Chapter Seventeen

 

I half expected to see GramMa floating outside Aunt I’s seventy-story high-rise when I reached the street following my talk with Uncle Lucien, but the afternoon skies were empty of anything but clouds and other buildings.

I felt shaken and a little sick after everything I’d learned. I believed the threat to the Duchess—perhaps to all of us—was even greater than I imagined. More than anything, I wanted to talk to John. I knew he was not happy with me. I knew he would be busy—he was always busy. But just to hear his voice would be a comfort.

Cars whizzed past, pedestrians strode by while I pressed his cell phone number and waited. I was not supposed to bypass Pat unless it was an emergency, and this was not an emergency——unless it was emergency of emotions, and John would not be sympathetic to that idea. Still, I waited as his phone buzzed across town.

An exhaust-laced breeze gusted through the steel and concrete towers, kicking up dust and the odd scrap of paper.

John spoke suddenly, crisply in my ear. “What’s up?”

My throat tightened. I had to squeeze out the words. “I know you’re… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

He snorted. “You don’t have to try to manipulate me. I already told you I’m not going anywhere.”

It was a slap, but perhaps a slap I should have seen coming. That solid core of cynicism ran deep in John.

“That’s not why.” I had to stop.

“We’ll work it out tonight, Cosmo. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this right now.”

I got control of myself. After all, what had I expected? He had said we would speak that evening. He had a plan in place, and I knew from experience, he liked to stick to the plan.

“Yes, of course. I just…I might be a little late. But I’ll be there.”

I could feel his frown. He considered lateness a sign of disrespect. “I see. Then I guess I’ll see you when I see you.” He clicked off.

I stared at my phone until the screen went black.

 

 

One of the good things about public transportation is it gives you the luxury of time to think.

In theory, I could have made the jump to Black Cat Estate, but it was about fifty miles, and that would have required a lot of energy. It was certainly farther than I’d ever jumped before, and the last thing I needed was to confront Waite when I was tired and drained. Plus, I’d only been to the winery a couple of times, and I didn’t have a clear picture of it. I didn’t want to risk landing in some other vineyard and spend the evening stumbling through rows of grape vines.

Instead, I took the BART to Richmond, watching the city flash by, seeing the occasional ghost or witch or jack-o’-lantern window dressing sail past. By then it was after four, and the sunlight was fading, the sky turning a milky yellow-gray. As we left the city limits, there were more trees turning autumnal colors, and even the grassy hillsides looked tawny and golden.

I had figured out by then that I was wrong about Aunt Iolanthe. She was not involved in the attempt to depose the Duchess. If anything, she was trying to help her. But I was not wrong about Waite.

Waite Whitby, a.k.a. Count Whitney, was up to his ears in this plot. And it was a plot. A plot that had been in motion for some time. My marriage to John had not been the reason behind the decision to remove my mother from the line of succession, but I believed it had been the inciting incident.

However, Waite could not be acting on his own. Or at least, it was unlikely. Waite was not what one would call a self-starter. Oh, he was ruthless enough, ambitious enough, but he was not clever or devious or particularly patient. Waite’s idea of how to get rid of me continued to be to drown me in the nearest body of water. And as for Maman? Well, he wouldn’t dream of tackling her on his own. That I was sure of.

Therefore, Waite had a partner. But who?

Thérèse de Darrieux.

That was possible. They seemed to share a common goal. Or…no. They shared an immediate goal, which was to remove my mother from the line of succession. But after everything I’d heard from Lucien, it was hard to believe that Madame de Darrieux did not have her eye on the ultimate prize, the trône de sorcière. And if it came down to Waite versus Madame de Darrieux, my money was on Madame.

Besides, Waite’s confederate had to be someone closer to home, right?

No one was mailing blackmail letters from overseas. Not with postal rates the way they were these days. Anyway, the idea of Madame de Darrieux licking stamps and cutting out I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I SAW WHAT YOU DID from magazine pages was ludicrous. Whoever was orchestrating this blackmail scheme, it was someone here in San Francisco, someone who knew how it all worked, someone connected to SPMMR but not SPMMR, someone way more practical and savvier than Waite. Someone not afraid to get their hands dirty.

And that person—that link between Waite and those members of Société du Sortilège maneuvering for a change in leadership—knew things that only——

My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

I’m embarrassed to admit I hoped it was John, regretting his earlier harshness.

It was not John. It was a number I didn’t recognize.

I answered cautiously, and a woman’s voice said, “Cosmo?”

She had the faintest French accent, and my wariness increased.

“Speaking.”

“I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Leonie de Foix. Rex’s friend.”

“Yes, Leonie. I remember you very well.” My initial relief gave way to fear. “Has something happened? Has their condition changed?” Rex was nonbinary, preferring they/them.

“Yes.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Their condition has changed. Rex has regained consciousness!”

I closed my eyes. “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Leonie agreed. “I was beginning to fear… But it’s all right. They’re awake.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“Yes. Medicus Abioye says that within a few days Rex will make a full recovery.”

Such is the power of the Healing Circle. When it works.

“I’m so glad.”

“I knew you would be. Rex wants to see you right away. In fact, you were the first person they asked for.”

“Me?” Rex and I were close, though sadly not as close as we had once been. Too busy building our careers and finding our place in the world. I was touched, but surprised.

“Yes. They say it’s very urgent. They must speak to you and only you.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

My gaze traveled down the crowded aisle. “I’m on my way to Sonoma. Is it possible we could speak by phone?”

She hesitated. “They’re sleeping now. Perhaps when they wake. Only…”

“Only?”

“They were insistent they had to speak to you privately and in person. I think the matter is a delicate one.”

“I hope to—should be—home later tonight. I’m not sure what time. I could come by the hospital early tomorrow perhaps?”

“Yes, I suppose.” She still sounded doubtful. “It’s only that they were so insistent that you speak as soon as possible.”

“That’s going to be as soon as possible,” I said regretfully.

“Yes. Your Grace…I hope you won’t think I’m overstepping…”

My heart skipped a beat. I had thought she might be Abracadantès, but Rex was not, so I had not wanted to assume.

“It’s just Cosmo.”

“Yes, but it isn’t just Cosmo,” Leonie replied tartly. “And I think that might be the trouble. I believe Rex was injured while working a case that involves the Abracadantès. I’m not sure, I could be wrong, but I think Rex believes your life may be in danger.”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that. I had believed Rex was working a case that had to do with SPMMR’s vendetta against the Craft as a whole. In fact, I had been all but convinced Ralph had played a role in Rex’s hit-and-run, although that seemed more doubtful after our last conversation.

I said, “That’s alarming.”

“Yes, it is. I hope you’ll take great care, and come to see Rex as soon as you can.”

“I will. I appreciate the warning. Tell Rex when they wake, not to worry. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“I shall. Thank you, Cosmo.”

My phone had signaled another incoming call while I’d been speaking to Leonie. I clicked over, and saw I had missed a call from John.

With a feeling of trepidation, I pressed Playback.

“Cos, that was unfair,” John said abruptly. “I’m sorry. I know you weren’t—I know you were sincere. I apologize. We’ll talk it out tonight, and I promise I’ll listen to you. We’ll figure a way out of this mess together. That’s all.” There was an about-to-click-off sound, and he suddenly added, “And I love you.”

That quick, added And I love you made my eyes sting. I played the message twice. Then I signed a few words of a protection spell, put my head back, and slept.

 

 

It was a quarter to five, and the train was pulling into Richmond when I woke.

A brisk, no-nonsense wind blew through the station area, sending people scurrying with their collars turned up and jackets clutched tight. I wished I’d worn a heavier coat. Especially after it took almost forty minutes to hire a taxi to take me the measly thirty-eight miles to the vineyard.

Times like these made me wish I’d taken John up on his offer of driving lessons. I could have managed the entire trip in about one third the time. Then again, given my iffy relationship with technology, I’d probably drive off a cliff the first time I left the garage, so maybe I was better relying on public transportation, Craft, and John.

The drive through rolling benchlands and hidden valleys was quiet and scenic. By the time the taxi reached the estate, it was sunset, and it seemed as though the sky had tipped over to spill out all its reds and purples and even a ripple or two of sauvignon-gold.

I paid the driver and got out, studying the Tudor-style brick mansion through the surrounding maples and magnolias. Lights gleamed cheerily in a few windows, and a red Ferrari 488 that I did not recognize was parked in the driveway. The house had been built by my Aunt Iolanthe and Uncle Lucien, but Waite had taken possession a few years ago. Beneath the house was a three-thousand-bottle wine cellar. Behind the house were tennis courts, pool, pool house, and fruit orchard. Waite and his fiancée, Jadis, did a lot of entertaining here, but they did not appear to be entertaining that Tuesday night, which was good news.

As I started up the tree-lined drive, my cell phone rang, and I reached into my pocket to silence it. But the phone wasn’t having any of that. It jumped into my hand, continuing to vibrate. I pulled it out, and Andi’s worried face appeared on the dark screen.

“Cos, after you left, I discovered a bad omen in a batch of raspberry-lemon cupcakes.”

“What bad omen?”

“A baby raven’s feather.”

My stomach did an unhappy somersault. “Ugh. That’s disgusting. How would a——”

Andi’s tiny face squeaked, “Cosmo, listen to me!”

“I’m listening!”

“I had a bad feeling and decided to do some research on Madame de Darrieux.”

The scrape of my boot heels on the brick drive sounded very loud in the twilight hush. I lowered my voice. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing.”

A little anticlimactic, I must say. “Is that good news or bad news?”

“I saw a photo of her.”

“Right. Well, I do know what she looks like, so—”

Andi wasn’t wasting any time. She spoke right over me. “Remember when I said I saw Phelon having dinner at Gary Danko’s?”

I said uneasily, “Yes.”

“And you asked if he was alone? I said he wasn’t, he was with a woman?”

“Yes,” I said still more uneasily.

“That woman was Madame de Darrieux.”

I stopped walking. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. I’m absolutely positive. She’s got very distinctive eyebrows.”

“Yes. She has those crazy-lady eyebrows.”

“It was definitely her, and it was definitely him. And they were definitely as cozy as could be.”

I stared through the low-hanging branches at the house. The wrought-iron lanterns positioned along the front glowed in cheery welcome. The tall chimneys and rooftop threw jagged shadows across the drive.

“Cos?” Andi prompted.

“I’m thinking.”

At the very least, it was a lesson in the danger of preconceived notions.

The Black Mercedes that had struck Rex? Maman owned a Black Mercedes, and Phelon had had access to it all the time they lived together. Maman knew everyone in San Francisco high society, which meant Phelon knew everyone in San Francisco high society. In fact, Phelon wouldn’t need Maman to provide an introduction to society. Plenty of people fawned over Eurotrash royalty. Phelon certainly knew Waite. They were even somewhat friendly. And all those things I had told Maman in confidence—things about John’s heritage, things about our marriage, things that no one else knew? Phelon could have overheard any or all of those discussions. If he was willing to destroy the Duchess, he was certainly willing to listen in on her private conversations.

I had never once considered Phelon as a suspect.

And that had been worse than arrogant because if anyone should have known that Maman did not suffer fools and that Phelon could not possibly be the inbred dolt he seemed, it was me. I had allowed myself to be deceived by appearances and my own bias.

Andi said again, more urgently, “Cos?”

“I’m still here.”

“Yes, you are,” someone said from behind me.

I turned quickly, though not quickly enough, and something hard and shiny swung at me out of the darkness.

The flat side of a shovel slammed against my head.

I dropped my phone, which was squeaking in alarm, and pitched forward.

Just before everything went black, Phelon added, “But not for long.”