The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(26)
Her new predicament had her wishing she could quietly slip off to the shadow world to check on Jean-Paul’s condition, but the elderly gentleman in front of her was making a great effort to look down his nose at her over the top of his newspaper. And the woman seated beside her hadn’t even uttered a bonjour when she sat down, merely offering one of those small smiles meant to show an effort at congeniality when the bearer felt anything but.
Elena was rather shabbily dressed, even for riding in a coach-class compartment on a thinly padded bench seat. Her sabots were still caked in mud, and her apron, while well stocked with various essential herbs in the pockets, was streaked with grime from working the vine row. Her outfit, a midnight-blue wool skirt and pleated chambray blouse, was otherwise respectable enough but nothing to impress. As nonchalantly as she could, she untied the strings on the apron and stuffed the article in her satchel alongside her spell book. One more thing the lady and gentleman likely wouldn’t approve of either.
Elena turned her face to the window to dodge any further side glances from her compartment mates. She thought she’d caught a glimpse of the dog again, though his movements seemed much more furtive now. Elena presumed she would find evidence of shadow in the animal’s eyes if she were to come face-to-face with him. She hoped the creature hadn’t been cursed. She knew too well the sensation of being trapped inside another’s skin not of one’s own will. She wiggled her toes—minus one—inside her sabots at the thought. But whatever condition had magicked the dog into its present form—for instinct whispered in her ear that it was undoubtedly a case of transmogrification—he was keenly invested in her whereabouts. She was likewise growing more interested in his as she watched him emerge from a field of sunflowers to leap over a rock wall.
An hour later the train pulled into the station of a sprawling rural village typical of the south, with its buff-colored buildings and red roof tiles. It was too soon to be her destination, but the gentleman gathered his belongings and disembarked, leaving Elena and the dour woman alone. For a moment she worried the station stop might allow the dog the opportunity to board and find her. What if he turned out not to be the friendly sort? But then she shook her head at such nonsensical thinking. At the speed the animal was running, he could have leaped aboard at any time while the train was moving if he’d wanted. The entire ordeal had knocked her off course emotionally as well as physically, literally flinging her farther south than she’d ever traveled before.
“May I join you?” A petite woman dressed in a powder-blue skirt and bodice with a lace-trimmed fichu tucked in the front entered the compartment. She wore a narrow-brimmed straw hat with a bouquet of pink roses affixed to the band, which did a decent job of hiding the few strands of gray hair beginning to show at her temples but not quite. The scent of flowers was everywhere, as if it were infused in her skin, though not so strongly as to offend the nose. And there, peeking out from her lace shawl, a violet aura that shimmered ever so slightly above her collar. A perfume witch, by all indications.
Elena sat up a little straighter, saying, “Bonjour.”
The dour woman on the seat beside Elena gave no objection, moving her feet so the woman could sit near the window where the older man had been. Elena smiled politely and tried not to think of her clumsy muddy clogs. The perfume witch nodded in recognition, then gazed out the window as the train churned up a cloud of steam and chugged away from the station.
Once they were on their way again, the perfume witch made eye contact with Elena.
“You make wine,” she said as her nose twitched. “Beaujolais?”
“Chanceaux Valley.”
“Ah, of course. I should have recognized the stronger scent of the tannins.”
Their exchange drew a look of bewilderment from their fellow passenger. The perfume witch lifted her left eyebrow and reached in her purse. She removed an atomizer, gave the pump three quick squeezes, and released a lemony aroma into the car. As the droplets descended through the air, a veil of illusion dropped from the compartment ceiling. The mortal was still there, but it was as if they were hidden behind a curtain.
“It’s my own creation,” said the witch. She smiled at her resourcefulness. “An illusion spell in a bottle. All the mortal sees are two women staring out the window at the passing countryside. As long as she doesn’t look too closely and notice the same tree going past the window every minute, we may talk at will.” The perfume witch put her atomizer back in her purse and smiled. “I’m Camille, by the way. Camille Joubert.”
Elena introduced herself, then glanced over to make sure the other passenger wasn’t listening in on their conversation. “But how does it work without an incantation?”
Camille held up a finger. “Scents affect the mortal brain in specific ways that can be rerouted. You can send their thoughts hurling in any direction you wish with the right combination of fragrances. Lemon verbena works wonders on distraction. But, to be fair, I shouldn’t single out mortals. We all respond to smells in ways that can be manipulated. There’s no stronger connection between thought and memory than there is with scent. I simply bond a little spell to the mixture as I pour it into the bottle. Depending on the ingredients, I can inspire passion, anger, or”—she nudged her head toward the dour woman—“complete disinterest. Works the same as any other potion meant to be ingested, only mine are airborne.”