L’Enchantement de la Fille de Joie

By Keily Blair

Vivienne knew the villagers would blame her when they discovered the boy’s body. She stood over his curled form, trying in vain to remember the ancient words her grandmother once spoke over a dead dog to make it rise. The memory rose to the surface, but in it, her grandmother’s lips moved without sound. Magic dwindled in their blood with each generation, and Vivienne was the first to be unable to weave a spell to reach beyond the world of the living without the aid of a familiar.

With a closer look, the boy belonged to Thomas and Camille Fontaine.  Here was the curve of Thomas’s jaw, there were Camille’s delicate fingers. If Vivienne recalled, the boy was only two years old. The Fontaine brood grew more numerous by the year, Thomas being insatiable according to Vivienne’s first-hand knowledge. He often visited her when Camille neared the end of her pregnancies, much to the wife’s chagrin. In part, Camille’s hatred of Vivienne had less to do with her husband’s dalliances and more to do with Vivienne’s well-respected status, or maybe even the fact Thomas had proposed to Vivienne more than once before settling for poor Camille.

Crouching, Vivienne examined the small body. Blood had congealed in the shriveled, dry grass around it. The dark gash in his throat appeared much too wide and crude to have caused such little bleeding. She rose to her feet, calculating the best course of action. Thomas hunted in the woods with the other men regularly, and it was only a matter of time before someone else found the body.

“Better for him to go missing than for you to be burned.”

Vivienne closed her eyes upon hearing the familiar, breathy voice.

“Please,” she said. “I need to think.”

Hands gripped her, and her eyes opened wide. She looked at the pale hands wrapped around her shoulders.

“You’ve been staring at the boy for an hour, Vivienne. He’s not going to rise and walk. His spirit’s too far for you to reach, even with my help.”

She turned to the pale man, eyes sparking with what little magic she could conjure. His dark eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a sneer as her magic took hold of him.

“Remember, spirit, I don’t answer to you,” she said. “I named you, Amon. You’re mine to command, and you hold form because I bless you with it.”

Amon’s mouth curved into a wicked grin. He pressed his wrists together as though bound, kneeling before her.

“As you command, goddess,” he said.

She scowled and returned her attention to the boy.

“Bury him,” she said. “No one can find him like this.”

Amon’s wary gaze moved to the boy.

“If they find out you hid him—”

“They won’t.”

“Can you be sure?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes closing.

“No, but you have your orders.”

Hours passed before Vivienne saw the familiar again. A client she’d spent hours entertaining slipped into the night, and Amon’s hands were on her nude form, always roaming. She turned to him, gazing up at him with an unspoken question.

“Done,” he said. “As you commanded.”

She tugged his hands, placing them against his sides. Moonlight poured in through a slit in the curtains, illuminating the room with a soft, gray light. Her home rested north of the village, a short walk from the council’s small dwelling. It was an attempt to mark her as an afterthought, a shameful secret.

“Rumors surface,” Amon said.

His eyes glinted, a red, inhuman glimmer in the darkest corner of the room. Vivienne offered a small, rueful smile.

“Who started these rumors?” she asked.

“Camille Fontaine.”

Vivienne frowned.

“So, she noticed his absence,” she said. “I will speak with her.”

She eyed Amon with a curious look, beckoning him to come closer. He hesitated, but his will meant nothing when in opposition to her own. His footsteps dropped hard on the wooden floor, resisting every step of the way. The silvery light shone on a dark wound in his chest.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“Hunters mistook me for a deer. Possibly because I took the form of one to escape.”

Lesser magic flowed through her blood, but her touch had always restored vitality in the men and women who visited her. Her work was exhausting as all work is, but the renewed strength in her clients warmed her heart. To a familiar, her touch was the only thing standing between life and death. In Amon’s case, it wasn’t love, either, but something primal, a need to heal this extension of herself she’d created the day she named it.

They fit together in a way Vivienne could never replicate with a human man or woman. Amon’s movements, silent yet rough, elicited practiced gasps from her. The spirit healed before her eyes as their coupling wore on, the wound in his chest stitching together with new muscle and flesh. Their shadows danced on the wall, intertwining until she could no longer determine if they were separate.

Whispers followed Vivienne as she walked through the town, cloak wrapped around her. It seemed every eye lingered on her a moment longer, and every word uttered bore some resemblance to her name. Amon had taken the form of a sparrow, and he followed her with subtle grace as she moved, careful not to attract attention.

“Vivienne,” a voice said.

She turned to see the men and women of the council approaching her, Thomas Fontaine among them. He stepped closer, a nervous expression on his face. Villagers lingered nearby, probably eavesdropping on the conversation. Among them, she counted the husbands and wives of several clients.

“It’s come to our attention,” Thomas said, “that one of my children is missing. Hugo.”

“Is there a way I can help?” Vivienne asked.

Thomas looked at the other council members, but none offered any words of encouragement. They eyed her with various looks—fear, lust, a mixture of the two—and stayed several steps behind Thomas. He turned to her once more, sighing.

“Camille thinks you may know something,” he said.

“Casting blame on your spouse?” Vivienne asked. “Pathetic.”

The amusement in her voice appeared to light a fire within him, and he stepped closer. She didn’t back away. Instead, she looked up at him, meeting the challenge head on.

“She thinks you may have done it,” he said. “She thinks you are a witch, and you cast a spell on the child.”

A bark of laughter escaped her.

“You know what I am,” she said. “You’ve all benefited from my touch in one way or another. Your children survived last year’s bout of fever because of my charms. Your elderly are strong because of my ‘spells.’”

She spat the last word at him, and he flinched, flushing a dark red.

“You’ll need to come with us for questioning. There’s nothing I can do.”

Seeing the villagers carried no weapons, Vivienne whistled low and long, summoning Amon to her shoulder. The villagers cowered at the red-eyed sparrow, stepping away. The sparrow flew at them, scattering them. They shouted and swung their arms to swipe at the bird, but it flew out of their reach. When it flew in close, it pecked their faces, careful to avoid their eyes as they screamed.

When the commotion died down, Vivienne was gone.

The large home of the Fontaine family lay at the far end of the village. Vivienne’s last visit had been during the birth of Thomas and Camille’s most recent addition to their family several weeks ago. She’d remained with the family for three days, warding off Thomas’ inappropriate advances while she worked to revive Camille. The woman’s hollow eyes had glared at her, and she hadn’t spoken a word to Vivienne the entire time.

Now, Vivienne knocked on the door with a heavy fist. Camille opened the door a crack, peeking out with the same deadened eyes.

“What do you want?” Camille asked.

Vivienne forced her way in. The tidy home held a quiet, stale air.

“Where are the children?” she asked.

“Away,” Camille asked. “Apprenticeships keep some occupied, some play, and some are old enough to be pining after whomever suits them. I should warn them harlots wait at the border of town to steal their loves away.”

“Most of my clients are married,” Vivienne said. “Most of them thank me for providing their husbands and wives with my touch.”

“Most of them must not love their spouses,” Camille said. “You poison this family with your existence.”

“The harm I may have caused does not give you reason to spread lies,” Vivienne said. “I did nothing to Hugo.”

Camille walked over to a small table, reaching for something Vivienne couldn’t see.

“I know you didn’t,” Camille said.

Vivienne approached her, and Camille spun around, knife in hand. She slashed at Vivienne, who jumped out of reach.

“I did,” Camille said.

Vivienne looked at her, face contorting in horror. The woman’s expressionless face regarded her, and in a monotonous voice, she spoke.

“He wouldn’t stop crying,” Camille said. “I knew you’d come for me. I left my husband a note, you see. To apologize. Our eldest daughter should have found him by now and given him the note. He’ll come for me, to stop me.”

Shadows seeped through the door, morphing into a tiny sparrow on the floor. Its movement caught Camille’s gaze long enough for Vivienne to rush forward and grasp her wrists. The knife hovered above Vivienne, inching closer as Camille screamed in her fury. The shadows moved closer, seeping into Vivienne, imbuing her with the strength of Amon as he possessed her form.

Vivienne snapped Camille’s wrist in her grip. The woman screamed as she stumbled away, knife clattering to the floor. Her hazy eyes rose to Vivienne, void of any emotion.

“All I wanted,” she said, “was for him to stop crying.”

The door burst open, and several men rushed into the small room. Among them was Thomas, who darted past Camille to Vivienne. Camille bowed her head, oily strands of her hair falling into her eyes.

“My daughter brought Camille’s confession,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Vivienne said.

She watched as the men helped Camille to her feet, guiding her out of the house.

“Where will they take her?” Vivienne asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Thomas said. “Somewhere she can’t cause any harm. You can relax.”

His hand clasped her shoulder, and she bowed her head.

No, she thought. I have work to do.

To his credit, Thomas didn’t visit her for a week. The particular tincture she brewed for him normally took eight weeks to perfect. With Amon’s help, it took three days. As Thomas waited in bed for her, she poured his cup of tea, adding a bit of honey to overpower the bitter herbs. A quick look over her shoulder confirmed the man hadn’t left the room, and she poured a thimbleful of tincture into the cup. She took the cup to him.

“Tea?” Thomas asked.

“An aphrodisiac,” Vivienne said.

“I don’t need your potions to desire you.”

“Humor me, my love.”

The words tasted acrid on her tongue, but they appeared to please Thomas, who took the cup and drank the warm contents in a few large gulps. He set the cup aside and reached for her. She avoided his touch, counting the seconds until he froze beside her.

Dark, intricate magic possesses the target with a quickness, and Thomas was no exception. He turned to Vivienne, not meeting her gaze.

“I forgot a meeting was to take place tonight,” he said.

“What meeting?” Vivienne asked.

He shook his head, moving his body to conceal the softness between his legs. After a few awkward, shuffling movements, he dressed, bid her goodnight, and left.

Amon came to her side, pulling her into his arms.

“Impotence,” he said. “You’ve cursed him with magical castration for his wife’s sins?”

His amused tone tickled her ears. She smiled, a soft, patient smile.

“The man has sins of his own,” she said. “Who else will punish him?”

Amon grinned his wicked grin, dark eyes raking over her form.

“Would a goddess such as you wish to punish one more before the evening ends? I possessed you without permission.”

Vivienne turned to him, the candlelight flickering across her face. With a crooked smile, she blew out the flame, thrusting them into the dark.

Keily Blair

Keily Blair (they/them) is an autistic, queer writer, as well as Managing Editor of the Signal Mountain Review. They hold a BA in English: Creative Writing from UT Chattanooga, where their nonfiction won the Creative Nonfiction Award. Their fiction has appeared in publications such as The Dread Machine, Dream of Shadows, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Good Southern Witches, and The Vanishing Point. They are currently at work on a dark fantasy novel. You can find more details about their work at www.keilyblair.com or follow them on Twitter (@keily_blair). They live in Tennessee with their husband, dog, cat, and four guinea pigs.