An American Witch In Paris. Michele Hauf
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in his morning tea. Rosemary, black salts and feverfew. Had cast a healing spell...without him knowing. Even laid mustard plasters over his eyes. Nothing proved efficacious.
Now she considered calling up a demon to aid in healing her lover’s eyes. Such creatures did possess healing powers. At least, a few of them did so. If only the witch summoning them could find a beneficent demon. And that was the challenge.
Tuesday loved her man, Finn. From the moment he’d settled next to her in the lavender field and compared her eyes to the sky, she had loved him desperately. Three months they had been sharing her tiny cabin at the edge of the village with one another. Finn was strong and proud, and very handsome. His hair was copper, his thick beard as well. His skin was ruddy and pale, so he always wore a wide-brimmed hat when outside. He was fashioned of flame and earth. And when he held her in his arms it wasn’t tentative or rough. He knew how to hold a woman. And Tuesday’s heart fluttered when he kissed her.
But if he knew she was a witch he would be displeased. The man was Puritan. His family had sailed across the Atlantic Ocean from England six months earlier. His father was seeking a congregation to share and spread the word of God. And Finnister, while a godly man, seemed more inclined to craftwork that involved turning wood into beautiful creations. He even fashioned lovely knife hilts, and had skill with a blade.
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