The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(18)
Elena pressed a hand on her chest to calm her rattling intuition. “Oh, I was merely wondering if we’d be taking the bus all the way to the end of the line at Place Blanco?”
“Ah, so you’ve guessed my destination but not my surprise,” Marion said with a shake of her finger. “Not another clue until we get there.”
Yes, of course they were headed toward the butte. The energy there was overrun with old magic, not all of it under the eye of the All Knowing. Elena had felt the hum before when she and Grand-Mère had traveled the back lanes looking for a bit of this and that for spells requiring rare ingredients, like the pale-yellow marula oil bought in small glass vials and the lardish chunks of ambergris sold in wrapped muslin. Could that vortex of questionable energy be the thing calling to her? Warning her?
A barge honked like an ailing duck and a train rattled from a nearby elevated track as they lumbered north across the river. Elena stirred from her wandering thoughts. Her future mother-in-law was watching again. Marion narrowed her eyes before looking away to admire the impressive Musée Couloir, home to the works of the old masters, on the left, a wink in her smile. Straightening her posture, Elena, too, concentrated on admiring the architecture for the remainder of the journey. From her lofty perch she took in the view of the Royal Gardens, the austere facade of the Palais Opéra, and a charming domed theater on a busy street corner offering midnight showings of a moving picture: Le Voyage dans la Lune.
At last the omnibus halted at a busy junction where five streets converged across from a dilapidated-looking nightclub with a bright-red windmill in the midst of the cabaret district. The odd tilt to the structure, the film of grime on the windows, the scent of urine and wine rising from the sidewalk—Elena wondered briefly if the place could be a witch’s tavern. But despite the radiant aura materializing above the roof (the probable result of an abundance of supernatural exuberance), there were no detectable spells or jinxes affixed to its perimeter to thwart the curious mortal venturing too near. She could only conclude the establishment was open to anyone. Curious. The boundaries between witches and mortals in the city had blurred more than she’d observed before, at least at this particular urban crossroad.
Jean-Paul appeared somewhat embarrassed for his mother to be standing on a street in her fine fur collar in front of such an establishment, but the woman was on a frolic. An adventure. She beamed, lit up by the power of her secret, urging them onward past the workingwomen with their rouged cheeks and low-cut bodices.
“Is it much farther? Should I hire a fiacre for the rest of the journey, Maman?”
“Pish, we’ll walk from here,” she said, urging them to follow. “Exercise is invigorating, don’t you find?”
Ten minutes later, after climbing up the ever-narrowing lanes of the butte, it wasn’t just Elena’s heart that was beating faster from the exertion. Her pulse thumped to keep up with her revving intuition. Nearly driven to compulsion, instinct told her something urgent waited for her.
Marion’s smile grew more genuine, revealing her small, straight teeth, as they reached a cobblestone courtyard. A pair of benches sat under a canopy of chestnut trees. The shade was sparse given half the leaves had already fallen from the trees, but it was a welcome relief to stand beneath the bare limbs and catch one’s breath. Marion continued to smile like the cat that swallowed the canary as Jean-Paul and Elena took in their surroundings. There were no shops across the street—no tailor, no patisserie, not even a café where they might sit for a coffee, though Elena knew such places were nearby. There was, however, a sharp scent in the air, as if someone were boiling the bark of a pine tree and infusing it with tar or petrol. They’d passed a laundress’s shop a block away, but, no, the smell was coming from the run-down building on the other side of the courtyard, the one that listed to the side like a ship in rough water.
“So, Maman, what is this surprise of yours?” Jean-Paul asked. He removed his hat to let his head cool. “Please tell me it involves a wineglass.”
“Perhaps later,” said his mother. “For now, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Remarkably, she headed for the entrance at the base of the tilting building.
“Maman, are you sure it’s safe? The place doesn’t even look like it should be standing anymore.”
His mother crooked her finger, and they followed, if only to protect her from being buried beneath the wobbling walls of the obvious flophouse.
The sharp pine scent hit the back of Elena’s throat again as she adjusted her eyes to the dark interior. Once inside, she recognized the source of the industrial tang. Turpentine! And paint. Yes, the muddy smell of oily pigments emanated off the floorboards, the walls, and even the ceiling. The place was steeped in the earthy scent. Pretending she was correcting her balance, she placed her hand against the cracked wall to allow herself a moment to sense what else might run through the wood and plaster. Through her shadow vision, she saw the golden filaments of an odd spell encircling the place, as if that were the only means holding the structure upright. The crumbling building had been bewitched. But by whom? And for what purpose? She walked farther down the hallway and peeked through the crack of an open door. The room was spartan, full of canvases and paints and a tiny stove with a single pan. The windows were large and let in the daylight, lifting the overhanging gloom.
Marion sashayed down the rickety hall strewn with rubbish, overturned cans, and the occasional yet obvious rat dropping, lifting the hem of her skirt in the worst spots as if it were a path she’d taken many times before. On the third door down on the left, she knocked three times. A moment later a short man with full round eyes and a painter’s palette balanced in his hand answered. “Ah, buenos días, Madame Martel.” He grinned at Marion before embracing her warmly and kissing her cheek. When they parted, he stuck his free hand out and welcomed them inside.