The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(79)
Jean-Paul looked sidelong at the old woman, then back at Elena in alarm. “What’s the matter with her?”
It was then Elena took note of the empty wineglass. She’d been so focused on sorting out the truth inside the betrayal she’d missed the early signs of poisoning in the old woman. She grabbed the vial and shook it against the light to see how much liquid remained.
Empty.
A shudder of fear ran through her, as if she was falling and her lifeline had just slipped through her fingers. “She’s poisoned herself,” she said and threw the vial on the floor.
“Can’t you do something? Use your magic?”
She emptied the pouch of rue on the table and began grinding the leaves between her palms. “I’m going to try a purge chant to empty her stomach,” she said, knowing she’d used a powerful binding spell on the poison to prevent exactly what she hoped to do.
But before she could chant her spell, Grand-Mère winced and slouched in her seat. Her head tipped back so that she stared at the ceiling. “I never meant to cause you any pain,” she said, gasping for air. “I was just so scared I was going to lose everything. But it was never meant to be permanent. You must believe me. You were always supposed to come home again.”
Elena blew on the herbs and asked the All Knowing to purge the poison, but it was too late. Grand-Mère’s body made a tiny rattle as her breath slipped out, then she went slack, the heart cornered at last by the deadly potion.
There were no screams to follow the second death. After an initial collected gasp, there were whispers of concern, a spoon laid gently on a table, and a quick inhale of awe as the mentor’s aura rose in a silver cloud, acknowledgment of the wisdom and experience lost when one so old passes. A final hush settled over the witches as Elena, still reeling from the confession, raised her hands in the sacred pose to praise the All Knowing and plead forgiveness for the woman who had taught her the art of the vine, and life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The vines sagged with heavy clusters of fruit. Their broad leaves exalted palms up to the sun while secret tendrils threaded around the hardened canes, seeking their next anchor point. It humbled Jean-Paul to see the vineyard respond with such robust growth. As he walked among the vines, he plucked off a grape, testing the fruit’s firmness between his thumb and finger before taking a bite. The sweet juice ran over his tongue. For three days he’d been telling her it was time, but she would put her hand on his and say, “Not yet. Not until the full moon passes.” He was beginning to think Elena’s patience for the harvest was as much a part of her magic as were her spells.
Each morning she checked her star charts, consulted with the lacewings, the beetles, the moths, and he swore even a lizard once, as they went about their business in the canopy. And then she’d close her eyes and let her fingers trail along the vines. There was some secret communication in it all. A language only she spoke. On the days he felt brave he would ask her to let him listen too. Then she would take his hand in hers, and he would hear the rush of life surging through the vines, see the bright halo of gold and green hover above the rows, and watch the bees buzz through the air toward their ultraviolet destinations. And then he would let go. It was enough to know that other world existed and that she was watching over it.
In the weeks and months after Madame’s death, he’d had to return to his law books and the covenant decrees one last time. There was never any real threat of Elena returning to prison, but the law had to officially release its grip on her, which meant a formal hearing. Complicating things was the revelation of her family history. Because two people had died from a poison she’d formulated, she would have to register with the Covenants Regulation Bureau as a venefica so that any future concoctions might be monitored for malicious use. The decree required seven pages of official documents, but it was all just legalese, the secret language he spoke, and one he happily translated for Elena so she understood she was free to continue making wine.
Well, mostly free. The death of her mentor had, for a time, clamped a restraint on her confidence. The natural fallout of betrayal and loss. Afterward, she’d spent her mornings walking among the old vines Joseph had planted for Ariella, speaking to them when she thought he wasn’t near enough to hear. Whispering words another might reserve for the departed. Words of regret, confusion, guilt, and finally, he thought, acceptance. Until the day she was ready to say yes to his proposal.
He may not have asked to partner with witches when he bought the vineyards at Chateau Renard, but like the scientist with his microscope he’d discovered there was so much more to the world around him than what his eye alone could see. And more chambers of his heart than he’d ever known existed before he’d met this cat-eyed woman with her charms and spells and bewitching magic.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
You had to respect the grapes. That was the first lesson. Wine, after all, was a living, breathing thing. Each wine its own entity, each vintage as unique as the heart and mind of the witch who crafted it.
Jean-Paul opened the bottle and set it on the table to breathe. Though still young by some standards, the wine had aged for two years and already had the maturity of a grande dame in the prime of her life. It was time. He poured, and the wine filled the glass like liquid gemstones, catching the light in rubescent brilliance. Elena held it to her nose. Flint and fire, figs, spice, and tart cherries. More than any other, she’d wanted the full expression of the grapes to shine through in this vintage, though even a witch couldn’t be certain of which characteristics would be transfused through the roots and vines to settle in the fruit.