The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(8)
“She’s no innocent,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Yvette and Sidra were both convicted of murder. You weren’t, because you didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not directly.”
“Not at all. Not in the eyes of the law and certainly not in mine.”
“So, I should give her up? Her life and freedom in exchange for my livelihood as a vine witch? Like coins given over for a tin of cigarettes?”
“It’s merely an option.” She tensed, and he held up a hand. “A last one, I hope. If I can find another solution, I will. But, Elena, you cannot protect her at the cost of our life together at Chateau Renard.”
“And yet I can’t bear the thought of betraying her like that. And don’t you think it’s odd that they only want Yvette? Why didn’t they ask me about Sidra? Perhaps she’s long gone and they know it. Much more likely Yvette would return here to the city or somewhere nearby.”
She squeezed his arm as they emerged from the park on the street opposite, where a newly opened hotel stood, a lily among the stones with its art nouveau lines of sinuosity and rebellion. Truly, the man responsible for every building in the city being cast from the model of white stone and a gray roof was the epitome of mortal monotony. She much preferred the witch aesthetic of curved iron balconies, stained glass, and suggestive symbolism, which this new building showed off proudly.
She detached herself from Jean-Paul’s arm to explore a remarkable engraving she’d spotted to the side of the front door. Her eye traced the almost musical quality of the lines and numerals carved into the marble facade. Math, music, time—all ticking along to the same cosmic rhythm, in this case in the form of a sundial strategically placed by the building’s designer. She checked the needle’s shadow against the position of the daylight stars and found it reliably accurate.
“Your mother will be expecting us soon,” she said.
They were, in fact, due to meet her future mother-in-law for the first time in less than an hour. The second reason for their visit to the city. Elena wouldn’t admit it to Jean-Paul, but doubt had dug a cozy burrow in the back of her mind at the prospect of meeting his mother, the reason for her ridiculously uncomfortable outfit. She’d actually hoped to impress the woman on mortal terms by donning a fashionable burgundy travel suit with far too many buttons and far too few pockets. There was a matching hat as well that insisted on staying put atop her overly teased pompadour only with the aid of several sharp pins. The entire outfit threatened to unravel at any moment. She couldn’t help but assume the exquisitely dressed women she passed on the street, with their hair, hats, and hobble skirts in perfect polished order, were the result of some stitch-witch spell she had yet to learn. Oh, to be back at Chateau Renard in her comfortable wool skirt and apron and muddy clogs so she could muck about in the vines.
“You still haven’t given me your decision.” Elena turned from admiring the sundial to watch the expression on Jean-Paul’s face. “Time’s nearly up.”
“That sundial is in shadow. You can’t possibly read that.”
“I can read a sundial in the dark better than your thoughts right now.”
“Ah . . . right.”
Yes, he’d come around to accepting the existence of magic, to accepting the presence of witches, but by the sudden greening of his gills it appeared he had not yet accepted the idea of telling his mother he was about to marry one. She would be angrier at him for his indecision, but so rare was the opportunity to find Jean-Paul on the defensive, Elena let the matter slide into its usual channel of conversation.
“As I’ve said, it’s often easier for mortals to believe the world they see is the world they live in.”
“It isn’t like that, Elena. I simply think we ought to give her some time to get to know you first, don’t you agree? As the woman you are.”
“The woman I am is a witch. A vine witch, despite what that imbecile minister tried to imply. Though I suppose for the moment I really am nothing in a legal sense. Not a poisons witch, and not a vine witch. I’m simply an ordinary woman on the street.”
“Oh no, my darling, I don’t think you could ever be ordinary,” he said, holding her tight in plain view. He kissed her under the sundial, then hailed a motorized taxi to take them to the fashionable arrondissement where his mortal mother awaited.
CHAPTER THREE
Yvette reached the door at the end of the catwalk. From the reconnaissance work she’d done two nights earlier, she knew a stairway waited on the other side that would take her to the street. The door, however, was bolted tight, as if winged thieves might attempt to rob the Palace Cinema from on high. Well, she was technically committing burglary by hiding inside the converted theater’s inner workings, but she’d had little choice. If that damned jinni hadn’t magicked her into a bird and abandoned her at the top of one of the nation’s oldest cathedrals a month earlier—where a gargoyle had sat watching her every move, its concrete lip curling in a judgmental sneer, until she finally found the courage to descend the cathedral’s winding staircase into the mob of the capital city—she might instead be enjoying her new life of freedom on a warm beach on the Mediterranean rather than hiding out in darkened buildings she had to ensure had multiple egresses before snuggling in for the night. But, no, since her escape from the cellar, she’d had to hustle every day to survive within the city, destined to remain within its boundaries until her accidental wish was fulfilled, according to Sidra. Not such an easy thing when you’re wanted for murder and every witch-hunter in twenty arrondissements is looking for you.