floors below, the voices grew more distinct. They’d moved to the main salon. Eager to know if she could hear more, Elena crept to the end of the attic where the chimney stood. The hollow interior, she discovered, made a remarkable conduit for sound. She closed her eyes and heard Jean-Paul direct his unannounced guests to sit in the leather chairs. They were directly below her in front of the fireplace. She pressed her ear full against the chimney and listened again. And then Bastien’s unmistakable bravado rose up through the brick and mortar, his voice reverberating off her tightly coiled emotions.
As raw as the day he’d accused her of putting his needs second, his voice sent a shock wave of pain spiraling to her core. The man who’d stolen her life was sitting directly below her, bragging about his good harvest, his champion wine, and the unmatched talent of his vine witch.
His wife.
Like the building of any good spell, the pain began to churn inside her, mixing, binding, reforming. It stirred, waiting for her intent to hurl the flow of energy. Temptation warmed her fingertips. She could almost justify using the magic to harm him, but then the feeling fizzled. The heat subsided. The magic went damp inside her. The vigor gone.
The carnival flyer sat crumpled in her hand. She shook her head and asked the All Knowing for patience. It wasn’t time yet. She wasn’t ready. Revenge would come as sweet as honeysuckle on the tongue when the moment was right. Until then, Bastien would have no hold over her. She would not allow it.
She took a deep breath and leaned forward. With her ear to the bricks she clearly overheard a woman speaking about the ripeness of grapes. The bierhexe. Grudgingly, she agreed with the witch’s observations on midwifery.
Then the voices quieted. The pause felt too long, too awkward for conversation. Grand-Mère must have brought out the wine. Yes, that was it. They were tasting. Swallowing. Forming critiques on their tongues. But what had Grand-Mère served? Certainly she wouldn’t pour them any of the swill Jean-Paul had produced. The man had good intentions, but his efforts were pitiful. The thought made her cringe with embarrassment for the château. But then she felt it, a tingle at the base of her neck, a finger-light frisson that spread along her hairline. It was something she only felt when someone tasted her wine in her presence.
“Oh, Grand-Mère, you didn’t,” she whispered, though she smiled as she said it, remembering the last vintage she’d bottled. The grapes had been exquisite. Some said it was better than Grand-Père’s champion red.
Eager to hear their reaction, she wrapped the tablecloth tight around her shoulders and pressed her ear even tighter against the brickwork. Her thumbnail firmly embedded between her teeth in anticipation, she listened and smiled with pride. Not a word out of the bierhexe. No criticism or praise, merely the reward of silent envy. It would have been enough to know it vexed her, but then Bastien spoke. His words were full of admiration. Praise. Humility. It confused her. Had she misheard? Misjudged him? Was it even possible? She missed what he said next, but then Grand-Mère cautioned him with a verbal warning in the form of his name. What look did he have in his eye to make her wary?
Oh, but it wasn’t the look in his eye. It was the greed in his heart. His hunger to own and control everything. She could feel it coming. His sweet, luring words were nothing but vinegar in disguise. His aim in visiting, the reason the car had conveniently broken down—it was all done so he could turn out his pockets before a vulnerable Jean-Paul and negotiate for the one thing he’d always coveted. He wanted to own Château Renard.
The proposition struck like a match to the wadding keeping her anger under wraps. Her temper caught and flared until she could no longer control it.
With the tablecloth still wrapped around her shoulders, she climbed the ladder out of the attic and ran down the stairs, her heart pounding with fear, but determination too. What weak magic she commanded she used to shore up her confidence. Her hair flew back from her face as she stormed into the salon to confront Bastien and tell him Château Renard was not for sale. Not to him. Not ever. Not as long as she lived and breathed.
But he was gone. The room was empty except for the scent