Chapter 10
The yelps of a wounded animal rang out across the dusty road, distracting Marthe from her companion.
The young baker had been detailing his prospects in a nervous and halting manner, and she found herself smiling to encourage him.
He was pleasant to look at after all, with a dark forelock he repeatedly pushed off his face.
But Marthe steeled herself; she would not be swayed by the baker’s good looks and gentle disposition.
He said he was without the means to take on an apprentice of his own, and that meant his enterprise could not grow until he had a son.
Marthe knew well enough that a child could not be truly productive until he was at least eight or nine years old, and almost a decade seemed a long time to wait until she could prosper.
Still, despite his youth, his house was situated in a fine location at the corner of Rue Saint-Paul and a little side street called Saint-Pierre, close to what he said were the largest merchant stores in the village.
She thought about the governor’s silk stockings and wondered what they would feel like on her own legs.
The baker pushed his forelock off his brow again and gave her a timid grin.
Marthe caught herself smiling back. On the other hand, she knew she could never truly aspire to marry a nobleman like the governor, and she did not want to give up a baker and be stuck with a shoemaker.
When times were tough, one could not eat leather.
Another shriek rang out, and she realized it was not the sound of an animal. She turned towards the noise and saw her sister stumble out of an alleyway.
“Lili!”
Marthe began to run. She rushed past the merchants’ stores until she was nearly opposite the hospital again. “What happened?”
“Leave me be.” élisabeth collapsed on the ground.
“Are you hurt?” the baker said as he caught up with them.
élisabeth tried to hide her face in her hands. “For your own sakes, get away from me.”
Marthe lay her hands on élisabeth’s back. “Did you faint again? You must have fainted.” She turned to the baker. “I’m sure she’s only fainted.”
The baker shook his head. “She’s bleeding.”
élisabeth wiped the blood off her lip, then tentatively probed her teeth with her fingers. “It’s… their blood. Not mine.”
“Whose blood?” Marthe asked.
She pointed back to the alley. “The… those men.”
“Damned wolves,” the baker swore. He darted towards the laneway.
“Ma?tre Verger!” Marthe called after him as he rounded the corner. She blanched at the sight of her broken sister and cursed herself for leaving élisabeth alone. “What happened?” she asked her. “Were you attacked?”
“Yes! No. At least… they were going to hurt me.” élisabeth’s eyes were frantic. “But it was not me who bit those men. I am innocent.”
“Of course you are innocent if you have been attacked, Lili. What a thing to say!”
The baker trotted back towards them. “No one there,” Verger said. “Was it fur traders who did this to you?”
“It was—” élisabeth blurted out, then took a breath. “No. Never mind. I’m not hurt.” She glanced up and down the road, then staggered to her feet.
“Come to the baker’s house to rest. It’s just down the road. I’m sure Sister Gagnon will understand if we do not return straightaway.”
“No.” élisabeth shook her head. “We must go back to the farmhouse. I want to be with the nuns.”
“Then I shall accompany you to Pointe-Saint-Charles,” the baker offered.
“No,” élisabeth insisted more forcefully. “We will soon catch up with the others. They can’t be far ahead.” She wobbled as she started to walk west towards the nuns’ farm and Marthe knew it was not worth trying to argue. She turned to the baker and tried to smile.
“Thank you for showing me the village, Ma?tre Verger. And your bakehouse.”
“Please think about my proposal. I am hardworking and my bread is the best in the entire village. With you as my wife—”
“I must go,” Marthe cut him off. “My sister needs me.”
“Then let me walk you back. It is not safe—”
“No. Thank you. My sister and I will be quite well on our own. I saw the nuns go by not a moment ago.”
She took some satisfaction in the baker’s crestfallen look. In all honesty, she wouldn’t have minded his company along the walk home, but she worried élisabeth might do something to further shame her. With a pang of regret, Marthe wondered if she would ever see Ma?tre Verger again.
élisabeth was walking briskly along the path, her head down with both hands thrust into the pockets of her skirt.
“Lili, wait. Tell me what happened.”
“I cannot. I can hardly explain it to myself.”
“Try.”
élisabeth picked up her pace and Marthe broke into a trot. “We should tell Sister Gagnon,” Marthe panted, the heat so close it made her armpits damp with sweat. “If there are dangerous men afoot, she must alert the governor.”
élisabeth turned on her. “No one must know! If I am… if I have become… the worst of all things. A creature of nightmare—”
“What are you saying?” Marthe eyed her sister. She was not well; Marthe had been naive to think that she would be better once they landed in Ville-Marie.
élisabeth strode on, her eyes focused only on her feet.
“What are the hallmarks? Think, think. Fits and contortions? Yes. The bark of a dog? The grunt of a pig? Yes. What of pain? Do I feel pain?” She pinched her own cheek and winced.
“A little pain, yes. So perhaps it is not true. But this strength! Blessed Virgin, what of this unholy strength?”
“Lili! Stop.” They had reached the edge of the little village. The few whitewashed houses had given way to meadow, and the thick forest was within view. Marthe put a hand on her sister’s arm.
“You are not yourself. In truth, you have not been yourself since you lost your child.”
At these words, élisabeth’s body seemed to cave in on itself, a wheel crumpling on a broken axle. The fever in her eyes dimmed and she was instantly forlorn. Marthe pulled her into a tight embrace. Her sister did not bend; she stood wooden and unaffected until Marthe released her.
“I know how much the loss saddened you, Lili. And for Rémy Delaunay to then refuse to marry you, to abandon you—”
“No.” élisabeth shook her head. “He did not abandon me.”
“Of course he did. That is why we are here. He ruined you.” Marthe put her hand on élisabeth’s wrist. “I know I have been upset about our lot. It is because I believe Father Paul should have insisted on the marriage, rather than signing those letters to be rid of us. I know I should blame Rémy, not you.”
“It was not his fault.” élisabeth’s hands flew to her ears as if to block out Marthe’s words. “It’s not his fault. Rémy had no choice but to spurn me.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, I am cursed. He had no choice.”
Somewhere, a crow cawed. Marthe was suddenly aware that the sun had grown heavy in the sky and thick clouds were gathering overhead. But she could not move. She was stunned, not understanding what she had just heard.
“What do you mean, cursed?”
Fat tears started to spill down élisabeth’s cheeks. “I miscarried because I was cursed.” The wind in the trees took up the word and spread it across the forest. Cursed. Cursed. Cursed. “Cursed by a witch. And now I am forever barren.”
“What are you saying?” Marthe felt the gooseflesh rise on her arms. “Why have you said nothing of this before?”
“I did not want to frighten you.”
“But, what do you mean? How can you be certain you are barren? How can you be sure it was witchcraft?”
élisabeth lowered her hands from her ears. “I saw the witch. I saw as she raised her bony finger and pointed at me—”
“Who?” Marthe’s voice was becoming shrill. “Where?”
“At the tavern with Rémy in February. Just before Lent began. It was… the Winter Witch.”
Marthe struggled to remain upright. She knew the legend about the old witch who lived in the forest on the other side of the Orne.
Papa used her name to urge his wayward children to bed, warning them of the hag seen only in the coldest months of the year when she crawled out of the woods seeking a child to devour.
The Winter Witch had not taken a human child for years, creeping into the village and stealing away with only the carcasses of stillborn calves left out for the ravens.
But everyone in Saint-Philbert knew she was never far away and would one day resume her old ways: causing miscarriages, stealing infants, ruining lives. A chill set into Marthe’s bones.
“How can you be certain it was her?”
“Why do you doubt me? I saw her! She pointed her finger at me and I lost my child that night. You cannot deny that is a witch’s curse.”
Marthe nodded. It was possible, especially if it was indeed the Winter Witch who had crossed élisabeth’s path. The old crone survived by taking the health and fertility that rightfully belonged to youth. If élisabeth had been cursed by the Winter Witch, that would explain her undoing.
“That is not all.” élisabeth placed her hands over her mouth, pressing her fingers down to stop her lips from trembling.
“I brought us here, to the holiest place in Christendom, to rid myself of the curse. But I fear… I fear she has done worse than render me barren. I fear she has set a demon to dwell within me.”
“W-what?” Marthe’s voice broke. She stared at her sister, horror mounting in her heart.
“Not a moment ago I attacked two men in the alleyway and left them broken and bleeding. If a demon has not taken charge of my body, how did I summon such strength?” Tears streamed down élisabeth’s cheeks and caught the blood on her chin, creating a red river that ran onto her chemise.
Marthe put her hands on élisabeth’s shoulders.
“No, Lili, that cannot be true.” Marthe spoke quietly and urgently, commanding élisabeth to listen. “Look, look in my eyes. There, I can see my reflection. There I am, right there. That means you are not bewitched. You may have been cursed but there is no demon in you.”
“Perhaps the demon comes and goes?”