The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(44)
She let him embrace her, smooth her hair back from her face, and kiss her softly on the mouth. She wanted so much to believe him. When he withdrew he held her by the shoulders. “There’s always the direct solution,” he said. “I know you feel affection for the girl, but if it comes to it, can you truly put her freedom and happiness above our own?”
She resented having to choose, having no control over her circumstances. He was right, of course; they were only beginning their life together. To ask him to abandon all their plans for their future for the sake of a hotheaded, brash young woman who would probably end up in prison again anyway was a fool’s errand. And yet how could one betray a person who’d saved their life and then live with the consequences?
Elena wore her burgundy travel suit yet again the next morning, thinking it the most practical choice among her meager ensemble. But the color also reminded her of home and the wine hopefully waiting for her in the barrels, so she wore it like a charm, an amulet to fend off the creeping doubt over her future. Jean-Paul’s words still buzzed in her mind as she ascended the steps of Le Maison Chavirée and entered the hallway of the artist flophouse, with its pungent mix of chemical and human musk. She’d promised Marion she would have a progress report on the portrait at dinner, and since the woman had given her ample space to pursue the project on her own, she made a quick check on the artist before seeking out Yvette.
She found Pedro in his apartment staring at the canvas, a wet paintbrush clamped between his teeth, his thumb and eye doing a sort of balancing act with his line of vision. He was clearly flummoxed. Best to check on the photograph and spell and make sure everything was still functioning as it should.
“Hello,” she said after knocking on his open door. “May I see?”
Pedro looked from his painting to the photograph propped on the chair, then to the woman standing in the door. He smiled and shook his head, as if he finally understood the obvious link that had eluded him until that moment. He removed the paintbrush from his teeth. “No, se?orita, she is not finished yet. But I begin to see how I have come to this new point of view.” He ignored her then and went back to his work, dabbing a bit of blue on the canvas as he tilted his head to evaluate the placement. “But next I paint the other one, eh?”
“The other one?”
“With the hair like gold. If Tulane had ever seen a girl like that when he was alive . . .” He kissed his fingertips as though he’d just tasted some divine delicacy. “There would not have been enough gold paint to fill his brush.”
Apparently, the spell continued to work as it should, but his last remark concerned her. With some trepidation, she left the artist and went down to the end of the hall where Yvette’s room was located. After a quick knock she opened the door to find the girl dancing on her toes to a song she hummed with unusual delight. The cat was there, too, sitting atop the stove with his front leg dangling over the side, a look of boredom in his eyes. Behind him, on a windowsill, sat three empty bottles of wine, a bowl of grapes and oranges, and a loaf of crusty bread, as well as a small portrait of a beautiful blonde woman in a green dress hastily painted but with obvious enthusiasm for the subject.
“What’s going on here?” Elena picked up one of the bottles of wine and sniffed. Cheap plonk from the market down the street, but sturdy enough to get drunk on.
“Bonjour! Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“Have you been drinking?”
Yvette did a final pirouette and stopped her humming. “Don’t be ridiculous. But we did have a wonderful party last night. Then this morning I woke up feeling lighter than air with the sun shining through the window. Isn’t it the loveliest day?”
“You said that already.” Elena picked up the portrait. Definitely Yvette. The paint was still fragrant with the scent of linseed oil and pigments. “Who did this?”
“Oh, that would be Claude from down the hall. He’s an artist. Everyone here is an artist, except me, but I plan to do something about that starting today.”
“You let a man in here to paint your picture?”
Yvette, seemingly beaming with the elixir of life, smiled and shrugged. “They all came over last night. Impromptu, you might say, to welcome me. Artists are full of joie de vivre, living in the moment. Celebration is the food of life.”
The young woman was like a bottle of champagne, bursting open and spilling everywhere.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Yvette said coyly. “I shouldn’t have had people over when I’m supposed to be in hiding. But they adore me. They would never do anything to hurt me.”
“Yvette, you just met them. Do they know who you are?” Elena lowered her voice, though it still came out overly harsh. “Or that you’re wanted by the police?”
Yvette shook her head, then picked up a bunch of grapes from the bowl and began eating them one at a time, as if she’d lost all her problems in the back alley between yesterday and today. “They don’t care. All they’re worried about is producing art for art’s sake, and I applaud them. Pedro has asked to paint me déshabillée. I’m thinking of saying yes. Well, I’m thinking of saying yes to everything, if you must know.”
Elena collapsed on the bed in frustration. What kind of witch had they unleashed? She knew it was a mistake to undo the étouffer without knowing what would result, and now she was witnessing the proof of her better instincts. She hated to think it, but maybe Jean-Paul was right. Was she putting this self-centered child’s well-being above her own?