The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(64)
The cat twitched his whiskers and leaped through the opening.
“Yes, fine for you. You’re small enough to escape.” She knew if Elena had been in her position, the vine witch would have the perfect spell on the tip of her tongue to make the cat go get help. He would have spoken in full sentences to the first policeman he found. But, of course, that was not the type of help Yvette needed, only to be tossed out of one pot of trouble and dumped into another that involved handcuffs and locked cells and sharpened guillotine blades. “Well, go on, then,” she said to the cat. “May as well save yourself.”
The light radiating from within her was no brighter than a glowworm, but she could have sworn the cat had rolled his eyes at her. Monsieur Whiskers then mewed and paced and tossed his head, as though encouraging her to follow. But how?
What had the little goblin said about her powers? She did seem to be shining. That must be worth something. And there was a sort of fizziness bubbling up inside her. She’d taken it for hunger or panic, but maybe it was something else entirely. What was Elena always saying? That intent was the force behind any magic spell?
“Right, then let’s get the hell out of here,” she said to the cat.
Concentrating on the size of her body and the size of the all too small opening in the wall—and the only exit she had any hint of how to find—she closed her eyes and focused on getting through the narrow space and onto the other side. She didn’t know if she needed words, but as they’d never served her well in the past, she decided to squeeze her eyes tight and make herself heard by the All Knowing with the strongest intention she could muster.
She may have overdone it.
An explosion burst in the tunnel. Yvette felt as if her being had fragmented into a million particles of spangled light. Yet she hadn’t blown apart; she was simply lighter than air. Her body, or rather the substance of it—her limbs, heart, muscles, bones, and veins—had become somehow malleable. Shifting. Changeable. Flowing. She could have taken on any shape she wanted, she was sure of it, as she oozed through the gap in the wall like a gust of glitter blown out of a child’s palm.
The cat backed up, darting his paws out of the way. But then he waited, watching, circling with pent-up energy, as if he wanted to run. Yvette concentrated, pulling herself together. Reforming, reshaping. The fizziness remained under her skin, but there was a solidness too. The radiance around her dimmed, and her feet planted themselves lightly on the ground.
She’d done it. She’d passed through the opening three sizes too small for her body, and she’d done it like Elena said, using will and intent. For the first time in her life she’d wielded true, forceful magic of her own, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
“What do you think of that, Monsieur Whiskers?”
The cat mewed and flicked his tail, and she swore he smiled at her. But there was little time for congratulations. Her abductors could return at any moment to demand the book yet again. The cat trotted off, his sleek black coat disappearing in the dark. She held her hand out and willed her inner light to illuminate the path before her. When her body and her magic responded, she hesitantly laughed at the absurdity of her being good at anything to do with magic. It was a new sensation, but one she seized with her entire being before chasing after the cat and what she knew would be the way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The city was alight with the garish white glow of the electric streetlamps strung along the boulevard. The bridges, buildings, and parks were all lit up, too, as if taking orders from the looming tower, with its finger pointing at an electrified future. Elena supposed the tower was beautiful in its own way, sparkling and full of innovation, as Jean-Paul liked to describe it, but there was no denying she longed for the soft lamplight of the countryside and evening walks in the vineyard. But would she be able to return there again? To tend the vines? Coax the wine? Confer with the bees, crickets, and moon on when best to harvest?
The cab stopped in front of a parade of men and women, each outlandishly dressed for their evening strut, just as Henri had described.
“Delivered safe and sound as promised, mademoiselle.” Henri doffed an invisible hat at her.
“And you as well,” she said. “You’ll be safe at Alexandre’s. It’s a good place to hide for the night. Please assure me you’ll return there at once.”
Henri looked away, and she feared the worst, that he’d head out in the city to shake his sources to find Yvette. A dangerous move, given someone had already tried to kill him once. She reached in her purse, and he began to argue.
“Non, mademoiselle, you owe me nothing.”
Elena wasn’t offering money but a piece of amethyst crystal she carried for emergencies. She didn’t have time to impart a personal inscription in the crystal for him, but if the young man didn’t have the sense to return to the shop and stay away from trouble, at least it would offer him some semblance of protection against the forces wishing to do him harm.
Henri took the stone, weighing it in his hand and admiring the color. She realized then he’d likely imitate his hero Tulane and crush the thing up to add to his pigments, but either way it was done. She thanked him, and they parted ways.
Elena joined the spectacle of patrons assembling outside the restaurants, theaters, and salon parties along the boulevard. She spotted Jean-Paul in the crowd standing in front of the famous Maurice’s restaurant looking dapper in a black tuxedo and crisp white shirt. He shook hands vigorously with another man, as if reminiscing about a shared memory from their youth. A ghost of a thought passed through Elena at the sight of him surrounded by the trappings of his former life, smiling and enjoying the excitement of the nightlife. She wondered then, after being back home, if a part of him regretted ever leaving the city for the vineyard and abandoning the privileged life he’d once led. Here under the bright lights there was no digging in the limestone soil, no trudging a horse and plow through a rocky vine row or battling the constant threat of disaster, whether from fungus, a gathering storm, or a mischievous hex from a neighboring vigneron and his vine witch.