The Witch of Painted Sorrows by Rose M J Read Free Book Online

floor.
    Maison de la Lune was the palace of my dreams. The elusive magical enclave that I’d never stopped thinking of since I’d left it when I was fifteen.
    The hôtel particulier , as houses like Maison de la Lune were called, dated back to the mid-eighteenth century and was a type very popular in Paris. Built by noblemen as retreats, most were constructed around an inner courtyard and boasted lavish and well-manicured gardens. Ours was on the smaller side, and half of it had been turned into an indoor orangerie with a fountain, hothouse orange trees, and orchids.
    While I was still deciding whether to leave or to stay, the porte cochère opened, and my grandmother came out. Alone. I waited, but the gentleman didn’t follow. How odd. Why was she leaving him inside?
    Without glancing around, my grandmother walked toward the corner and turned north. Probably, she was going home.
    Grand-mère had been vague about why she’d shut down the house. She’d said there were ancient pipes and structural damage, and to stay there was dangerous . . . that repairs were costly, and finding the right people to work on it, who wouldn’t take advantage of her financially, would take time. She said she was too distracted with my father’s death to see to it now.
    I didn’t find it strange she would be restoring this old house. It was her lie that interested me. Now that I had started telling them, I was more aware of other people’s.
    As soon as my grandmother was out of sight, I ran across the street, hoping the heavy door still took a long time to shut and lock. I was in luck and managed to slip through before the door closed.
    Once inside the courtyard, I walked up to the house. Standing in front of it, I looked up at its limestone facade. What was Grand-mère hiding here? Why had she lied?
    I had an overwhelming sense of belonging here, of being welcome. The same sense I’d had two weeks before, standing in the rain when I first arrived.
    I lifted the bronze hand of fate and let it drop. The knocker should have been cold—it was, after all, a cloudy winter day—but instead it was warm to the touch.
    Behind me, I heard footsteps and glanced around. A man and a woman whom I didn’t recognize were heading my way. There were six separate houses inside the courtyard, and even though there were often people coming and going, it wasn’t smart for me to be standing here. What if the Ferres saw me? They might say something to my grandmother, and then she’d know I’d followed her. I had two choices: either walk away so that it appeared I’d been visiting someone, or—
    I lifted the knocker again and let it drop. A few moments passed. I heard footsteps, and then the door opened.
    At my back I felt an odd little gentle push of wind, as if even the winter breeze knew where I belonged and wanted to help me inside.
    I took a step forward.
    “Yes?” A man was looking at me curiously.
    I once read that there can be meetings between kindred spirits with whom you are so simpatico, your blood and your bones know it before you do. You come upon someone, and your very chemistry alters. You shift. Realign. Your senses become alert to sights and sounds and scents that eluded you just moments before.
    “Can I help you?” was what he said, but I heard something far more complicated, a kind of harmony of chords and tones that resonated within me, and I was confused.
    I could smell his scent: a mixture of amber, honey, and apples mixed with his own skin’s oils and the brisk winter air. Something deep inside me responded to the fragrance. I felt as if I could lose myself in it. Wrap it around me like a cashmere shawl and be forever warmed.
    I did not even slightly understand the rush of sensations I was feeling. I’d never experienced this before. If I had understood what actually was happening, I might have turned and run, or so I’d like to believe. If I had, everything would be so different now. But we don’t have the ability to