The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(51)
“I mean to defend Elena—that is, Mademoiselle Boureanu—to the best of my ability. I’m willing to learn whatever I need to about the occult to make that happen. I’m aware it will require a deeper acquaintance with magic than I have now.”
“Not just any magic.” She turned the orchid once more and tapped a finger under its delicate petal chin. “Blood magic is a very old and revered form of sorcery. Also quite gruesome. Most witches today don’t have the stomach for it,” she said, picking up the potted orchid and crossing the floor to the desk.
To deflect from his own discomfort with the subject, he took pen and paper out of his jacket pocket and vowed to keep a professional demeanor for Elena’s sake. “Can you tell me how blood magic is different? What it’s used for?” And even as he said the words he had to fight off a shiver that warned him he was trespassing on dangerous ground.
Her back was to him as she ran her finger over the tincture bottles on the desk, yet he sensed a smile in her response. “Blood is the fuel that powers certain spells,” she said and took down a bottle of aquamarine liquid. She unstoppered the cork and passed the solution under her nose. “Bloodletting releases the energy so it can be harnessed and used. Not unlike petrol in an automobile.”
Despite the macabre subject, the comparison made sense. Magic could work much like chemistry, or physics, or perhaps even mathematics, only on a grander scale. It must follow its own set of rules, a formula, or some exotic principle, the same as any science, albeit taken to an extreme beyond what the normal human could do or comprehend.
And then the reality of what Gerda had said struck his conscience. Bloodletting. The severing of a vein or artery, that’s what she’d meant.
She spun around as if reading his mind, her brows pinched together as tears formed in her eyes. “My husband was killed for his blood. If you’d seen the body, you’d understand the difference between a ritual murder and a mortal wound. The heart was cut clean out.”
He nodded as if he understood her pain, yet there was no comprehending something so heinous. He expressed his condolences again and then thought it best to veer the conversation back into the more mundane aspects of the investigation lest she shut down and refuse to answer any more questions.
“I know this is a difficult time, but can you recall your husband’s movements that day? Did he have any unusual visitors or appointments?”
“Unusual?” Gerda poured a drop of the blue liquid on a square of cloth, then dabbed it over the orchid’s leaves and petals. “Bastien was a popular and powerful man. People were here all the time. Everybody wanted something from him.”
“Elena didn’t.”
“She wanted him dead. That’s something.”
Taken aback by her directness, he fought for a response but was interrupted by the servant, who’d returned bearing a tray with a silver coffee service for two and an envelope.
“This just arrived, madame. The courier said it was urgent.”
Gerda finished applying the liquid on the orchid—blue vitriol, in all likelihood, the same mixture he used to treat fungus—then set it in the center of the coffee table before snapping up the envelope and flicking it open with her fingernail. Her left eyebrow arched in interest as she read its contents. “Thank you, Marguerite. You’re dismissed for the day. You may go to your room.”
“Shall I pour the coffee first?”
“I’ll reserve that pleasure for myself.”
The servant bowed her head as one wise to the consequences of lingering and turned on her heel. Gerda stuffed the note back in its envelope, then gestured for Jean-Paul to sit.
He’d rather thought it was time to be on his way. Given her mood he doubted he’d gain as much useful information as he’d hoped, and he still needed to inquire with the Bureau about the black-market witches Elena had mentioned, but he didn’t wish to appear impolite. Reluctantly Jean-Paul sat in one of the damask chairs. At any rate, he could certainly do with a jolt of caffeine to get him through the research that lay ahead of him.
He’d just settled, crossing his leg, when Madame dropped the note she’d been delivered. He bent forward to retrieve it, awkwardly stretching his arm under the table.
“Tell me, do you know if the inspector tried to get a confession out of your client?” Gerda asked as she sat on the chair opposite and poured the coffee. “I’ve heard he can be quite rough, once the door is closed.”
His eyes locked on the note as he handed it back. The return address was for the prison at Maison de Chêne. “She was questioned, of course,” he said distractedly, “but she has nothing to confess.”
“Cream?”
“Please.” He accepted the coffee and took two sips, curious about her urgent news.
Madame stirred sugar into her cup and smiled. “Are you in love with her?” She blew gently on her coffee, then took a drink. The orchid swayed slightly, as if her breath had carried over the cup. The peculiar scent of the flower hit him full in the face along with the bluntness of her question. “I’m curious because I saw you spit out the tarts at the bakery that day we met in the village. Tilda rarely gets it wrong, so I wasn’t quite sure what to make of your reaction.”
Jean-Paul tripped over a series of “ums” and “ahs” as he set his cup down. “I don’t know how—”