The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(22)

As raw as the day he’d accused her of putting his needs second, his voice sent a shock wave of pain spiraling to her core. The man who’d stolen her life was sitting directly below her, bragging about his good harvest, his champion wine, and the unmatched talent of his vine witch.

His wife.

Like the building of any good spell, the pain began to churn inside her, mixing, binding, reforming. It stirred, waiting for her intent to hurl the flow of energy. Temptation warmed her fingertips. She could almost justify using the magic to harm him, but then the feeling fizzled. The heat subsided. The magic went damp inside her. The vigor gone.

The carnival flyer sat crumpled in her hand. She shook her head and asked the All Knowing for patience. It wasn’t time yet. She wasn’t ready. Revenge would come as sweet as honeysuckle on the tongue when the moment was right. Until then, Bastien would have no hold over her. She would not allow it.

She took a deep breath and leaned forward. With her ear to the bricks she clearly overheard a woman speaking about the ripeness of grapes. The bierhexe. Grudgingly, she agreed with the witch’s observations on midwifery.

Then the voices quieted. The pause felt too long, too awkward for conversation. Grand-Mère must have brought out the wine. Yes, that was it. They were tasting. Swallowing. Forming critiques on their tongues. But what had Grand-Mère served? Certainly she wouldn’t pour them any of the swill Jean-Paul had produced. The man had good intentions, but his efforts were pitiful. The thought made her cringe with embarrassment for the chateau. But then she felt it, a tingle at the base of her neck, a finger-light frisson that spread along her hairline. It was something she only felt when someone tasted her wine in her presence.

“Oh, Grand-Mère, you didn’t,” she whispered, though she smiled as she said it, remembering the last vintage she’d bottled. The grapes had been exquisite. Some said it was better than Grand-Père’s champion red.

Eager to hear their reaction, she wrapped the tablecloth tight around her shoulders and pressed her ear even tighter against the brickwork. Her thumbnail firmly embedded between her teeth in anticipation, she listened and smiled with pride. Not a word out of the bierhexe. No criticism or praise, merely the reward of silent envy. It would have been enough to know it vexed her, but then Bastien spoke. His words were full of admiration. Praise. Humility. It confused her. Had she misheard? Misjudged him? Was it even possible? She missed what he said next, but then Grand-Mère cautioned him with a verbal warning in the form of his name. What look did he have in his eye to make her wary?

Oh, but it wasn’t the look in his eye. It was the greed in his heart. His hunger to own and control everything. She could feel it coming. His sweet, luring words were nothing but vinegar in disguise. His aim in visiting, the reason the car had conveniently broken down—it was all done so he could turn out his pockets before a vulnerable Jean-Paul and negotiate for the one thing he’d always coveted. He wanted to own Chateau Renard.

The proposition struck like a match to the wadding keeping her anger under wraps. Her temper caught and flared until she could no longer control it.

With the tablecloth still wrapped around her shoulders, she climbed the ladder out of the attic and ran down the stairs, her heart pounding with fear, but determination too. What weak magic she commanded she used to shore up her confidence. Her hair flew back from her face as she stormed into the salon to confront Bastien and tell him Chateau Renard was not for sale. Not to him. Not ever. Not as long as she lived and breathed.

But he was gone. The room was empty except for the scent of lilacs that trailed behind the woman. Outside, the automobile started up on the first try. Elena flew to the window in time to see the couple chug down the road as the light faded from the sky.

With nowhere to hurl her swelling anger, her magic found the nearest inanimate object, shattering the half-empty bottle of wine on the table in front of Jean-Paul.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

He’d seen champagne bottles burst spontaneously before but never a wine bottle. And not one that was nearly empty. There must have been a flaw in the glass. A crack. Or perhaps the atmospheric pressure had dropped too quickly.

Jean-Paul had also seen Elena fly off in anger before, but she looked near deranged as she stood at the window, wrapped in a tablecloth, her fist banging against the glass as Du Monde drove off. No consolation would allow her to believe the man had graciously left so that his offer might be given proper consideration without further unnecessary pressure.

Then she turned on him.

“You cannot sell Chateau Renard to that man. I won’t allow it.”

He bent to collect the shards of glass. “You won’t allow it?” Du Monde’s offer had, in fact, rankled his pride, and he was in no mood for an argument with a woman over business. “It’s no longer your place to decide such a thing,” he said and hoped that would be the end of it.

Elena shot across the room and scooped up the glass with her bare hands. “Oh, but it is my place.” She muttered some child’s verse under her breath, then tossed the broken pieces of glass into the fire. “And this vineyard is not for sale,” she countered. “Not to that man, not to anyone.”

Too late, Grand-Mère raised her hand to stop Elena.

The glass fizzled and turned to smoke in the flames, as if it weren’t glass at all. More evidence there was something inferior about how it was made, he decided. And also evidence there was something wrong with this woman. Who disposes of broken glass in a fireplace?