When Haidée reached the intersection between the road to the village and the path to the edge of the island and the wall separating the observatory property with Laroche’s farm, the marten made its appearance by dashing across her path and nodding its head back and forth, urging her to follow it.
“This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “What is so interesting about that place? If you’re going to end up climbing another tree, I’m going back without you. I’m just tolerating you because I find you amusing.”
The marten squeaked in indignation and raced down the path. Haidée sighed and followed, feeling grumpy because she still had a headache. The natural energy of the flora around her seemed a little too bright, making her squint as she made her way down the path. She desperately wanted to sit down and gain back her equilibrium.
Her animal companion finally halted beside a rock next to a tree. Haidée recognized the place where the marten had first invaded her picnic basket.
“Why on earth are we here?” she asked puzzled.
The marten responded with a soft, yet urgent chirp.
She looked about her surroundings and saw the trees, and beyond that, the edge of the island and the sea. She turned her gaze towards the interior and then her breath hitched in her throat as she stared in surprise and increasing unease.
A figure stood next to the wall bordering the farmland. It was a figure with his ill-fitting coat that she knew so well. Renaud was at the scene of the crime, apparently scrutinizing everything. Possibilities ran through her mind, none of them good. She could only deduce that Renaud was perhaps D’Aubigne’s killer and that he had come back to check if he had left anything incriminating behind.
While she was thinking this, he turned his head towards her direction and then his whole posture froze. Haidée’s breath left her. There was no doubt about it—he had seen her.
Hiding was out of the question since he already knew of her existence. Running away was also impossible. She had on a dress and boots made for walking, not running. And even assuming that she wouldn’t trip on her own skirts, she had no doubt that he could catch up with her.
So she stepped out from the tree to confront him. This was probably also a foolish thing to do, but she wasn’t one to cower. She walked until they were perhaps only a few yards apart. The sun reflected off his spectacles which caused a glare that hid his expression.
“Mademoiselle Avenall, what are you doing here?” his voice sounded neutral, almost bored.
Haidée’s skin prickled. There was nothing lackadaisical about Jacot Renaud. If he was the murderer, she was in grave danger indeed. And if he wasn’t, she was still wary, wary enough to dig her heels into the dirt and grass to trace a defensive mark.
“I was simply taking a stroll,” she replied. “What are you doing?” She paused for a moment for effect, “Are you trying to eliminate any evidence for your crime?”
“I have done nothing. Perhaps it is you who is guilty and you want to shift the blame to me.”
“I was never here yesterday.”
“Oh?” He took a menacing step forward.
Haidée panicked and said one sharp word. Her headache intensified, but her concentration was fixed on her current adversary. A cold wind blew up, taking with it fallen leaves and broken twigs. Renaud held up an arm to block the windy onslaught and she watched in amazement as the debris went over and around him.
It was then that she noticed the slip of paper between his forefinger and middle finger. Most people would have dismissed it. Haidée didn’t—and it had only registered in her mind at the last second when he threw open his arms and launched the paper at her.
She ducked just it time as the white slip whizzed through the air like a deadly dagger, over her head, and struck the tree behind her. She glanced back seeing the bark start to smoke.
“I can’t believe you did that! Are you trying to kill me?”
Renaud didn’t reply. He was already reaching into his pocket for another deadly slip of paper.
Haidée threw herself sideways onto the ground. She dug into the dirt to draw a square within a square, not caring if her gloves were getting ruined by her digging. Just as she finished, she said two breathless words and looked up as she head a sound like pebble upon glass.
A square piece of paper with an inked symbol had bounded off her shield and landed into the nearby grass where it began to burn a significantly sized circle on the ground.
She then focused her gaze on Renaud who was standing over her, his right hand in his coat pocket, his expression unreadable. There was blinding pain behind her eyes and her arms felt weak. If he decided to attack again, there would be no way should could hold out.
“Jacot, please.” Her voice sounded disgustingly weak to her ears. “Please don’t.”
He stared at her for a moment and then took his hand out of his pocket. His hand was empty. “I didn’t kill anyone, Haidée. But I am trying to find out who did. Do you believe me?”
“You could be lying.”
His lips tightened. “Then perform a truth spell on me, witch.”
“I can’t do that and maintain my shield at the same time.”
“Then drop your shield.”
The vulnerability that it implied frightened her. But it only took her a moment to decide. Truth over safety won out. She deactivated her protection with a one syllable word and struggled to stand up. Dizziness overcame her and she swayed on her feet.
He caught her elbow to study her. “Perform the truth spell.”
“Hold out your hand.”
He turned his hand, palm up. Her gloves were still caked with dirt so she began drawing on his skin, a ragged symbol. Her own hands shook as she finished it and activated it with a word. She hated performing spells on people. But she had to know.
“Ask your question?” he said.
“Did you kill anyone on this island?”
“No.” His voice was firm. She glanced from his unyielding face to his palm. The symbol glowed faintly. A breeze sprang up and whisked the dirt from his skin.
She let out a shaky sigh. “Jacot.” Her head hurt. Her legs felt weak. She expended too much of herself too early in the day. The marten raced to her feet after the fight and squeaked, worried.
His arm came around her waist to support her. “Shh.”
“But you don’t know if I killed anyone. Aren’t you going to perform a truth spell on me?” she asked.
“I don’t need a truth spell to know you didn’t kill anyone. As you’ve said, you don’t have a motive. And you would not have had the opportunity.”
“Why not? I was on this island when D’Aubigne and Legard were murdered.”
“Yes, but you weren’t here when someone killed Danton Neville.”