The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(4)
The old woman massaged her temples, as if she suffered from the sudden onset of a headache. “Could have been one of the Charlatan clan. They usually stay north in the city, but they’ll do work for hire. Crude lot they are, too, and more cunning than one might give them credit for,” she added, rubbing her eyes to be free of the pain. “And not the sort to study how a curse might be weakened by ingesting one’s own toxic skin. Which toads are naturally wont to do.”
Elena shuddered at the thought of the warty, poisonous skin sliding down the back of her throat. She took a sip of the wine to chase the memory from her mouth, but if she was looking for relief she was vividly disappointed. None of the musky hues of spice and rose petals the Renard vineyard was famous for hit her palate. It was all chalk and mushrooms. An off bottle?
Then a worse thought hit her as she swallowed. What if there was nothing wrong with the wine? What if her senses had been permanently disfigured by the curse? She’d kill him twice.
She lifted her glass in silent panic to study the wine’s opacity against the light. She was still forming her fear into words when the back door opened and the worker whose brouette she’d shared walked inside. A wet wind followed, billowing the curtains and spitting snowflakes onto the floor tiles. The man shut the door and brushed his wet cap against his trousers before hanging it on the peg on the wall. His brusque entrance had her set aside the sour wine as well as her growing alarm.
The worker halted and apologized for interrupting as he dried the snow off his glasses using his shirttail. He snuck a glance at her while he polished the lenses, and she couldn’t help but notice the fine features of his face—the proud brow that tightened in thought, the geometric planes of the cheeks, and a jawline taut from firm self-confidence.
Grand-Mère hastily stood. “This is Elena Boureanu. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before.” She hurried back to her mixing bowl at the counter and began measuring more flour. “Elena, this is Monsieur Jean-Paul Martel. He’s—”
“Yes, we spoke briefly in the field. You must be the new foreman.”
“Something like that.” He slipped his glasses back on and then pressed his fist under his nose. His less than discreet gesture suggested he’d picked up on the scent of goat dung saturating the hem of her coat. “A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Boureanu,” he said curtly, then in a more polite tone added, “I’ll let you return to entertaining your guest, Ariella. Let me know when supper is ready.”
Once he left, Elena watched Grand-Mère fret over having no more milk in the icebox. With the taste of bad wine still souring her thoughts, she asked, “Have you grown so desperate for good help that workers now have the run of the main house?”
“Jean-Paul isn’t just a worker.” Grand-Mère’s elbows moved up and down as she worked water into the dough for biscuits. “He likes to eat promptly at five o’clock so he can go out and walk the fields one more time before dark.”
“Why didn’t you tell him who I am?”
The old woman paused to glance at the swirling snow as a gust of wind whipped against the window. Her shoulders fell and her body stilled, as if she could no longer bear to hold them up. “I’ve made a terrible mess of everything.”
She looked to the sky as if it might offer absolution and then confessed all that had gone wrong. The last five seasons at the vineyard had been failures. Either the grapes had been pinched from searing drought or the rain delayed the pickers so the crop spoiled with mold. In the last harvest, dark speckles marred the grape skins, tainting the wine with the taste of burnt cork. And there was nothing Grand-Mère could do, because her mind and magic had begun to fail.
It was little things at first. Forgetting to add a bit of bone to the soil on the full moon, neglecting to hang the bell-charms inside the vine canopy to warn of searing wind, or whispering the wrong words of protection when the cool air dipped toward freezing, leaving the grapes to fend for themselves. Grand-Mère waved it all away as she spoke, as if thoughts of growing old pained her. It bruised her ego to admit her vulnerability, but she knew the vineyard had suffered because of her failing powers. It wasn’t long before successive poor vintages caused sales to drop, and people began to whisper that Chateau Renard had lost its way.
Failure to protect the vineyard alone was a disgrace to a vine witch as renowned as Madame Gardin. But the worst thing she’d done to bring ruin to Chateau Renard was neglecting to pay her taxes. Nature could bend and accommodate a flaw, but the government would have its due. Chateau Renard, one of the original houses to produce wine in the valley, had found itself three years behind in taxes with no money in the coffer to pay it.
“They threatened to seize the property,” Grand-Mère said with a sigh. “Suggested I sell and save what I could of the Renard reputation.”
The news was as bitter as the wine. And none of it made any sense. The vineyard had been passed down from one generation to the next for more than two hundred years. Its reputation was built on a history of excellence, a blessed rich terroir, and the steady fostering of dedicated vine witches. “It must be some kind of mistake. A misunderstanding,” Elena said, unwilling to believe. “Grand-Père set plenty of money aside to weather a bad year or two.”
“I don’t like admitting how badly I mismanaged things without your help. I thought I still had the touch, but it seems my brain is as withered as a dried-up old apple.”