it closed him off from accepting the truth about her. He’d circle around in time. But where could he be? She cared more than she wished to admit, but knowing he’d come home when he was ready, she snuffed the wicks and went to bed, as startled by what had transpired between them as he must be.
In the morning she retrieved the milk bottles off the back step and carried them inside to Grand-Mère. The kitchen, normally abuzz with prework bustle while Jean-Paul finished his breakfast and read his Le Temps, was quiet as a funeral. The man’s chair sat empty, and his work boots slouched unworn near the door. He hadn’t come home.
“You knew he was a nonbeliever.” There was no accusation in Grand-Mère’s tone; she merely stated the obvious as she entered the kitchen still tying her apron. “It’s a lot to accept for a man with strong convictions of his own. How do you want your eggs?”
“We might have lost the vineyard to Bastien if I hadn’t told him. Besides, we’re past bud break. The fruit will be setting on the vine soon. I have to be able to do my spells in the open if I’m ever going to rid the place of that woman’s hexwork.”
Grand-Mère waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “That man wants to make wine. Good wine. He doesn’t want to sell. At least he didn’t before he learned the place was overrun with witches.” The old woman shrugged. “And anyway, it’s already lost to me. And you.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Elena puffed air out from her cheeks and pushed her empty plate aside. The vineyard couldn’t be lost. It just couldn’t.
Hours later, with one eye constantly watching the road, she and Grand-Mère attended to the chores. She prodded the plow horse out between the vines to finish churning up the rocky soil and loosen the year’s compaction. The earth had to breathe again to encourage new growth. Were men any different?
After a midday meal of broth and bread, she ducked into the cellar to top off what the angels had stolen for their share from the barrels over the week and to test the progression of last year’s wine. It was a chore she did not mind doing alone, though she’d grown accustomed to Jean-Paul’s company and his close observation of her as she swished the wine in her mouth, tasting, sensing, and deciding best how to counter his missteps. His absence echoed in the stillness when, certain the plum undertones would never mature in the barrel, she thought to ask him what moon phase he’d harvested in. He wouldn’t have known the answer, but she enjoyed watching his face struggle with the logic of her questions. Of course, now she could explain the importance of the moon’s tug on the grape skin for rounding out the full flavors just before picking. If only he were there.
But by late afternoon, it was clear either the man’s fear or his ego wouldn’t allow him to come home. She went to the cellar and dug out the burlap sack she’d stuffed behind the back barrels. She thought she’d rid herself of any need for the goatherd’s clothes again, but now she was thankful she’d stashed them instead of burning the garments with the rest of the rubbish. Taking the bundle with her, she returned to her room and changed into the stiff woolen skirt and blouse. She slipped her feet into a pair of clumsy sabots and tied a red scarf on her head. She’d given the clothes a rinse in lavender water before tying them up in the burlap sack, but it only added a flowery stench to the lingering odor of dung.
Pleased, however, with the effect of the clothes as a disguise, she retrieved her bolline—the work knife she used to cut herbs—and tucked it in the leather belt she’d added. She picked up the threadbare cloak and then tapped on the kitchen door.
“I’m going to the village to find him,” she announced, slipping the cloak on over the ragged skirt. “He can’t stay afraid of the truth forever.”
“You’d be surprised what a stubborn man is capable of.” Grand-Mère looked her up and down and frowned. “Why on earth have you put those rags on again?”
“I don’t want anyone to recognize me yet.”
“Well, I’ll wish you luck. Though, if you ask me, wearing that pretty blue dress of yours would be more potent than magic to lure the man