“That’s why we’re here.” Jean-Paul scooted closer to the edge of his chair, as if sensing trouble.
“Yes, but surely even a mortal like yourself can understand how the one art is in direct conflict with the other. Someone wishing to continue working in the food and beverage industry cannot also have an affiliation with poison. It would be disastrous.”
Elena felt a sting at the back of her mind seeing her parents’ names listed in the register with the word “executed” printed in the margin. “I don’t understand. What is it you’re trying to say?”
“I do apologize for neglecting to be as straightforward in my telegram as I could have been, but the reason I summoned you here was to inform you your license to continue working with wine must be revoked, so long as you bear the designation of a potions witch who specializes in poison.”
“But I’m not!” Even as Elena denied it, she had to swallow the flutter of guilt that rose up, knowing she had recently intended to poison someone in an act of revenge. And that the poison she’d concocted for that revenge had unintentionally contributed to the deaths of two people.
“And yet the court has said otherwise, mademoiselle.” Durant twisted a signet ring on his finger, a crude pentagram engraved with a motto too small to read from where Elena sat, though she didn’t need to guess what it said. “I understand that being a vine witch is your vocation and that you are quite adept at it; however, this is a matter of public safety. Those who purchase your wine must have every assurance that the product is safe to consume. To be blunt, they cannot drink your wine in confidence if you simultaneously carry the designation of venefica, which the court insists upon.”
Jean-Paul massaged the outline of his jaw as he absorbed the news. “He’s right. We’d be ruined if our buyers connected the two.” He avoided Elena’s eye for a moment, then took her hand. “But there must be some recourse, some appeal to be made under the Covenant Laws. She’s no poisoner. It was her parents who were convicted, not her.”
“Forgive me, monsieur, but you are a mortal attorney, am I correct?”
Jean-Paul nodded slowly, defensively. He hadn’t missed the pejorative tone in the witch’s use of the word. “Witch law is so much more complicated than the regulations mortals are expected to abide by. Though it perhaps makes little sense to you, our laws are often enforced based on instinct and intuition. Ancient rules that have evolved over a millennium of practical application.”
“I’m familiar with witch law. I’ve read the 1745 Covenants. The abbey in our village fortunately retained a copy.”
“Non, monsieur, I’m afraid that would be the provincial country code for witches.” The man retrieved a fat leather-bound book the size of a small travel valise from the credenza behind him. “The Treatise on the Code for Witches, which governs the entire country and its supernatural inhabitants, is much more complicated and reaching in scope. For example, there’s a one-hundred-page section on the rules overseeing poisonings within the capital limits. After the panic of 1647, the local constabulary insisted there be defined parameters of intention. Motive and intent being only partial considerations of a crime. In some instances, mere possession of the right combination of ingredients is a crime for someone with the lineage of Mademoiselle Boureanu. For that reason, I’m afraid I’ll have to restrict her from working or residing at the vineyard until such time the court deems her safe to return.”
“I can’t return home? But that’s ridiculous. That’s not even reasonable. You’ll ruin our livelihood if I can’t return. Besides, we’re to be married.”
Fear sank full-bodied into Elena’s bloodstream until the truth of her past and the uncertainty of her future collided midstream. The vineyard, Château Renard, she and Jean-Paul—they might all be ruined because of the lies she was told as a child. Her parents’ guilt gripped her by the wrist as sure as any manacle devised by the Covenants Regulation Bureau.
“It has to be a mistake.” Summoning as much rebellion as she dared before the minister, she straightened her back. “Surely there has to be a way for me to continue my work at the vineyard while this gets sorted,” she said, looking to Jean-Paul for reassurance. He had none to give.
Durant blinked back, his mouth pursed in smug assurance, as if he’d been anticipating her reaction. He drummed his fingers in their odd rhythm against the desk. “There is one stipulation that might allow me to relax my powers of enforcement in this case.”
“Tell me, please.”
The minister reached in his desk and removed a silver hairpin, its edge filed to a stiletto-sharp point. The same hairpin a certain young woman in prison had once threatened Elena with before they’d escaped together and found common ground as witches who never knew their mothers. Elena shivered at the implication of it in the minister’s hand.
“Mademoiselle, I see from your expression you recognize this rather crude weapon as one belonging to Yvette Lenoir. It might interest you to know that it was recovered from the cellar where I believe you were last taken into custody.”
Before she could reply, Jean-Paul put a cautioning hand on her arm and asked, “What is it you’re after exactly, Minister?”
“Mortals. Always so eager to get to the point. Very well.” Durant leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “In short, mademoiselle, I’ve been given the authority to overturn the revocation of your position as a vine witch in exchange for information.”
“What information?”
“You must reveal whatever knowledge you have of the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Lenoir. She is known to have been in your presence moments before your recapture. It stretches credulity to believe you had no part in her further escape.”
Elena gaped at him. “But I have no idea where she is. I already told Inspector Nettles I haven’t a clue what happened to her after she disappeared.”
“You cannot hold her responsible for the law’s incompetence,” Jean-Paul insisted. “This is coercion. The law is willing to take away her livelihood simply because it wasn’t resourceful enough to apprehend the young woman when it had the chance.”
“A young witch, monsieur. And may I remind you she is a murderer who has proven herself both dangerous and elusive after so many weeks on the run. If your fiancée knows anything about her present location, I suggest she tell this office at once or I’m afraid the law will have no choice but to permanently enforce the forfeiture of her status as a vine witch.”
The pins in Elena’s hair scratched, her shoes pinched, and her corset seemed to squeeze even tighter around her ribs. She stood, unable to sit with the uncomfortable news. “How can I tell you something I don’t know?”
“The burden is yours to bear out, mademoiselle. I suggest you use your particular talents to find Mademoiselle Lenoir, if you wish to return to your vineyard in your former capacity. In the meantime, here is my business card. Send a dove, or a telegram if you find mortal communication more to your taste,” he said with an eye toward Jean-Paul. “When you’re ready to talk, your status will be reinstated.”
“The law is an ass,” she said.
“Regrettably for you, that is often how the law functions,” Durant said, then took his rubber stamp, plunged it against the ink pad, and stamped her vine witch registration as REVOKED.