The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(25)
In the morning she retrieved the milk bottles off the back step and carried them inside to Grand-Mère. The kitchen, normally abuzz with prework bustle while Jean-Paul finished his breakfast and read his Le Temps, was quiet as a funeral. The man’s chair sat empty, and his work boots slouched unworn near the door. He hadn’t come home.
“You knew he was a nonbeliever.” There was no accusation in Grand-Mère’s tone; she merely stated the obvious as she entered the kitchen still tying her apron. “It’s a lot to accept for a man with strong convictions of his own. How do you want your eggs?”
“We might have lost the vineyard to Bastien if I hadn’t told him. Besides, we’re past bud break. The fruit will be setting on the vine soon. I have to be able to do my spells in the open if I’m ever going to rid the place of that woman’s hexwork.”
Grand-Mère waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “That man wants to make wine. Good wine. He doesn’t want to sell. At least he didn’t before he learned the place was overrun with witches.” The old woman shrugged. “And anyway, it’s already lost to me. And you.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Elena puffed air out from her cheeks and pushed her empty plate aside. The vineyard couldn’t be lost. It just couldn’t.
Hours later, with one eye constantly watching the road, she and Grand-Mère attended to the chores. She prodded the plow horse out between the vines to finish churning up the rocky soil and loosen the year’s compaction. The earth had to breathe again to encourage new growth. Were men any different?
After a midday meal of broth and bread, she ducked into the cellar to top off what the angels had stolen for their share from the barrels over the week and to test the progression of last year’s wine. It was a chore she did not mind doing alone, though she’d grown accustomed to Jean-Paul’s company and his close observation of her as she swished the wine in her mouth, tasting, sensing, and deciding best how to counter his missteps. His absence echoed in the stillness when, certain the plum undertones would never mature in the barrel, she thought to ask him what moon phase he’d harvested in. He wouldn’t have known the answer, but she enjoyed watching his face struggle with the logic of her questions. Of course, now she could explain the importance of the moon’s tug on the grape skin for rounding out the full flavors just before picking. If only he were there.
But by late afternoon, it was clear either the man’s fear or his ego wouldn’t allow him to come home. She went to the cellar and dug out the burlap sack she’d stuffed behind the back barrels. She thought she’d rid herself of any need for the goatherd’s clothes again, but now she was thankful she’d stashed them instead of burning the garments with the rest of the rubbish. Taking the bundle with her, she returned to her room and changed into the stiff woolen skirt and blouse. She slipped her feet into a pair of clumsy sabots and tied a red scarf on her head. She’d given the clothes a rinse in lavender water before tying them up in the burlap sack, but it only added a flowery stench to the lingering odor of dung.
Pleased, however, with the effect of the clothes as a disguise, she retrieved her bolline—the work knife she used to cut herbs—and tucked it in the leather belt she’d added. She picked up the threadbare cloak and then tapped on the kitchen door.
“I’m going to the village to find him,” she announced, slipping the cloak on over the ragged skirt. “He can’t stay afraid of the truth forever.”
“You’d be surprised what a stubborn man is capable of.” Grand-Mère looked her up and down and frowned. “Why on earth have you put those rags on again?”
“I don’t want anyone to recognize me yet.”
“Well, I’ll wish you luck. Though, if you ask me, wearing that pretty blue dress of yours would be more potent than magic to lure the man back home.”
An hour later Elena stood on the road overlooking the village, rubbing her sore foot where the wooden sabot pinched the nub of her missing toe. From where she stood the town looked much the same as it always had. The abbey’s bell tower rose above the tile roofs like a compass pointing at the sky, while at street level the cobbled stonework buildings bore the burnished patina of centuries of wear. But smaller changes disoriented her once she reached the main street. There had been a metalwork sign—a dragon with elaborate grape clusters draped about its neck—that hung over the door of the first shop after the bridge. A bit of whimsy, something from childhood she had always looked forward to seeing on her trips to the village. When very young she’d imagined the dragon winked back when she said hello, and once she mastered her magic, it actually did. But the sign was no longer there. Nor were the Aucoins who ran the shop inside.
Elena raised the hood on her cloak over her head and turned her face toward the empty shop glass as a man approached on the sidewalk. She didn’t yet know what to expect from the village and its inhabitants. Would they recognize her? Would they wonder where she’d been? Would they even remember? The man, a banker as she recalled, didn’t even tip his hat as he passed, presumably taking her for the goatherd she pretended to be. Confident of her disguise, she limped past him to the place where the road split—one fork bending uphill toward the respectable shops and businesses, the other descending to the more unsavory end of the village, where there were no streetlamps to chase away the shadows.