The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(26)

“What’s wrong?”

Yvette spun around, checking all around her. “I didn’t see anything, but I felt it. All tingly like. What was that?” She ran her hand over the walls herself but didn’t sense it again. “I’ve never felt magic like that before.”

“In that case, I’d call it an encouraging sign.”

“Truly?” Yvette reached under her blouse and removed the book she’d strapped around her waist. “It was buzzing against my skin. Like before, only stronger.”

Elena held her hand out to examine the book again. “It responded to the room’s energy? That’s interesting.”

“What kind of spell would do that?” Reverberations from the magic skittered over Yvette’s skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, or even all that eerie, but it did leave her rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms and wondering what kind of trouble she’d gotten herself into by making that damn wish.

The cat jumped up on the cast-iron stove and licked his paw, though he stopped mid-lick when Elena opened the pages of the book. His eyes gleamed emerald bright in the dank space as she tried an incantation.

“Words of mischief or worldly wise? Reveal your purpose. Cast off your disguise.”

A page ruffled as if lifted by a breeze, and then . . . nothing. Yvette looked over Elena’s shoulder and saw that none of the marks on the paper had changed. The symbols were still as mysterious as they’d been before. And just as nonsensical.

“It was worth a try,” Yvette said.

“Yes, it was.” Elena sat on the edge of the cot with the book. “Judging by the resistance, the pages have likely been charmed, but it doesn’t explain the way the book reacted to the magic encircling the building, which is highly peculiar.”

“Maybe my mother had been here before?”

Elena peered up at her, her face serious. “What do you know about your parents?”

“Don’t know anything about my father. Don’t even know if he was a witch or not.”

“But your mother was a witch?”

Yvette nodded and pirouetted closer to Monsieur Whiskers. “Must have been. But she was a dancer, too, so maybe that had something to do with her magic,” she said, stroking the cat’s head. “That’s how she and Tante Isadora met.”

“What was her name?”

“Cleo.”

“Lenoir?”

The cat meowed and jumped down to sniff at a gold paint splotch on the floor.

“That’s Tante’s name. When I was a kid, she said I belonged to her now, so I had to use her name.” Yvette shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Are you going to teach me how to do proper magic?”

Elena emerged from her thoughts and brightened. “Not in a week, but if we can figure out where your natural magical abilities lie, we can make a good start.”

“How’d you know you were meant to be a vine witch?”

“My . . . Ariella Gardin, the woman who took me in, taught me her craft. She’d sensed I had an affinity for vine work when I was a child.”

Yvette knew liars. Elena wasn’t lying exactly, but she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “What kind of craft did you say your mother did?” As soon as she asked, she knew she’d hit a soft spot. The color fell from Elena’s face as though she was ashamed, the same look certain family men at Le Rêve got years ago when they’d learned Yvette was only fifteen. They were the ones who handed her some cash, grabbed their coats, and left quick as they could, though not before getting what they’d paid for.

“She was a potions witch,” Elena said, not looking up from the book. “She was especially good with poison I’m told.”

“You mean she was one of them green-bottle witches you see riding around in the painted carts? There’s one that rides up and down the butte three times a week. Sells some nasty stuff, if you’re in the market.”

“No, I’m not,” Elena snapped. “So why don’t we focus on figuring out what this book is for, since that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh là là, I’m just telling you what I know about poison witches.”

She liked Elena, she didn’t want to upset her, yet sometimes the urge to pester people until they felt as bad as she did was too strong to back down from, especially once she knew where they were vulnerable. This time she did stop. The compulsion to learn more about the book proved stronger than her instinct to inflict harm, so she sat on the cot beside Elena and behaved. The cat leaped onto her lap as if affirming she’d done the right thing, purring as he rubbed his collar against her chest.

“So how do we even start?”

“A few of these symbols are universal, but I don’t know how, or even if, they’re part of a code. Most of the rest are foreign to me. If your mother was some kind of word witch, a writer, or even a linguist, it would have made sense for her to keep a journal like this. However, as far as you remember she was a dancer, which makes me think she was some kind of kinetic witch. And that would involve movement of the body.”

“I am pretty good at climbing walls and throwing knives.”

Elena stood. “Let’s conduct a little test.”

“What kind of test?”

“One for magical aptitude.” Elena narrowed her eyes at Monsieur Whiskers. “Yes, I think you’ll do for this,” she said and ordered the cat to sit on the cot. He reluctantly jumped from Yvette’s arms, though he sat with his shoulders tensed as if ready to run.