The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(77)

“Nettles. I knew he’d show up sooner or later.”

“What do I do?” Yvette begged as a voice inside her whispered she could run. She always had.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Inspector Nettles took out his notepad and began jotting something down. The comté ought to be too rigid with muscle spasms to speak, but perhaps she’d fumbled the dosage. At any rate, she had to get the girl out of there before the inspector took notice.

Jean-Paul took Elena by the elbow to pull her aside. “I know we talked about this.”

“I can’t do it, Jean-Paul.” She put her hand over his, pleading. “I’ll sell potions from the back of a wagon. I’ll leave the vineyard to you, but I can’t do it.”

He looked up at the night sky and shrugged. “Neither can I,” he said and turned them around so that he shielded Yvette from the inspector’s view with his body. “You’ve turned me into a sympathizer of witches and fairies, you know.”

“It really is for the best, darling.” Elena placed her hand against his chest, and even that brief contact with his beating heart set a course correction for her mood. She brightened and smoothed the front of her gown, ready for action.

“What can’t you do?” Yvette asked, having overheard.

“Turn you in.” Elena peeked over Alexandre’s shoulder to check his progress. “The Minister of Lineage and Licenses stripped me of my vine witch status because of my family bloodline, though he’s willing to renew it in exchange for me telling the authorities where to find you. Blackmail, pure and simple, done at the comté’s behest to flush you out. But I couldn’t do it. Not when you’re on the verge of becoming everything you were meant to be.”

“Oh,” Yvette said, her face falling, seemingly at hearing her fate had rested in someone else’s palm all this time.

Alexandre finished translating the instructions and cleared his throat. “Henri, where are Tulane’s paintings kept on display?”

“At the Musée Couloir.”

“Right. I think we need to be on our way,” Elena said. “Before Nettles sees us or we lose our nerve.”

Yvette scooped up the cat and grinned.

They escaped in Marion’s cabriolet. Henri and Alexandre were forced to ride alongside the driver, but it proved a happy inconvenience, as Henri knew the quickest route through the city. Delivered at the foot of the jardin outside the museum, they hurried down the hedged-in sidewalk, darting swooning night moths busy dipping their proboscises deep into one flowery gullet and another. When they arrived at the door flanked by two enormous pillars, out of breath and restless with the vigor of rushing through the night air, no one anticipated the disappointment a single dead bolt could bring. They had forgotten about the time, too inebriated from the adventure to make it a concern.

“Closed?” Yvette sized up the metal hardware on the door.

“All this way for nothing.” Henri stared up at the grand pair of doors, the ones he’d claimed to have walked through a hundred times. He slapped his hand against the thick oak.

“Careful, you’ll alert the guards,” Elena said.

“Iron or steel?” Yvette asked, wiping her hands together. “On the locks—iron or steel?”

“Steel, I think,” Henri said. Jean-Paul agreed.

Yvette nudged Henri aside and placed her hand against the metal. “It doesn’t burn,” she said. With new determination she pressed her palm flat against the lock. “You keep your secrets, and I’ll keep mine. Open for me, and we’ll get along fine.” The lock slid open. She looked over her shoulder at everyone and grinned. “Never fails.”

“Good heavens,” Alexandre said. “Are we really breaking and entering the Musée Couloir?”

“He has a point,” Jean-Paul said. “There are priceless treasures in there. If we’re caught, we could all go to prison. Perhaps we should return tomorrow during museum hours.”

“Spoilsport.” Marion pushed forward and tested the door. It creaked open slightly, daring them to enter.

In the garden, a flashlight beam swept the grounds.

“We can’t turn back now,” Marion said. “How will the girl ever know the truth about her parents? Her birthright?”

The six of them exchanged questioning looks. It was a criminal endeavor to be sure, one that would likely come with a steep price if caught. The decision wasn’t to be taken lightly. They seemed to be on the verge of a common answer when the overwhelming scent of burnt citrus infiltrated the air. A cloud of incense settled between the giant pillars. From it a woman cloaked in flowing scarlet-and-gold garments emerged, eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Hello, Sidra,” Elena said.

Marion sucked in a breath of astonishment.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“What are you doing here?” Yvette asked, waving away the lingering smoke in front of her face.

“We have come to the final entrails of your stolen wish, girl.” Sidra swept past her, trailing the scent of lemon skins left to toast in the coals of a fire. She stared up at the heavy oak doors of the museum, pushed them wide open, then signaled everyone to follow in a way that made the gesture feel like an order.

The group followed within a cloud of smoke that encircled them like a veil. A guard passed in front of them, and they froze in fear. He gave the air a sniff, as if he’d caught an unusual scent, but then walked down the opposite hallway, unaware of their presence.