The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(48)
The jinni was conducting a form of coffee tasseomancy, the same fortune-telling ritual the witches of the Chanceaux Valley sometimes practiced with wine sediment left in glasses.
“You have dormant skills waiting to emerge,” the jinni said. “You were in that shop of seeds and poisons because they call to you.” Sidra gestured to the lane with a glance, then back at the cup. “This place remembers you as a daughter.”
Elena stared at her hands, still feeling the tingle of the poison’s energy on her fingertips. “I think I was born here.”
“Yes, but you are a twice born. Two mothers, two fathers. The past and future each claim you as their child.” The jinni gazed at the cup, turning it in her hand to see it from all angles. Then she asked pointedly, “What are you if not a winemaker?”
“Nothing,” Elena said before she had time to consider.
Sidra confirmed it with a nod. “Confusing your fate with the girl’s is making too much mess. It is true the wish must be granted, taking whatever twisted path the magic requires. Whatever pain it causes, whatever injury it inflicts, that is how the alchemy of wish magic works. But one should not forfeit their free will, even if compelled by a superior form of sorcery. One must learn to sway the influence instead, as if maneuvering on the wind, to truly transition between past and future, the born self and the created self.”
As Sidra spoke, the winged shape sitting at the bottom of the cup came alive, turning into a spotted-brown butterfly that fluttered into the air.
“Was it prophesied somewhere that all must suffer the agony of uncertainty before finding their way to safe harbor?”
“That is knowledge as old as the oldest stones.”
“Then I am grateful to have finally been trusted with the lesson,” Elena said, holding her hands up in the sacred pose to honor the All Knowing.
“As-salaam-alaykum,” Sidra answered.
The butterfly circled Elena’s head in a final gesture before dispersing into a cloud of coffee aroma. The tent vanished, the dallah and finjan cups evaporated, and the jinni dissipated into a cloud that mingled with the cook smoke lifting over the rooftops.
When the mist cleared, Elena sat alone at a café table, a bowl of dates in front of her. She popped one in her mouth, shrugged at the young man with his sketchbook and charcoal gawping at her from the table on the other end of the sidewalk, and then hurried down the hill toward Yvette’s flat.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
What was she doing here? Was this some kind of setup? And where was Yvie? She was supposed to meet him at the café thirty minutes ago. If she and that other woman were working together, then why wasn’t Yvie with her? Couldn’t be coincidence that she showed up and Yvie didn’t. Had he been followed? Damn it. He was never good at recognizing a tail. That was always Yvie’s best talent. Aside from picking locks. He never saw anyone as good as Yvie at picking locks.
Henri had to find her before anyone else, but he had no idea where Yvie had been hiding out these past few days. A handful of people on the butte had seen someone who could have been her near Tante’s place a couple of nights ago, but nothing since the day he saw her at the newspaper stand. His only lead was this meeting today. If she didn’t show up soon, he’d have no choice but to approach the mademoiselle in the burgundy suit. The one talking to herself.
Mon Dieu, Yvie, why do you always get attached to the weird ones?
Henri put away his charcoal and paper. The woman in burgundy was leaving. And in a hurry. He decided to risk following her.
He knew it was a dumb idea, having Yvie meet him in a public café. But it was the butte. No one here would turn her in. No one who was born here. But maybe she got spooked. Didn’t trust the neighborhood anymore. Or maybe she didn’t trust him.
Henri swallowed the doubt rising in his throat and ducked around the café corner to watch where the woman was headed. There was something different about her. She had eyes like a cat’s, amber colored and full of unspoken thoughts. He wasn’t sure, as an artist, if he had the skill with the brush yet to capture the odd glint he’d seen reflected in them. She crossed the courtyard and headed straight for Le Maison Chavirée, the squalid apartments every artist he met at the tavern seemed to return to at night. Was it possible she modeled for Pedro or Claude? Had they already figured out the right mix of pigments to re-create those eyes on canvas?
Henri didn’t want to confront her. Not yet. But he needed to get a closer look, if only to satisfy his curiosity about the woman Yvie had befriended and find out which side she was really on. He crept along the wall downhill from the apartments, trying to stay in the shadows the way he’d been taught by Rings. Invisible. Out of sight, out of trouble, out of jail. He kept his eye on the front door as the woman entered. A mistake, because if he’d been paying more attention to the shadow behind him, he might have seen the knife before it was jabbed against his ribs.
“Date stand you up, did she?”
Theo’s bad breath hit the back of Henri’s neck. The thief nudged him in the ribs again with the point of the knife, only this time he pierced skin. A warm trickle of blood ran down Henri’s side, pooling along his waistband.
“This way, Romeo.”
They’d followed him to the café. Which meant they knew he’d been lying about Yvie. Which meant he was a dead man.