punishments. Finally he could get his bearings and find his way forward in the midst of uncertainty and fear.
As if reading his mind, Brother Anselm waved him forward. “Come, let me show you to our library. There are some books there I think you might find useful.”
And that was where Jean-Paul had stayed until the strain of reading by candlelight put unending pressure on the tender nerve above his right eye, as well as his heart.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A thousand blackbirds swooped into the narrow lane. Wings dipped and flapped, ugly squawks rattled out of feathered throats, and claws spread open to strike. Or at least the illusion of a thousand blackbirds descending on the inspector filled the darkened space. If Elena had been forced to summon the birds on the main road above, where the setting sun was unobstructed by spells, the translucent nature of their true form would have shown through. But in the dingy lane on the outer edge of the village, her illusion thrived in shadow. The inspector dived for cover, his voice of alarm drowned out by the incessant screeching of the fabricated birds. In the days before her curse she could have conjured real birds and had the man pecked a thousand times. Still, the display was enough. While the inspector ducked with his arms covering his head, she escaped inside the nearest building.
The acid tang of soap and lye filled her lungs as she darted across the launderette. Dodging wet trousers and limp bedsheets hung on a line, she ran for the rectangle of light at the back of the room, where an open door led to an alley. Much to the surprise of the worker scrubbing shirts against a washboard, she dipped under his clothesline and through the exit, shutting the door behind her.
A Bureau man would use every tool at his disposal to sniff out the truth of who she was after the stunt she’d just pulled. And then the entire village would know she was back, including Bastien and his bierhexe. In her weakened state, they’d destroy her.
Her feet fought for traction in the alley as she struggled to return to the upper end of the village, but it was as if her legs trudged through mud. The spell had depleted her last ounce of energy. She’d only made it halfway through the alley when her heart pounded hard enough she had to stop and catch her breath. She leaned against a wooden door under an arched alcove. She needed a plan, yet logic seemed to fly out of her head the moment she formed an idea. If only she could rest.
The inspector burst through the back door of the laundry shop, casting threats into the open alley. He pushed over wooden crates and kicked at abandoned barrels in his way, shouting for her to show herself. He couldn’t have been more than a block behind her.
Why had she come to the village? She should never have taken the risk. But then she thought of Jean-Paul, and her resolve returned. She pulled the work knife from her belt. Blood raced to her temples, throbbing in sync with her panicked heart. The inspector taunted her to come out in the open as he rattled door handles and pounded on doorjambs. A boot sole thudded against a wooden plank. The sound of frustration. But it was not followed by a stomp up the alley in her direction. Not yet. She pushed her back flat against the door and calmed her breathing until her heartbeat normalized again. Stupid man. Why couldn’t he have minded his own business instead of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations?
Two quick breaths later, desperation incited her to act. Gripping the knife, she jiggled the door handle, forcing the lock with the tip of her blade. The door gave way and she squeezed inside, clicking it silently closed behind her. She didn’t need to look up at the brick oven and copper mixing bowls to know where she was. The intoxicating aroma of butter, chocolate, and sugar hit her full in the face.
Of all the shops in the village, she’d broken into the kitchen of Pâtisserie d’Amour.
Her head reeled at the scents, her mouth watered with want, but fear overrode her craving. With her cloak pulled over her nose and mouth, she staggered through the curtain into the main shop, skirting past the glass case full of macarons, custard tarts, and freshly baked croissants. Tilda, her head wrapped in a blue silk