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

since I was fifteen, but this house had been alive in my memory all this time. I felt as if the marble floor itself was elated to feel my weight. As if the antique mirrors on the walls were delighted to be filled with my image.
    Was it my imagination, or did the Limoges china vases’ shine intensify, did the silver flower bowls gleam brighter, did the crystals in the chandelier twinkle more? It seemed as if all the inanimate objects recognized me and glowed in welcome, pleased that someone who loved them had returned to notice them and pay them homage again.
    “Am I keeping you?” I asked, thinking that this way I might discover what he was doing here.
    Another smile, slightly secretive, as if he knew something but was waiting until I figured it out. “It’s quite all right.”
    Could he be taking lessons in lovemaking? I hadn’t thought of that before, but my grandmother had told me of similar arrangements. Sometimes shy young men employed women like my grandmother to teach them to be bolder or educate them in the subtleties of seduction so they might be better able to please themselves and their lovers. Sometimes fathers made the arrangements, other times older brothers.
    I didn’t want this to be the case with him, but my mind was wild with the possibility of it. I could not stop myself from imagining my grandmother sitting beside him on the settee, stroking his face, brushing the dark waves of hair off his forehead, and whispering instructions to him.
    He was speaking, and I had missed the first few words.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “I do have a certain amount of work to get done, but I was going to make myself coffee before I began. Would you care for some?”
    “The kitchen is in working order?”
    “Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” he asked.
    I shook my head. Of course my grandmother knew how to lie. “I must have misunderstood,” I told him. “I thought my grandmother had said that there were certain repairs the house needed.”
    I followed him into the kitchen. Nothing here looked broken, outdated, or amiss.
    There was a pot of water boiling on the stove and an apparatus beside it that I had never seen. Nothing like the percolator we had at home, this was a tall glass cylinder. The man put ground coffee in the bottom, then poured the water on top of it and placed a silver disc attached to a plunger on top of the water.
    “Now we wait,” he said. “Have a seat. Or should you be inviting me to have a seat?”
    I sat at the marble-topped table where I had sat so many mornings, a young girl drinking milk and eating pain au chocolat that my grandmother’s cook had just taken out of the oven.
    He sat down and looked at me. It was, I’m sure, meant to be an uncomplicated glance, but his eyes—dark forest-green eyes—­lingered too long on my lips. His fingers moved to his watch fob, and I saw him finger a heavy gold ring. “Forgive me,” he said suddenly. “My name is Julien. Julien Duplessi.”
    “Mine is Sandrine Verlaine.”
    “Mademoiselle Verlaine,” he said, and bowed his head slightly, dark waves of hair falling forward.
    I liked how that sounded in French. Mademoiselle Verlaine . . . not Madame Asch. My new name without Benjamin’s surname ­attached . . . I knew women who had divorced, but none had returned to her maiden name. Was there a court procedure for such a thing?
    The smell of the coffee permeated the kitchen. Monsieur Duplessi got up and attended to the process. He pressed the plunger down and then poured the steaming beverage into two of my grandmother’s china cups. I’d never seen their pattern outside of this house: a white background with a dark midnight-blue band encircling the rim, inside of which a galaxy of silver stars and moons danced. Created by Limoges for the Maison de la Lune.
    Opening a paper bag, Julien removed three buttery croissants and placed them on a plate. The mixed scents of the coffee and the baked goods made my mouth water. Had my grandmother brought