The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(35)
He tapped the reins, and they left the village behind as the sun went down over the surrounding vineyards.
“My people have been making wine in this valley since the earliest vines were planted thousands of years ago. It’s our particular talent. Others excel in similar arts.”
“How many witches are there?”
She watched him swallow the word, knowing how foreign it must taste in his mouth. “It isn’t just the vineyards. There are witches who are experts with scent, like the perfume sorcerers that work the lavender fields in the south. Others experiment with healing waters and gemstones. And a great many have mastered the art of flavor and texture in food,” she said, restraining a smile, “as you’ve perhaps already noticed in our local patisserie.”
“It’s true about the desserts?”
“Oh, there are bakers who can create a scent so provocative it will make your head reel with passion. Cake so succulent you want to hold it in your mouth and savor each swallow as if it’s your last. Some say they are the most dangerous witches of all.” She laughed so he would know she was only teasing. “But only if you’re in love. Or so they like to say.”
“Is that so?” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, and she was grateful he could not see her face turn crimson as she remembered the heady smells of cinnamon and chocolate. “I’d heard rumors about the witches here since I was a boy,” he said. “Everyone in the city has. But I always thought it was just a ploy to lure tourists to the valley.”
“Some do earn their living off strangers. Most, though, work at their trade the same as anyone else.” Elena lifted her head to speak directly to him. “And before you ask why we don’t all just cast spells and reap gold out of thin air, you should know there are laws we have to abide by.”
“The Covenant Laws. Yes, I read through them last night.” He held his hand up defensively as she leaned forward to see if he was telling the truth. “I’m trained in the law,” he said. “It’s what I do. Or did, rather, in my other life back in the city.” It seemed he wanted to say something more, but he took a breath of country air instead, his chest expanding until she felt his back press against her. “And Madame is a vine witch as well?” He shook his head. “All this time, she never once made me suspect she was anything but a little eccentric, maybe a little superstitious. Well, except for that thing she does by rubbing her thumb and fingers together.”
“Her magic has worn thin with age. The gesture is how she checks for spells. Like reading by braille, only . . . metaphysically.”
“And Du Monde’s wife? She’s a foreigner, but she’s a vine witch too?”
“Oh, no. She’s quite different. She’s a bierhexe from the north.”
“Bierhexe?”
“They’re formidable at spell magic, but they don’t usually dabble in winemaking. They typically concentrate on potions and curatives when they’re not making beer. Think big cauldrons and clouds of rising steam. Though some do venture into wine nowadays. They’ve done well with the Riesling.”
“Am I wrong to think that there are more of your kind here in the Chanceaux Valley than other places?”
“It’s the terroir,” she said, breathing in the scents of distant rain, chalky soil, and verdant growth springing open on the vine. “I’m not sure there’s anywhere else to compare in the world. The place carries its own magic. Difficult for my kind to resist.”
He nodded as if he understood, taking in the scenery like a country gentleman out for a bit of night air. The same things had likely lured him to the valley. Grand-Mère had been right about him. She saw that now. He had the heart of a true vigneron building inside him.
“I was pledged to the vineyard at Chateau Renard as a child after my parents died,” she said, wanting him to know the truth. “I’ll always belong to that plot of earth, no matter the owner.”
“Are you saying you were sold into the business? Is that how it works?”
“I’m bound but not indentured. I could have easily ended up working on the streets as a card reader or pickpocket if I hadn’t been taken in. Madame and Monsieur had no children of their own, no one to take over when they were gone.” Elena paused, wondering if she sounded like she still blamed him for losing the title to the vineyard. She no longer did. “When they offered to teach me the magic of making wine,” she continued, “it was like planting a new root in old soil. Because I was so young my knowledge was shaped around the unique characteristics of the Renard terroir. That bond is why I’m so protective of it. It’s why I can’t imagine making wine anywhere else.”
They rode a moment in silence before he shifted in the saddle and asked, “What I saw last night. The lights. And that thing.”
“The gargoyle?”
“Yes, that. Is that normal? Is there really an entire world I can’t see?”
“Not even all witches can see what walks in the shadows.”
“But you do.”
She looked around, astonished at how quickly her energy had recovered in his presence. She pointed to a wall marking the boundary of an abandoned vineyard on their right. Above it loomed the ruins of a stone castle. Only one turret remained upright. The rest of the fallen stonework sat buried in overgrown moss and ivy. “There, on the hill. Do you see the arch above the old gateway?” He pulled on the horse’s reins, and she pressed her hand over his. “Now what do you see?”