The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(34)
His boyish grin returned and he closed his portfolio, tying it back up. “Where are you holed up? I’ll walk you back so you get in safe.”
She hugged her knees as she thought about it. Henri had always been one of the good guys. But seven years was seven years, and she only had this one stolen wish to make things right. If she blew it now, she’d never get a chance to be who she wanted to be. But what if Henri’s sudden appearance was also part of her fate? Part of the wish?
“I gotta go, Henri.”
“Well, can we meet again? Maybe I could draw your picture sometime?”
She pressed her fingers to the ridge of scar along her cheek, then glanced at the leather folder held tight to his chest. What dreams did he hold inside? Did he think his sketches could transport him to a new and better life? She’d always thought of Henri Perez as a sweet boy born into a sour lot. But even he seemed to think a boy born on the top of the butte could be more than a street tough who stole bread and pocket watches to pay the rent. If he could believe it, why couldn’t she?
As the rain stopped, she stuck her hand out and agreed to meet Henri for a coffee date, and then she let him escort her halfway home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Henri couldn’t believe she’d turned up in the street like that. It was Yvie, all right. Same tussle of blonde hair that wouldn’t stay pinned in place; same green eyes smudged with black kohl that didn’t miss a move. Couldn’t be a coincidence. Leastwise, none of the regulars at Hell’s Mouth would say it was anything but meant to be. Written in the stars, they’d say, and then point to a chart on the wall showing the cosmic path of one planet bumping up against another’s, offering proof.
Yvie had clearly endured a rough few years. Word was she’d been hiding out on the carnival circuit. The harlequin tights peeking out under her skirt suggested it was true. But what Henri couldn’t understand was why she’d come back. She was already in the wind, according to the papers. And no one returned to the butte for a second helping of abuse from Isadora. Sure, she said that same line about being a witch she’d been saying since she was a kid, but did she actually believe it? Probably. These days everyone in the city was convinced they had some special connection to the great beyond, with their Ouija boards and crystal balls.
Henri tucked his portfolio under his arm and began to dig through his pocket for the coins it would cost for both of them to take a fiacre to the top of the butte. But then he thought better of making the offer. He ought not go flashing too much money in front of someone as savvy as Yvie Lenoir, who could put two and two together faster than anyone he’d ever worked with. Plus the fewer straights who saw her the better, and not just because she was on the run from the police. But damn that reward. It was enough to set a man up in his own studio and start a career.
“Probably best if we walk,” he said, leaving the coins in his pocket. “Take the side streets. Like the old days.”
She grinned, impish and bold, and he longed to capture the expression with his charcoal before it was gone. Still, he could never forget the curve of her lip, not when she smiled at him like that.
“Let’s take the back stairs,” she said and pulled the tatty velvet curtain up around her face so only her eyes peered out. “If the streetlamps aren’t already busted, we can always throw a few rocks at them.”
That was Yvie, all right. She nudged her head, and he couldn’t help but follow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Elena sat on the single cot in Yvette’s rented room and thumbed through the curious little book again, comparing the symbols written in gold with those in her grimoire. There were some similarities. The text could be a code based on the basic symbology of the astrological chart, or perhaps even ancient hieroglyphs. Centuries ago, before the covenant reformations, certain kings and queens relied on court occultists. Their magical work was disguised with codes to protect the throne from ridicule from those opposed to magic. So the precedent for a coded magical message was well established. But why go to the effort of disguising a book’s contents, only to keep it from its intended recipient until she turned sixteen? What possible message required such a sophisticated level of coding? And for a girl who practically grew up on the streets?
Yvette, her hair sopping wet from a brown hair-dye concoction they’d applied, blew a stream of smoke out the window. “Anything?”
“I’m afraid not.” Before crushing Yvette’s hopes too much, she added, “As soon as the color takes, we’ll visit the man I mentioned. He’s an absolute wizard at this sort of thing.”
Yvette wiped a brown drip away with a dirty paint rag. “Where did you get this stuff anyway? Smells awful.”
Elena hadn’t found the potent scent offensive. If anything, she wanted to break down the potion to see what else could be done with the ingredients if mixed in a slightly different order. It was a unique concoction, something not quite a poison, not quite a prescriptive. She was intrigued. Even more so if the inventor turned out to be a mortal, though she rather doubted this. Considering the combination of elements that would be required to alter a person’s hair color permanently, she presumed there must be a spell bonded to the chemicals.
The cat mewed, and she caught herself thinking more about chemicals than she normally would. The revelation bothered her. Yes, she’d always had a curiosity about spells involving certain dangerous ingredients, but she was sinking into preoccupation.