The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(7)
“Well, that’s a relief.” Apparently mollified, Jean-Paul slipped his arm around hers and led them down the street. “I am sorry, Elena. I wish there was something I could have said or done back there. I was simply outmaneuvered by my own ignorance.” He veered them toward the main avenue, where the noise of city life galloped at them on a wave of sound. Horse carts and omnibuses, taxis and bicyclettes all vied for the road, creating a cacophony of honking horns and shouts of warning. The exhaust from the automobiles hanging in the air was new since her last visit to the city, though not the overpowering stench from the pissoirs situated on every other corner for the men to relieve themselves. The combination of foul scents carried the whiff of a bad omen.
The unnatural bustle of the city at full throttle worked like friction to heat Elena’s already agitated aura. She was more accustomed to the hum of bees in the vineyard than the drone of cars and buses on the street, and the noise weighed on her mood. She thought it best to do a quick calming spell, lest she attract every charlatan selling a healing charm within a three-block radius. She reached in her purse to pull out a sprig of sage she’d tucked inside for precisely this sort of occasion. It had crumbled slightly, leaving bits of leaf in the bottom of the bag to mingle with the loose rose hips. Honestly, how did witches in the city cope without large pockets to store their herbs separately? She motioned for Jean-Paul to stop beside a lamppost, explaining her need.
“Here? Now?” He looked around. “On the public street?”
“It will only take a moment. No one will be the wiser.”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded even as his eyes watched for any onlookers. But they were in the heart of the city. No one had time or inclination to notice anyone but themselves, which is how witches had survived in the open for so long among the busy streets and booming population in the first place. She doubted Jean-Paul had even thought twice about the woman drinking from the tin cup at the quatre femmes water fountain they’d passed. An obvious water witch paying homage as she splashed water on the ground to encourage the cycle.
Elena dabbed the sage over the blue veins running under the skin at her wrists, invoking a moment of calm. This couldn’t be happening again. Why did the All Knowing insist on making her fight for every last scrap of serenity? Then she caught Jean-Paul’s eye and was reminded of the worth of remaining engaged in the struggle.
“There are some who think we ought to be more assertive with mortals,” she said, feeling her agitation and disappointment yield to clearer thinking. The minister’s words still prickled like a nettle in her shoe, but she felt better able to bear the bad news after her blood carried the sage’s healing properties through her veins.
“More assertive than conducting magic in the middle of the street?” he asked.
She took his arm so they might stroll as the newly engaged couple in love that they were. The warmth of his body next to hers created its own calming spell. “I meant politically. Our status might be that of the minority because of our population, but we’re a rather potent faction when we wish to unite. I suspect Durant feels quite emphatic in that direction. You noticed his ring, no doubt.”
“In fact, I did not.” He guided them toward the interior pathway running through a grassy park with raised garden beds as a horse and automobile jockeyed violently for the eastbound lane of traffic in the road beside them.
“A clear Magus Society supporter, judging by the pentagram he wears on his pinkie finger. Doesn’t approve of mixed marriages, would be my guess.”
“Mixed marriages?”
Elena plucked a narrow leaf off a chestnut tree and passed it under her nose, inhaling. “Yes, you and I. Mortal and witch. You must be aware there are some who think it unnatural.”
“I hadn’t considered . . . there are witches who don’t approve?”
Had he thought only mortals judged those who were different? Of course, there’d always been mortals who disapproved of magic—Jean-Paul had been one himself when they first met—but there were a growing number of witches, too, who believed the mingling of mortal and witch blood somehow diminished the connection with the All Knowing. She hadn’t revisited the city for nearly ten years, but even a decade earlier there had been small protests, propaganda, pamphlets, and salon chatter calling for stronger rights for magical folk, given the general weakness of mortals, both morally and magically. It was mostly nonsense, but not all. At times she thought the Magus supporters had a point. The law’s insistence that she register as a venefica despite her obvious talent with wine was certainly proof that mortal fears could be taken too far.
“Sometimes the mark of prejudice settles in the eyes of those with limited vision, much like cataracts,” she replied. “The Magus Society believes witches should be running the show, not mortals.”
After pausing for Elena to clip several blushing pink rose petals from a bloom whose scent nearly arrested her in her tracks, Jean-Paul asked, “Do you know where she is?”
She, too, had been thinking about the minister’s request concerning Yvette’s whereabouts. “No, I don’t.”
“Not even with your . . . you know . . . special vision?”
It was perhaps possible. If she had that hairpin of Yvette’s, she might be able to find her. But then what? Turn her in and let her feel the kiss of la demi-lune against her neck? She may want to have this venefica business out of her life and go back to the vineyard, but could she really turn in the young woman who stood by her after she was falsely accused? Who helped her confront the demon-loving murderer in the cellar? She had the girl to thank for saving her life.