The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(30)

That was before his introduction to the wine.

A decade later, returning as a young man exploring the world available to a bon vivant on summer break from law school, he’d set about sampling the varied wines of the Chanceaux Valley. Even then he’d hoarded a case of Chateau Vermillion’s vintage ’99, impressed by its structure and the smooth inebriation it brought on after one glass. The first Du Monde reds he’d tried were bold yet immature, but he saw the promise and audacity and so collected those too. A bottle of Domain Da Silva was so good it got him into the bed of a foreign heiress visiting the valley on holiday. And later, when he better understood the seduction of wine, he’d courted his fiancée Madeleine with a bottle (or was it two?) of Mercier-LeGrande, ’02. He’d thought it the finest wine he’d ever had the pleasure to drink. The fruit, the alcohol, the residual influence of the terroir were in perfect balance in that particular vintage. He didn’t think he’d find anything to compare. Then a friend introduced him to Chateau Renard, a small vineyard at the base of the hills that had made a name for itself with its self-assured old vines. He’d tilted his first glass in front of the glow of an electric lamp, noting the warm ruby color as it stirred alive against the artificial light. He’d swirled the glass, then pressed his nose inside the rim to sample the bouquet of black currants, a hint of woodsmoke, and ripe figs. The wine itself flowed like velvet in his mouth. It aroused the smooth sensuality of being inside a woman in the midst of lovemaking, the confluence of pleasure and attraction, the taste of lust on the tongue.

Magic. Yes, even then his instinct had called it that. The wine was hers. It had to be.

Thinking of her brought back the image of the creature she’d shown him in the vineyard, the strange fog, and the eerie glow hovering over his fields. Torn, he glanced back at the threshold of the six-hundred-year-old abbey. He’d still been drunk when he’d shown up in the middle of the night and pounded on the door, demanding to speak to someone, anyone who could explain what the hell he’d witnessed. He didn’t see how it could be possible. There were laws of physics. Doctrines of religion. The empirical evidence of the senses. But they’d all been rendered useless by what he’d seen.

The monk who answered the door, Brother Anselm, had patiently let him in and led him to the kitchen. It had smelled of bread and vinegar from a day’s labor of baking and scrubbing. The monk set out two mugs of strong tea and a plate of bread and cheese while Jean-Paul described what he’d seen. His hands had shaken as he recalled the gargoyle’s eyes opening to look directly at him.

“Was it witchcraft?” he’d asked. “Is she . . . a witch?”

Brother Anselm had tapped his lip thoughtfully with his finger. “We are privileged to have among our population a fair number of them, yes.”

“Privileged?” Distressed, he’d pushed his chair away and paced the floor. “You’re not afraid? You’re not compelled to cast them out?”

“That would be a mistake.”

He’d lost control of his senses. There was no other explanation. “But this can’t be,” he said. “They can’t be real.”

The monk observed him patiently. “Do you like cheese, Monsieur Martel?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What about yogurt and bread? I assume you’re fond of wine.”

“What?” He’d begun to think he was sleepwalking in a drunken dream. “What does that have to do with the madness I saw tonight?”

Brother Anselm motioned to the bowls of bread dough rising on the counter waiting to be baked into loaves in a few short hours. “My job at the abbey, aside from serving God, is to feed its inhabitants. All day I bake, I churn, I clean. It never ends.”

Jean-Paul slumped back down in his chair. He’d come to the wrong place. He was going to get a lecture on how expensive it was to run an abbey purely on donations and could the monsieur please see it in his heart to add a few coins to the coffers to help them out. In exchange he’d be given a benediction, a blessing, and a promise to look into the witch business.

To his great surprise, he was instead given a science lesson.

“When I first came to the abbey I asked many of the same questions. Who are these witches? Is their magic dangerous? How could something exist if I can’t see it? That, I believe, is the essence of what you’re wrestling with, monsieur. And the answer is in the cheese.”

He’d begun to question if the old man’s mind was gone, but the monk waved off his look of doubt and begged Jean-Paul to hear him out.

Brother Anselm broke open the chunk of yellow cheese he’d set out. “Do you smell that? The ripeness? Nutty almost. A little sour, a little salty. Les pieds de Dieu. Do not tell my superior, but the smell of God’s feet is heaven to me.” The monk smiled. Threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Eight months ago I added milk, rennet, and a little salt together in a wooden vat. Pressed it, shaped it, and put it on the shelf to age. Today I have a delicious cheese to share with a guest. But the flavor, monsieur, that grows from something I did not add.”

“You refer to the bacteria.” Jean-Paul sat forward, surprised to find himself in the company of a man who’d followed the latest discoveries. “You’ve read the science?”

“We live a humble life at the abbey, but we do not close ourselves off to the world. Yes, those unseen microbes are what create the rich texture and flavor of the cheese.” The monk kissed his thumb and fingertips in exclamation, signifying the magnificent result. “But, of course, now we know how these small wonders occur—miracles in my humble estimation—because men can look through a microscope and see them, track them, but for all the centuries before that, the mysterious process must have seemed like—”