Page 39 of Wolf's Return
D’Artagnon did not need his wolf senses to hear the thoughts, the dashed hopes that Constance left unsaid. Anne was right. Life had not been kind to Constance. No woman would choose to live alone in the forest so far from people, had she any other choice. How long had she lived there? The only occupant of that rundown, sad little building deep in the woods? By the air of loneliness that followed her around like a fog—long enough.
She halted at the edge of the clearing, the cottage awaiting them. “I do not know why my mother left the d’Louncrais village,” she said. “And perhaps I may never have the answer. With her and your father gone, I have no one left to ask.”
Constance crossed the clearing and ducked through the doorway of the cottage, leaving him standing outside. An ache pressed against his sternum. Such simple dreams she had. A sturdy cottage, acceptance, to understand why it had all been denied her. The urge to comfort her surged within him, pressing against the barrier of his wolf, the man inside clamoring to get out, to be set free. His poor little healer.
He dug his claws into the dirt. Since when hadthelittle healer becomehislittle healer? Since Vladimir had suggested she was his mate? A growl rumbled in his chest. She had crept in where she did not belong. That he was here, protecting her instead of hunting down his betrayer, was proof enough. No. She would not deter him. She would not defeat him. When his brother called for their return, he would still be a wolf.
Grateful for the concealment his wolf’s fur gave him, he buried his feelings deep. When he had his wayward impulses under control, he entered the cottage.
D’Artagnon followed every move Constance made as she emptied the contents of the basket onto the table.
She grabbed a knife with an elaborate handle and a bowl. “Watch me make my preparations.” She lined up three items from her collection. “These herbs will go in a bundle I shall hang over the door. It will infuse the cottage, and both youandI shall feel its effects.” She pointed to the first item, a cluster of pink and white flowers with a root attached. “This is the all heal plant. It has many uses, but I have chosen it for its ability to quieten emotions.”
D’Artagnon leaned in and sniffed at the root. He wrinkled his nose, wishing he had not. The inside of his old boots smelled better.
Constance grinned at him. “An unpleasant smell, but a very useful plant. It will represent the water element of my spell.”
Her finger hovered over three heart-shaped leaves. He did not need an introduction to recognize burn nettle. A careless romp in the woods as a pup, a tussle with his brother and a lack of awareness of their surroundings had seen them both land within its stinging clutches. The leaves looked innocent enough, but the fine, needle-like hairs created a burn he had not soon forgotten.
D’Artagnon snarled at the leaves and kept his nose a respectful distance away from them.
Constance smiled. “I see you have knowledge of the burn nettle leaf. Painful to touch, but good for dispelling darkness and fear, and it will aid healing. This will represent fire.”
The final element, delicate green leaves, she held out to him. He pulled back. The first herb was unpleasant, the second could burn. What would this one do? She waited, her hand outstretched. He inched closer, and she rubbed the leaves between her fingers, releasing their aroma. He sniffed, then sneezed. Shaking his head, he sneezed again. He scrunched up his nose, bared his teeth, and sneezed again.
D’Artagnon jumped off the seat and rubbed his muzzle along the dirt floor, desperate to be rid of the bitter scent that coated the inside of his nostrils.
Her laugh filled the cottage, a joyous sound that washed over him, and like her voice, it sank deep. D’Artagnon huffed and shook himself, casting off the warmth before it could take hold. She had tricked him again. He sneezed once more and glared at the leaves in her palm.
Constance pressed her hand to her mouth, hiding her smile. “I am sorry, Monsieur. I should not laugh, but I did not expect it to make you sneeze. It is but wormwood.” She set the leaves back on the table. “It represents the earth and is helpful in removing anger.”
D’Artagnon half sneezed, half snorted. Herbs to quieten his emotions, to dispel fear, to remove anger? He sniffed again and shook himself. A bunch of herbs and an incantation or two would not wash away the darkness, anger and grief that swirled inside him, so deep there seemed no end to it. Emotions that had only grown and solidified during the icy winters of his time with the Rus wolves.
Constance stooped before the baskets of supplies stacked against the wall and began digging through them. “I need one more ingredient and I am hoping Anne has packed it, for it is not something I can forage for in the forest.” She selected a pot, lifted the lid and sniffed. Then put it back, selecting another and another before she smiled, triumphant. She held it out for him to see. “Savior plant. For grief, loss, purification and healing. It will represent air for this herb bundle.”
She set the pot beside the other three ingredients. “All spells require a balance of wind, earth, fire and water, corresponding to the east, north, south and west. Everything in nature has balance.” She selected a bowl and picked up the knife. “Summer and winter, autumn and spring, light and dark, night andday, body and spirit. If one element is missing, the spell is unbalanced and has less chance of being successful, or working in the way we intend it to.”
D’Artagnon jumped up onto the seat again and surveyed the table. Set aside were four more ingredients. He planted his paw beside the little pile, careful not to touch it. He met her gaze.
“What are these for? These are the herbs I will use to ward the cottage.” Constance used her knife to separate them. “Mugwort represents the earth and is for strength, protection and to amplify my magic and my second sight. Angelica is for wind and is a powerful protection herb. It also aids visions. Pine needles are for fire, offering protection and for divination, and the root from the mallow plant is for water. It also enhances protection.”
Hm.The herbs were not for him alone.
Constance selected and cut the herbs, and placed them in the bowl, taking care with the burn nettle leaves. “This is a spell my mother taught me when I was very young. It is one of the first spells I learned. Mygrand-méretaught her, and her mother taught her. It is a very old spell.”
Constance paused her grinding of the herbs. “There was a time when there were many of us in our coven, when the rituals performed included a score of witches—men and women. That was long before I was born. When villagers revered the knowledge and the skills our coven had.”
Constance took up her ceremonial knife and nicked her finger, holding her hand over the bowl so her blood dripped onto the ingredients. “Things have changed since then. Are changing still. Now people seek help from the church, from the monks.” One, two, three drops. She set aside the knife and pinched her fingers to stem the bleeding.
“I harbor no ill will to the monks, nor the church.” Her smile carried a tinge of sadness. “Sadly, the church does not feel the same way toward people like me. Miracles of healing come onlyfrom God, they say. All else is a heathen act, not born of the sanctity of heaven and is discouraged or punished if the witch is not repentant.” She screwed up her nose. “The monks use the same herbs I do.”
D’Artagnon had never been one for wagers, but he would bet a purse full oflivresthe monks did not use their blood as part of their preparations. Nor chanted spells. No, the church did not view people like Constance kindly. Especially not churchman like this Eveque Faucher. It was why they were hiding here in the farmer’s cottage. To keep Constance safe.
D’Artagnon huffed. He would do as his brother asked. Protect her from Faucher, though she insisted on attempting to heal him. He would do so, until his brother deemed it safe for her to return.
D’Artagnon eyed the little witch, the confident way she mixed the herbs, the little frown of concentration on her brow. He could only hope his brother did not tarry. One slip of his control, one too many glimpses of her smile, and D’Artagnon feared he would not be able to hold himself back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
