The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(16)
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 decided, 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.