Yvette brushed the brick dust off her hands. “You may not know this, Monsieur Whiskers,” she whispered in her thief’s voice, “but I’ve been called as nimble as a cat myself.”
What she didn’t say was that she first heard those comments come from behind the glass of the apartment window she now peered through, by men she never knew beyond the phrase, “Whatever you like, monsieur.”
The room was dark, so she lifted the sash a mere inch. She’d have bet her last centime it wouldn’t be locked. She’d broken the mechanism years ago during one of her midnight escapes, and Tante Isadora was too tightfisted to spend precious coins on such a minor concern as a girl’s security. Yvette pushed the window all the way open and slipped over the sill. A feather-light tingle brushed over her skin as she stood inside her old room. The scent of male musk and rose-oil perfume mingled in the air above the unmade bed. Three years gone by and still the smell lingered, transporting her back to those last moments she’d stood in the room, blood spilling everywhere.
Her eyes adjusted to the inky darkness. The furniture was the same: bed, vanity, wardrobe, and washstand. But they’d been moved, rearranged to suit another’s spatial comfort. Or maybe to cover the stain. She hadn’t come to snoop, but a glint of starlight reflecting off a metal blade on the vanity caught her eye. She reached for it as the door swung open.
“Stop right there!”
A young woman wearing a pink corset and petticoat over black tights and ankle-high lace-up boots stood in the doorway, a fire poker hoisted in one hand, a blue flame cupped in the other. She kicked the door all the way open with her foot. Her gaze shifted to the table where Yvette had picked up the decorative knife, an athame, the sort of fancy blade witches used in their magic rituals.
“Put that down.”
“I only—”
A bolt of energy hit Yvette in her midsection, knocking her flat against the bed.
“We have a thief,” yelled the young woman, as Yvette reflexively felt for damage to her ribs. The sound of women’s heels running on the wooden planks in the hallway followed. “Move again and I’ll skewer you to the floor with this poker,” whispered the pink-frocked woman.
There hadn’t even been an incantation, not a single utterance to birth the spell, and yet Yvette had been thrown clean off her feet. “How’d you do that?”
“Never mind, you. Just be glad I didn’t shove you out the window. Though you may wish I had. Here she comes.”
“What’s all this?” asked the stern voice of a woman accustomed to zero nonsense.
Yvette recovered enough from the blow—and the shock of hearing that voice again—to sit up.
“Hello, Tante. How’s tricks?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Marion Martel greeted her son in the foyer of her city apartment with a kiss on each cheek, then pivoted like an animatronic woman to formally welcome Elena. The hem of the woman’s gray silk evening gown swept over the tile floor as the intricate beading caught the light from the chandelier above. Electric light, Elena noted.
“My dear, we meet at last.” Marion leaned in for an air kiss on each cheek as the women shook hands. “You are as beautiful as my son reported. Do come in, please. I’ve arranged for the most wonderful dinner of soupe à l’oignon, confit de canard, and niçoise salad. And if you’re very good and let me get to know all about you, we’ll share a chocolate soufflé with a coffee afterward.” A smile bloomed on her lips in obvious delight at her proposal. “Come, I know you’re famished from the train ride.”
Elena barely had time to say yes before they were escorted into an extravagant dining room with three floor-to-ceiling windows. An eight-foot potted palm had been precisely positioned on either side of the center window, their leaves arcing in seemingly effortless sync with the curve at the top of the windows. Above the linen-draped table hung a chandelier adorned with teardrop-shaped crystals that glimmered in the sunlight coming through the glass. The effect was absolutely magical.
They ate, commenting now and again on the quality of the bread, the seasoning of the duck, and the freshness of the eggs and tomatoes in the salad. If Elena didn’t know better, she might believe Marion Martel employed a culinary witch in her kitchen. Every crumb was as sumptuous as the next, each as buttery and flaky as any sorcière could produce. She vowed to peek in the kitchen before she left to see if she could detect the aura floating above the chef.
And then there was the wine. Well aged. A special bottle, one of Grand-Père’s last vintages. Her tongue perceived the telltale grapes from the old vine. The weather had been perfect that year, full of sun and rain in the right proportion, encouraging just enough sweetness in the grape’s flesh. The wine filled her mouth with a mix of currants and cherries, plum and smoke. That particular red had always been one to savor, but even more so now because Marion Martel had served it with purpose. A gesture of acceptance? She hoped so.
“Now that we have satisfied the palate, let us satisfy our mutual curiosity,” Marion exclaimed as she led Elena and Jean-Paul into her salon to drink coffee on a lush velvet sofa. The divan was the color of deepest red wine, like a young cabernet, Elena thought. Above it hung a curious painting full of complex color combinations depicting a family at the beach. The paints ought not to work with each other, yet they came brilliantly together in a kaleidoscope of hues that grew more distinct the farther one stood from the picture.
“Tell me about your family, my dear. Do all your people come from the Chanceaux Valley? Philippe, my late husband, and I enjoyed many a summer holiday there as newlyweds, and later as a family, didn’t we, Jean-Paul? It’s most certainly why my son ended up settling there.”
In keeping with their prior arrangement, Elena only admitted half-truths. “It’s where I grew up. My people have worked in the vineyards there for centuries.”
“That long? That’s quite a legacy. But, of course, the wine is what the valley is famous for. That and the witches. Always an adventure when one of the local women reaches out for your palm to offer to read your fortune.” Marion’s shoulders shimmied, as if the prospect of mingling with the occult gave her a little shiver.
Jean-Paul nearly spit out his coffee.
“All right, dear? As I was saying, I’ve always enjoyed the summer market days in the valley. The atmosphere puts a little pep in my step. In fact, I aim to do a little supernatural investigating here in the city as well. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Jean-Paul; a little psychic mischief is good for the soul now and then.”
“Maman, what are you on about?”
Elena wondered, too, leaning slightly to her left to see if there was any hint of an aura tucked under the collar of the woman’s gray silk dress. But, no, Marion’s halo was as dull as hen feathers.
“I’m visiting a medium later in the week. She does séances to communicate with those who’ve passed over to the other side. Several of my circle have been already and highly recommend her.”
“A séance?” Jean-Paul shook his head as if he hadn’t heard right. “To speak with the dead? Why would you do that?”
“To speak to your father, naturally.” Marion took a sip of her coffee, raised a brow, and smiled at her son. Then she spoke to Elena. “I noticed you studying that painting a moment ago. It is beautiful, isn’t it? And yet it’s quite ordinary in comparison to the one I had hanging there prior.”