My grandfather snorted. “No. And that flame’s too high. You’re going to dry out the eggs.”
Tanner had left his truck at my house and given blanket permission for its use. Sallie and Azura claimed it theirs, and left after Harper, Thatcher, and Lei-li filled the Jeep.
“Harper reversed his decision about school,” I observed.
“He wants to give it a try, Calli-lass.”
“What are your plans?”
“A nap, then back to work on the bunkhouse. You?”
“I have errands to run in town.” If I shared my real plans with my grandfather, he’d insist on accompanying me—which could never happen because of his wings—or cite a dozen reasons why me dropping in on Odilon Vigne was a bad idea.
Maybe I was developing a reckless side. Maybe I was riding high from my quick visit to see Tanner. Maybe I just wanted answers to the questions raised by Tanner’s and my after-hours visit to the Agricultural Commission’s office.
A few of those questions ran in a loop in my head as I showered and shaved my legs. I rolled my hair into a towel and wore the turban into my closet. The meeting I hoped to orchestrate required more than a fresh pair of cargo pants, a clean T-shirt, and a determination to get answers. If I could get myself to and from Chamonix, I could get myself in and out of the Flechette Realty and Development Group’s local office.
Surrounded by clothing on hangers and in baskets, shoes in boxes and scattered over the floor, I felt like I was looking the old Calliope. There had to be something in here that would bolster my newfound confidence.
A knee-length dress in a muted floral pattern of greens and cream caught my eye: sleeves to the elbows, a zipper up the back, and most important, pockets. I shrugged it over my head, did what I could with my hair—my blow dryer had died a long time ago—and stuck my wand in the right-hand pocket. I was ready.
On the drive into town, I almost gave up. But Odilon Vigne was not going to go away, and I knew in my gut that if could confront my ex-husband and his family in a field at night, I could introduce myself to another of their ilk.
I had my wand and could draw on my talent for naming. I had my father’s rings on my thumbs and my emergency stash of Christoph’s feathers in my purse. I had the wolf pin affixed near the dress’s collar. If Odilon tried to harm me, or take me away, I would be found. Satisfied with my logic, I added a swipe of lip gloss, locked my car, and murmured a spontaneous, Goddess, keep me safe.
I hadn’t actually been inside the Flechette building since Doug and I signed our divorce papers. His lawyer’s offices were in the smaller suite to one side of the entrance. If Odilon in reality was anything like his rumored persona, he would be in the second-floor suite of offices with their three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the entirety of Ganges Harbor and the hills to either side.
Climbing the stairs brought me to the landing where I was boxed in on three sides by clear glass walls and a set of doors. The reception desk—chest height and easily ten feet long—usually had two people at phones and computers. I stepped over the threshold, walked to the lone individual standing behind the burnished counter, and removed my sunglasses.
“May I help you?” Though I didn’t recognize him from past visits, he had a Bluetooth device in one ear and a phone receiver in the opposite hand. He could have been one of the Fae Sallie and I had seen last week. He was dressed the part—crisp white shirt, navy trousers, and a muted tie. The only sign of flash was a gold tiepin.
“I’m here to see Odilon Vigne,” I said.
“Is he expecting you?”
“He might be.” I glanced at the empty chair to his left. When my ex worked out of this office, two people at the front desk meant there was always someone around to answer the phone and see to walk-ins. There was no sign of the receptionist or her collection of cartoon figurines that I remembered from prior visits. “Where’s Patrice?”
“She’s been—retired. What did you say your name was?”
“Calliope du Sang.”
His eyes widened before he returned his face to neutral, set the phone in its cradle, and stood. “I will see if Mr. Vigne can see you now, Ms. du Sang. Please, have a seat. May I get you a water?”
I followed his gaze to the waiting area, declined his offer, and lowered myself onto a leather chair, one of those that felt like it could swallow you whole. I stayed perched on the edge, ankles crossed, knees pressed together, purse on my lap.
In my mind’s eye, I radiated calm and collected—until I heard an office door snick open and the subtle tap of leather heels on the wood floor. A man’s figure appeared at my side, with a cultured voice to match the impeccably tailored dress slacks, fitted shirt, and French cuffs. The family crest Malvyn mentioned—a strangler fig enveloping a tree—was engraved on gold cuff links.
“Calliope Viridis du Sang. I don’t believe I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you in person.” He extended his hand. I thought he meant to shake mine. Instead, he bent from the waist, lifted my hand to his lips, and insisted I meet his gaze.
There was serious magic—an unctuous marbling of purple, magenta, and cerulean blue—coursing through this man. And there was an equally serious backstory hidden behind his seemingly ordinary brown eyes.
“Odilon Vigne,” I said, rising. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
“Could I have my assistant serve us a coffee, or tea? Perhaps a glass of wine?”
I shook my head, tugged my hand from his grip, and debated asking to use the washroom. “I came here to talk.”
He crossed his arms, the movement a graceful pause
