The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(4)
She supposed to the mortal eye the plain blue door tucked in the alcove at the mouth of the narrow lane did have a rather unremarkable appeal. There was no name on the doorplate, no welcoming urn of flowers beside the threshold, and, well, not even any evidence the door was anything more than a servant entrance, rarely used. And yet it radiated with the proper hum of official witch business, that droning buzz of documents being psychically scrutinized and signed just on the other side. She could almost hear the muttering of inkspell incantations.
“I’m certain,” she said and turned the handle without feeling the least bit of resistance.
Jean-Paul removed his gray homburg and followed Elena inside the official entrance to the Ministry of Lineages and Licenses. He was often forced to trust her instincts when it came to the world of magic, something he’d gradually come to accept in the short time they’d been together. His willingness to open his heart and mind to a world mostly invisible to his senses was one of the many things she admired about him. Inside, the lobby smelled of layers of bureaucracy, built up over years of casual disregard for logic and ease of function, but with the not unpleasant aroma of freshly prepared café au lait wafting in from a nearby office. Papers shuffled and reshuffled themselves between in-boxes. Enchanted typewriters filled out forms, then spit them into piles to be sorted and mailed. And against the far wall sat a row of doves on a perch waiting to deliver messages within the city limits. Every time one shook out its feathers, a downy fluff rose up to further bedeck the portrait of the prime minister hanging above them. Elena tried hard not to inhale the listless office air too deeply, lest the smell invade her lungs and render her as permanently apathetic as the clerk greeting them glassy-eyed over the tops of his half-moon glasses.
“Mademoiselle Boureanu here to see Minister Durant,” Jean-Paul said in his most lawyerly tone.
The gentleman lowered his gaze and rummaged through a stack of forms on his desk. “Ah, yes. The double-licensing case. This way,” he said after plucking up a stack of yellowed onionskin papers. The documents appeared to be handwritten in a florid old-world style of calligraphy, unlike the typewritten ones piling up on the desk behind the clerk.
Elena and Jean-Paul followed the spectacled man through a swinging mahogany gate to a private office at the rear of the hall. The clerk knocked three times before opening the door and escorting them inside. He placed the documents on the oversize desk beside the new application already there, then retreated, leaving the couple to wait in the pair of hard wooden chairs provided.
Not a minute later a lean gentleman in a mauve frock coat and matching bow tie entered and shook Jean-Paul’s hand. To Elena he bowed his head curtly. “Mademoiselle, I appreciate you coming to the city on such short notice.” Minister Durant sat behind his enormous desk, tapping his fingers in an odd sort of rhythm, as though conducting a silent drumbeat spell. The faint scent of ink bloomed in the air. She watched him take a quick inhale before opening his desk drawer and retrieving a fountain pen and magnifying glass.
“Mademoiselle Boureanu is happy to comply with the court order,” Jean-Paul stated, brushing a smudge of coal soot from the train off his hat.
“Quite so.” Durant inspected the onionskin documents on his desk while rubbing his fingers in the odd way Grand-Mère often had, as if testing the air for the static energy of spells. Though perhaps with Minister Durant it was merely a work-related tic, the aftereffect of having to deal with so much paper and ink on a daily basis. He slid the newer-looking application from the corner of his desk and seemed to compare it to the older papers the clerk had brought him. “It says here, mademoiselle, that you have made application to register as a venefica, per the agreement derived from a criminal court hearing one month ago.”
Elena nodded when Durant looked up. He bit at the corner of his lip, raised his brow at her, then returned his gaze to the documents on his desk once more, scowling as if confused by the order.
“And yet you are already registered as a vine witch in the Chanceaux Valley. Is that correct?” He held up the corner of the newer document to indicate where he’d read the information. The official seal featuring Liberté wearing her crown of seven stars had been stamped on the bottom.
“She is,” Jean-Paul volunteered. “We produce wine at the Chateau Renard vineyard. She’s the resident vine witch. And my fiancée,” he added.
“Yes,” Durant remarked in a rather disapproving tone. He rubbed his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. “Well, that news aside, what I can tell you is that normally in this office, when we deal with witches from the outer provinces, it is for those who have not yet complied with registration under the 1745 Covenants or who are wishing to change their status from one art to another. For instance, a gentleman was in earlier this week who felt he was better suited for working with electricity rather than fire. An easy fix for the modern age. We simply amended his registration to reflect the change and monitor for any abuse of magic.” He tapped his fingers again on the desk, a one-two-three rhythm repeated three times. “However, from what I understand of your request, you are wishing to retain your status as a vine witch while also registering as a venefica, is that right?”
“Yes. You see, I was adopted as a child and trained as a vine witch by my mentors. My parents . . .” She hesitated, feeling her heart constrict at denying Grand-Mère and Grand-Père as being anything but her mother and father. “I was always told Raul and Esmé Boureanu were country hedge witches, selling curatives and healing potions out of their wagon. It was only recently I learned the truth about my parents’ bloodline.”