A bee buzzed in Elena’s ear, offering his good opinion of the vineyard.
“Yes, they are spreading quickly this year,” she said. The sun overhead had as much to do with the progress as the gentle morning rains they’d received over the last three days. All in all, she and the bees agreed it could be a bountiful year. And not just for the vines. The cellar was filled with fat barrels from the previous year’s vintage—her first since returning after the curse that had nearly destroyed everything. Only a few more months and they would bottle the wine and offer it for sale to customers all over the continent ready to buy by the case. If luck was with them, they might eke out enough profit to fix the leaky roof on the house before the attic beams rotted.
Three rows over, Jean-Paul was busy tying down the canes, coaxing them into position to bear the heavy grape clusters needed for the wine. Though a mortal, he had a natural rapport with the vines. He didn’t know it, but they leaned toward him ever so slightly whenever he bent down to dig around their feet.
Jean-Paul clipped a pair of redundant buds, then removed his flat cap. The work was physical, dirty, never ending, but there was no place either of them would rather be than standing among the vines, except perhaps lying in their wedding bed. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and took a drink of water from his flask. As he drank, his eye caught sight of something on the hill.
“There it is again,” he said, pointing. “That dog I was telling you about.”
Elena followed his gaze but saw only the brown curl of its tail as the animal ducked behind the row of plants.
“He’s been hanging around the place for three days now.” Jean-Paul put his cap back on and grinned. “One of yours?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but transmogrification was always conceivable. Elena shielded her eyes and watched for movement in the vine row. A leaf shook, and she spotted the animal staring at her from the top of the hillside a hundred yards away. His movement seemed unnaturally fast, even for a dog.
“Three days you say?”
“Might be coming from the old Du Monde place. A new owner moved in.”
“Possibly.” Elena lowered her hand and went back to work training the vines so they’d lean against the stakes in the most comfortable position for the long growing season. Her gold wedding ring glinted in the sun as she smoothed her hand over the canes. After the events of last fall that had nearly stripped her of her livelihood as a vine witch, she took more care with each task, appreciating every new leaf and bud that opened to the world. She’d nearly succumbed to the pull of her mother’s bloodline, delving deeper into the art of poison until the knowledge coalesced at her fingertips at the mere touch of the underside of a toadstool or the hard shell of the belladonna seed. In the end she’d resisted the call by renouncing her mother’s influence. And now the positive flow of energy she’d fought for met no resistance as it swam through her heart and hands to encourage the vine and coax the fruit forward.
Still, something kicked inside, demanding her intuition’s attention. She looked up again at the dog on the hill. The animal stared straight at her. His ears remained relaxed yet wary until the left one suddenly twitched. He’d heard something. He turned his nose in the direction of the sound to sniff the air. Elena stretched her neck to see what had aroused the dog’s attention. There on the road walked two figures heading straight for the vineyard. One, at least a foot taller than the man beside him, was dressed in a black pinstripe suit and hard-topped derby. The other wore a long white tunic and straw field hat.
Ah, Brother Anselm.
“Your intuition is as good as Grand-Mère’s was,” she said, letting her voice ride on the back of a spell until it reached the dog’s ear. The animal startled when the words landed and squared his head to watch her again.
“What’s that you said?” Jean-Paul asked.
“We have company.”
The couple set their sécateurs in a basket and walked out of the vine row to greet the visitors in the courtyard of Château Renard, the name of which implied a much grander estate than the modest six-room house that overlooked the Chanceaux Valley. Before the men were within speaking distance, the dog on the hill trotted away, his head and tail dropped low.
Jean-Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief before tying it around his neck. Brother Anselm waved from the road, though the man with him made no similar attempt to be friendly. No, that one carried the whiff of bad news on him, Elena thought, seeing how stiff and uncomfortable he walked in his suit.
She returned the wave, then wiped her hands on her apron, not that it did much good for the green grime that permanently resided under her thumbnails from pinching off leaves.
“Bonjour,” the monk said when he reached her. He removed his hat. A fringe of gray hair stood on end above his ears.
Elena kissed him on each cheek, welcoming him. As usual, the old man smelled of yeast and vinegar and aged cheese. She stepped back and waited while Jean-Paul embraced the monk and shook his hand. The stranger’s eyes, judging by their slight squint, watched her with a hint of suspicion.
“I do apologize for showing up unannounced,” Brother Anselm said, “but the gentleman says his business is of an urgent nature.” The monk turned the brim of his hat around in his hands. “May I introduce Jamra—”
“You are Elena Boureanu?” The man didn’t extend a hand in introduction or even a friendly gaze.
“It’s Elena Martel now,” she said, looking up at his unusual height.
“Ah, congratulations, madame.” He cleared his throat and quickly moved on. “Pardon the intrusion, but I am hoping to find someone you’re familiar with.”
“Certainly,” she said, though already her instinct was telling her lips to say as little as possible. She did not read omens like Grand-Mère had, but she could imagine the old woman clutching her chest at this man’s arrival. What was it about him that sent her intuition into alarm? On closer inspection the man’s complexion had the sheen of spoiled meat—greasy, sallow, poorly nourished. Or perhaps he suffered from an ulcer, and the pain of all that sour bile had risen to the surface, where the effect showed in his skin. If he’d come for healing advice, there were witches better attuned to that particular craft than she with her herbs.
“It is you I’ve come to speak with,” he said, almost as if he’d trailed her thoughts.
Brother Anselm attempted to explain. “Jamra is a businessman. From the city. I believe he—”
“Sidra,” the man said, cutting the monk off in his impatience again. “It was you who helped her get out of the city, was it not? You must tell me now where I can find her. It is most urgent.”
The scent of charred earth rose from the place where the man stood. She’d thought at first the smell had come from the ashes of a brouette they’d dumped at the foot of the old vines in the winter. But no. The smell came from the man. She took a sharper look at his frame. No aural spectrum but supernatural all the same. He must be a jinni, though not one like Sidra. Where her fire gave off genuine warmth, his was reminiscent of a blazing roof caving in.
Jean-Paul stiffened. “What kind of business did you say you were in again?”