The young woman shoved her thumb between her teeth and began chewing madly against the nail. “We overslept. Place is already humming. God, I’m dying for a smoke.”

  “Not in here, you won’t.”

  The challenge came from the front of the wagon near the door, where a petite brunette sat on a cushioned built-in bench. She wrestled with a pair of white stockings as she secured them to a garter beneath a gold-fringed skirt that barely covered her thighs. “My bad luck, you catch whole place on fire.” Her words were lacquered in the strong dialect of her native language.

  “Missed me, didn’t you, JuJu?”

  “Like a snake misses shoes.”

  While the women traded friendly barbs, Elena sat up to peek through the curtain of a small window. Half a dozen men in work clothes sat under a tent with its flaps rolled up, eating at a table consisting of a sheet of plywood
placed atop a pair of sawhorses. The number of people who might have heard them arrive worried her. “You’re sure it’s safe here?”

  “Don’t mind her. These are my people. We’re as snug as a bug in a rug.”

  JuJu nodded, adjusting her breasts upward inside her red-and-gold corset. “We just having a laugh. Yvette is my best roommate. Only snores a little. I didn’t even throw her things out while she was gone. I not tell anyone you’re here.”

  “Come on, Ju. I’m just dying for a smoke.”

  “No smoking here. Too many pretty things.”

  Elena glanced up again at the assortment of costumes lined neatly along one wall, each like a tropical bird, feathery and iridescent.

  “Oh là là, from one jail to another.” Yvette threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the raised bed. “So what’s the mood out there? Anyone new I need to know about?”

  JuJu held up a mirror and dabbed a dot of rouge on each cheek. “New sister act does magic trick with small dogs. Not as good as me on the unicycle, but it’s okay show. A man joined the crew a few towns ago. Replaced old Antoine.” She reached for a kohl stick and filled in dark lines around her eyes. “Everyone else the same.”

  Yvette jumped to her feet and arched her back in a catlike stretch. The cramped wagon seemed to shrink even more, once everyone was awake and moving. Elena shifted off the floor and took a seat on the edge of the bed. When they’d arrived in the quiet predawn hours, Yvette had knocked on the window in a pattern that roused the wagon’s owner. Without question they’d been allowed inside, each left to find their corner of space to sleep. Now that the sun was up, Elena could see it was a small but cozy nest of self-contained essentials: stove big enough for boiling water, single cupboard for storing dry goods, a fold-down table for two, a camphor trunk, and a rack custom built to hold a dozen colorful costumes.

  “All right if we make some of your great tea, JuJu?”