‘You ready?’ Joe asked, holding out his hand.
Mia grasped it this time without even thinking; it felt so natural to have his palm against hers, just as her pulse began to race.
‘Bonjour,’ called out a man who ambled towards them, a crate in his hands that he set down before wiping his brow. ‘You’re the ones with the questions from the past?’
The older man had made them coffee, strong and bitter, and despite Joe warning her that he might have to translate, the man had made a huge effort to speak English, although it was heavily accented and took careful concentration to understand.
‘I know you were hoping to speak to my father, but he’s in no state for visitors, and his mind is gone now,’ he said. ‘But what I can show you is his collection of bottles, in case that’s helpful?’
Mia was disappointed, but she understood, sipping her coffee and listening to Joe talk about his own grandfather, whom the man seemed to know. It had been a long shot at best, but at least she’d leave knowing that she’d tried.
‘Come, let me show you,’ he said, ambling away on creaking knees. ‘I know a little about his collection, but he kept notes on most of them, so there might be answers there, too.’
The old stone building he led them to had ancient wooden doors that required both the old man and Joe to haul back, and there was a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Thankfully, with both doors open, they had the light from the sun, too.
‘May I have your bottle, to see if it’s familiar?’
Mia showed it to him as Joe filled him in on her backstory, and once he’d had a good look over it, he passed the bottle back to her and pointed to the far corner.
‘The smaller bottles are over there, and there should be a notebook, too. He was meticulous about recording where they all came from.’
Mia followed Joe, sneezing from the dust, finding it hard to believe just how many bottles this old man had collected. There were also other collectable items stacked in crates, and if they’d had longer she would have loved to look at everything.
‘You take this one,’ Joe said, lowering a box to her. His eyes met hers, his thumb brushing across her fingers before he let go, and she gave him a little smile. After so long alone, it was most definitely strange to have him helping her.
She returned to the brighter light by the doors, setting the box down as Joe appeared behind her with another.
‘You know, absinthe wasn’t produced in large quantities during the ban, but the types most in demand were carefully made,’ the old man said. ‘They had just the right blend of herbs, because too much of one would make the drink bitter, and too little would make the colour not quite right. Which is why anything that was of high quality and in demand was made with proper distilling equipment.’
‘Meaning that the person making it had access to a distillery?’ Joe asked. ‘You think they made more than one product?’
‘That’s right. My sense is that they would have been a producer of another spirit, too, which would have allowed them to keep their operation secret from the authorities.’
They searched through the bottles, and Joe lifted one out that was a similar size, but there was nothing that matched. It wasn’t until he retrieved a third box that he held one up that very clearly had ABSINTHE printed in faded lettering across the front.
‘This one is close,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the same.’
Mia sighed. She’d known it wasn’t going to be easy to discover what she needed to know, but there had still been that little thread of hope.
‘Ah, this one is from a place right on the border, called Pontarlier,’ the man said. ‘They were known to distil absinthe many years ago, and it’s where most of it is made now. Although back then they would have been known for gin and making this quietly where no one was looking.’
‘That’s only a short drive from here,’ Joe said, glancing over at her. ‘It might be a dead end, but what if they know something?’
‘The family makes it to this day. If you want to visit, I could call ahead for you?’
Mia nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said to Joe. ‘We’re so close. If you don’t mind driving us there, it would be a shame not to try.’
Joe began to put all the bottles back in the boxes, and she bent down beside him to help. It was a slim chance, but it was something.
The woman who greeted them in Pontarlier wasn’t as friendly as Mia had hoped, and she was thankful for Joe’s charm, and ability to converse in French, when they arrived. They’d stopped for baguettes and coffee along the way, and Mia had been in heaven watching the world go by, seeing fields of wild flowers and houses that looked magnificent from a distance. And now they were in a village on the Swiss border, standing in the sun on a gravel driveway. Mia watched a cat sprawl in the doorway to what she imagined was the family distillery.
‘She’s wary of why we’re asking questions,’ Joe said, his smile strained as he placed his hand on her lower back. ‘I think you should show her your clues, so she believes we’re genuine.’
Mia understood. She’d have been wary of someone turning up and asking questions about the past, too.
She reached into her bag and took out the bottle, and then the notebook, passing the bottle to Joe as she thumbed through the pages to find the fairy.
But the woman’s face changed when she saw the bottle. She spoke in French, but Mia knew her words were for her.
