The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(44)

He shot his head back up. “It’s not like that, Maman. She’s a . . . vigneron.” He held back the word “witch,” still too uncertain to trust its verity on his tongue.

“A woman winemaker?”

“You have a case of her prized pinot noir sitting in your cellar. Yes, she’s the one who coaxed that spectacular Renard vintage you love to serve at dinner parties to life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to leave so I may see her. There’s a hearing this afternoon, and I need time to speak with my client.”

“Your client?” The color in his uncle’s face went slightly orange. “You can’t be serious. You’re representing Bastien’s murderer? This is outrageous. We didn’t send you to law school so you could defend that unscrupulous woman.”

“On the contrary. It’s the first noble thing I’ve done with my degree.”

“Jean-Paul, be reasonable.” When he clenched his jaw, daring his mother to say another word, she settled like a mourning dove tucking her feathers back. “Are you saying you actually care for this one?”

“I do. Of course I do. She’s an invaluable asset to the vineyard,” he said. “And I know she’s innocent.”

“Nothing more?”

He faltered then. Damn his mother and her intuition. She might as well be half witch herself, the way she could read him. He’d not said it aloud. He’d barely admitted it to himself. But, yes by God, he was falling for Elena, and happily so.

The admission must have shown on his face. His mother gave him one of her intuitive nods before her mouth broke into a half smile.

“It’s not too late to come home on the evening train,” she said. “Save your reputation in the city.”

He took her hand and held it between his own. “Yes, Maman, it is.”

Her eyes teared up at the gentle rebuff, but she shook it off. “Well, I suppose anyone that valuable in my son’s eyes deserves, at least, the benefit of the doubt.” His uncle was about to pile on more accusations, but she put her hand on his arm to silence him, much the way she’d reined in her husband when he was alive. “Come along. I think it only proper we prepare a small care package for your client, don’t you?”

She hooked her arm through her son’s, and, despite his need to leave, she packed a well-thought-out basket containing a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of newly ripened cheese, and a handful of dried apricots she’d discovered in the pantry. Like a magician, she covered it all under a plain black wool shawl taken from a hook in the hallway, which she folded into a neat triangle.

Three hours later, after seeing his family to a respectable hotel so they might return to the city on the next day’s train, Jean-Paul unhooked the basket from his saddle and stood on the curb outside Maison de Chêne. He tied off the reins and then scratched the back of his head where a headache was hatching. He’d thought of nothing but the law on his ride out—the prosecution’s strength, the grounds for his defense, and the complication of dealing with a crime committed with magic he didn’t fully understand. Yet she was innocent. He knew it. And so he would do this for her. He would go back to the law and step into his father’s shoes once more to see Elena free, and then this vigneron would be done with motions and writs and corpus delicti for good.



Elena was sitting alone at the table with her head down when he entered. She stood when she saw him, her eyes full of hope. And for a second he believed it too. And then the chains binding her wrists clattered against the edge of the table, enough to snuff out any false notions this would be an easy visit.

“Are you all right?” It was a dumb question, but she nodded bravely. The tainted smell of confinement lingered in her hair and on her clothes. “Of course you’re not. How could you be?” He reached out and took her hand, damn the consequences.

The jailer who had let him in the room cleared her throat. “I was told you are her attorney, monsieur.”

He gave Elena’s hand a squeeze to let her know everything would be fine and then stiffened his manner to more accurately reflect his position. “Yes, I am representing this woman, so you will kindly wait outside the door while I confer with my client in private.”

Jean-Paul closed the door behind the guard, then sat across the table from Elena as the runes on her cuffs glowed an iridescent blue even his eyes could see.

“Tell me this isn’t real,” she said, peering at him with those golden eyes of hers as he removed his hat. “Have I swallowed a dreaming potion? Did someone feed me the underside of a bad mushroom?” She sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling while holding up her bound hands in a cupped position.

He didn’t have an answer for her. He barely understood the context of her complaint. But he did know she was in terrible danger of losing everything, including her life.

“I’m going to do my best to get you out of here.” He paused, catching himself before he added my love. How quickly the words nearly leaped to his lips of their own free will.

Elena stood instead and began to pace. “Where is Grand-Mère? Did she come with you? Is she well?”

He cleared his throat and brought out his notepad and fountain pen. “She went out first thing this morning and hadn’t returned by the time I left.” When he saw a look of alarm in Elena’s eyes he added, “I’m sure she’s fine.” But then he hesitated. He couldn’t imagine where the old woman had gone. She hadn’t left the house without him for an escort into town the entire time he’d known her.