The Witch of Painted Sorrows

Chapter 39

One of the shuttered windows flew open. Wind, rain, and leaves blew in. There was no dramatic magick that followed. Dujols, as much as he wished, was no conjurer. He was just a man devoted to and interested in the occult. To shut the window he had no choice but to leave the book on the table. Taking that as my one chance, I picked up La Lune’s grimoire. Wrapped it up in my cloak and, without saying a word, walked out of his library.

I could hear him shouting as I headed down the street.

“Mademoiselle Verlaine, I want to help you. You need me to help you. You’re in terrible danger…”

I spent the rest of the day working my way through my ancestor’s grimoire. Reading the ancient French, trying to figure out the words I didn’t understand from their Latin roots, looking for the spells I was searching for. I needed one to protect Julien in the duel. Another to banish La Lune.

I managed to isolate two potential enchantments by the time midnight fell. I lit the gas lamps and kept reading. La Lune’s handwriting was so faded there were times I took more than an hour to work out just one paragraph.

By two hours past midnight I had found another three spells that might be what I was looking for, but I still had a hundred pages unread, and dawn was approaching fast. I needed to be at the Bois before Benjamin and Julien and prepared for their confrontation. Even if I was right about which of the hexes might work, and had translated the ingredients correctly, where was I going to get these odd things during the night?

I settled on one that suggested it would work as a magick charm against harm.

The recipe for Abramelin Oil is as follows:

Take of Myrrh in tears, one part; of fine Cinnamon, two parts; of Calamus, half a part; and the half of the total weight of these drugs of the best Olive Oil. To which aromatics you shall mix together according unto the art of the apothecary, and shall make thereof a balsam.

I fell asleep at my grandmother’s kitchen table, the ancient grimoire a hard and unforgiving pillow.

When I woke, I had no time to bathe or dress if I was to get to the Bois before Benjamin and Julien arrived. The duel had been set for dawn, and so I had hired a carriage to arrive at five thirty, and the driver was waiting for me when I emerged from the house.

We set off for the large park on the outskirts of the city. My ankle hurt, and I was nervous and scared. Certain only of what I had to do and how dangerous it was going to be. It had been years since my father and I had practiced, and while I’d proved adequate, I never became the skilled marksman he was.

The driver could only take me so far, and I had to go the rest of the way on foot.

Being in the ancient oak forest in the semidarkness made me apprehensive. The shadows were heavy, and too many noises were unidentifiable. How easy it was to imagine nefarious criminals lurking in the gloom. Rapists skulking behind giant boulders in wait for unsuspecting maidens. But in my pants and coat and hat, with the aura of masculinity around me, I had at least some protection, and I tried to take solace in that.

What was a fashionable meeting place during the day, filled with carriages, horseback riders, and men and women on bicycles, was empty and desolate at dawn. There were no families picnicking on any of the lawns. The lakes had no boaters idyllically rowing past.

I continued through the last allées of pines, the scent rich and sharp, and came to the clearing where the men were to meet. Looking around, I found a perfect hiding place and secreted myself there to wait.

Less than a half hour later, Julien arrived along with his second, an architect I recognized from his office, and within five minutes Benjamin arrived with his friend William. The group spoke a few words to one another, gestured to the surrounding area, appearing to set up the rules.

Overhead, a crow cawed loudly, a ribald noise that shattered the silence. Julien looked up. Benjamin didn’t. He was examining his pistol.

My nervousness was making me shake. That wouldn’t do. I had to steady my nerves. Prepare myself. I would have only seconds to shoot my father’s gun and prevent Benjamin from killing Julien. Was I capable? Did I have any choice?

The two men turned from each other and walked their forty paces. My hiding place put me equidistant between them. When Benjamin raised his weapon, I had to be ready that instant.

I rested my hand on a boulder.

The next seconds passed at once achingly slowly and terribly quickly.

Benjamin lifted his arm before Julien did. My finger was on the trigger. All I had to do was pull, but I couldn’t stop trembling. As much I hated my husband, as much as I despised him for what he had done to my father and was about to do to Julien, I couldn’t pull the trigger.

But I had to save Julien!

Then I felt a hand cover mine. La Lune trying to help. As much as I wanted to save him, so did she. And in that moment, just as she must have known what I was thinking, I knew what she was thinking. We each were in love with Julien, and together we had to protect him.

Except even with her help, I couldn’t pull the trigger. There was only one choice left to me, to us. And so as Benjamin’s finger curled around the trigger, early, too early, cheating, I ran out into the clearing.

I heard that first shot, then a second. And then a third shot. A cry from Benjamin and a shout from Julien. A third shot? Who had broken the rules of the duel? Had one of the seconds come with a weapon? Had Benjamin brought another pistol so he could fire off two shots in succession?

I think I blacked out for a moment because the next thing I knew I was on the ground, my head pounding, my vision blurry. With a great effort I turned to my left and saw Benjamin lying in the dirt, clutching his chest. I turned the other way and saw Julien sitting up, his man attending to him.

“The American has been hit,” a man shouted. “The woman, too. That’s blood on her hand. Get help.”

My hand, the man had said. My right hand? That I painted with? Had I deflected Benjamin’s first shot with my hand? But it didn’t hurt. All the pain was wrapped around my head, squeezing my skull. A few moments passed. I must have closed my eyes again.

“Sandrine?” It was Julien. Beside me. Sitting at an awkward angle, his arms crossed over his chest. “You little fool, why did you take such a risk? He could have killed you.”

“I knew he was going to cheat. He brought a second pistol, didn’t he?”

“You saved my life.”

“It was my fault you were even here. I couldn’t let him-” I broke off, suddenly noticing what Julien had been trying to hide from me. A crimson stain was spreading across his white shirt. “You’re bleeding? You’re bleeding. Are you all right?”

Julien’s shirt was soaked through with blood. It leached out and soaked into the ground. It saturated my clothes, its warmth reaching my flesh, its sweet smell permeating the air.

“The bullet just grazed my side. I’ll be fine,” he tried to reassure me through labored breaths. “But Benjamin isn’t going to make it, Sandrine. He’s not ever going to bother you again,” he said, and then he collapsed.