The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(43)
“What’s this for?”
“Where I come from we pay our storytellers.” The woman smiled briefly, revealing a row of gold and ivory teeth.
“And where is that?”
“The most beautiful desert of pink and gray sand. Where palm trees sway in the morning breeze, and figs grow as big as your fist.”
She wanted the blanket but hesitated to accept it, unsure if there were strings attached to accepting a gift from a desert sorceress. What else might she owe in return?
“Take it,” Sidra said, tossing it gently as if amused by Elena’s inner conflict. “Honestly, I never feel the cold.”
“Thank you.” She accepted the blanket and retreated as far away from the commode bucket as she could manage. She would find no comfort wedged between the cold stone floor and the weight of her own fear pressing down on her, but she knew she had nothing to confess. She hadn’t killed anyone.
And yet Bastien was dead. Murdered to serve some part in a blood magic ritual, if the inspector was to be believed. Old, dark magic that had mostly flown from the world. And for good reason. How many mortals had died during the witch hunts because they couldn’t defend themselves with the same quicksilver thoughts of a malevolent witch? She stretched out under her blanket and thought of the midwives, the herb women, and the poor widowed wretches who’d paid the price for the crimes done by coven witches too cunning to be caught. There’d been some improvement in the aftermath, of course, led by reformist witches sick of the killing. The Great Conclave of 1745 had finally brought all sides together. There they’d drawn up the Covenant Laws that all were bound to obey to this day.
Yet it was little salve for the innocent souls still crying out for mercy in the prison’s halls.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jean-Paul stood in his kitchen, bewildered by the sudden warren of cupboards and drawers surrounding him. He’d lived in the chateau for three years yet had never cooked or prepared a meal. Not even a late-night snack. Madam, he realized, had taken care of his every need. Sometimes before he even knew he needed it. And now he could strangle himself with his own ignorance when what he needed to know was where to find a box of allumettes.
He had no idea where Madame had gone. One minute she was rummaging through the storage room in the cellar, upset over Elena’s arrest, and the next she was grabbing her umbrella and storming out the front door, mumbling about charlatans and madmen. She’d said not to worry, to take care of the place while she was gone. Or was it when she was gone? At any rate, she hadn’t returned. And now he couldn’t find a damn thing, just when Elena was counting on him.
He banged his head against the cupboard, one thunk followed by another. How could he lose Elena now? He’d only just found her.
He straightened, gave his suit vest a good tug, and forced himself to think logically. He was a trained attorney, for God’s sake. He ought to be able to reason out a witch’s kitchen. Matches would be on a shelf near the stove in any normal setup, but as he thought about it now he couldn’t recall Madame actually striking a match. Ever. He turned on a hunch and opened the drawer beside the icebox where the odd bits of twine and broken paraffin candles awaited their usefulness. Miraculously he found the elusive allumettes buried beneath a tin of leftover anise candies. He slipped the box in his trouser pocket, buttoned his suit coat, and donned his gray homburg. He’d just tugged the hat snug on his head when a loud and persistent knocking banged against the front door.
He debated ignoring whoever it was, but they would see him in the courtyard. And he couldn’t delay any longer. The prison was twelve miles away, and the first court hearing was in the afternoon. If he wanted to have a proper visit with Elena first, he needed to leave within the next few minutes. After a glance at his pocket watch, he opened the front door just as a fist prepared to pound out another round of insistent knocking. The fist might as well have hit him straight between the eyes.
“Well, are you going to invite us in or just stand there lollygagging all afternoon?”
Marion Martel stood on the threshold dressed in an ecru skirt and jacket ensemble and wide-brimmed hat—a little showy with the white plume and two hydrangeas cocked on the side, but subdued enough for daytime wear, at least for a woman as wealthy as the widow of Monsieur Philippe Martel.
Jean-Paul kissed his mother on both cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s a fine hello.” She pushed past him and plucked off her linen gloves one finger at a time as she took in the chateau’s modest salon. Jean-Paul’s uncle, tall and thin but with a complexion suggestive of peptic upset, followed inside.
“We caught the first train out this morning. As soon as we heard.” Georges Martel removed his straw boater and gave his hair a quick comb to the side with his fingers.
“Heard what?”
His uncle fumed. “Good God, how do you think this looks? Bastien du Monde was one of the firm’s most important clients. He turns up dead, and an employee of yours is arrested for his murder? Of course I had to come straight down.”
“She’s not an employee. She’s . . .”
“She’s what?” His mother folded her gloves in her hand and peered at him the way she had when he was a child and suspected him of something. He looked away, and then she had him. “Oh, not another trollop from the country.”