Chapter 33
“Ridiculous,” Jeanne Roy snorted, but there was a look of fear in her eyes that gave élisabeth a strange feeling of power. “I did not kill anyone. Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because… because… you are the Winter Witch!” élisabeth said, her mind racing. It made sense. Jeanne was no different from the hag that cursed her. She loved the cold; snowflakes glittered in her hair. They were one and the same. Winter witches both.
“What are you saying?” Maman Poulin reached her hand out, whether to steady herself or ward off Jeanne Roy, élisabeth could not tell. “Who is the Winter Witch?”
“She comes out in the darkest months to steal what is not hers. She took Dufossé’s life.
She cast a spell on him to make him sit down and die.
Now she wants my blood. Next she might… she might take Marthe’s baby!
Or any of your children.” élisabeth pointed at Rose and Lou, then at their husbands.
Marthe covered her mouth with her hands.
élisabeth’s ears rang and she could feel sweat under her arms. A feverish heat spread across her chest and back.
This was the cost of finally finding her tongue.
The toll of righteousness, now that she was no longer afraid to tell the truth.
“Blessed Virgin, stop!” Marthe grabbed her belly.
élisabeth spun round to address the group. “She was banished from France. She made up a new name. She stole my papers to be allowed passage to Ville-Marie.”
“It’s not true,” Rose quivered, but there was doubt in her voice.
“It is,” élisabeth said, raising her chin. “Ask the witch herself. Do you deny it, Jeanne Roy, or whatever your name is?”
Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Jeanne Roy. Marthe looked nervously at her, shaking her head, as if willing her not to speak. The men shifted on their feet, unsure whether this was women’s business, or something more serious. Slowly, evenly, Jeanne Roy crossed her arms.
“I am not a witch, and I am not a queen,” she said.
Rose and Lou exhaled as one. The men rubbed their beards and Francoeur started to unclench his fists.
But then Jeanne Roy’s lips twitched. She pressed one hand to her mouth as if she were stifling a scream.
She released her fingers and held her hand up, instantly stopping all activity in the room, as if she could control the movement of every man and woman before her with a flick of her fingers.
“But it is true that Jeanne Roy is not my name. And that I was among those poor souls banished by the king.”
Maman Poulin gasped. “She is the witch queen!”
“Jeanne, stop,” Marthe cried. “Don’t say any more.”
“No. I am tired of all the stupidity. The days of magic-riddled nonsense must be behind us.” She lowered her hand, and they were suddenly able to move again. Jambon put his arm around his wife. Francoeur took a step towards élisabeth, but she evaded his grasp. Jeanne turned to meet their gaze.
“I was the victim of a false accusation, made out of jealousy and spite. I would have been put to death for that lie, but the king granted me clemency. He knows, as all but the most ignorant do, that witchcraft is not real. It is a salve for silly minds. For those who do not have the fortitude to approach their problems with the patience and hard work they require. The king knows it, anyone with learning knows it. And it is only by shedding the true light of reason on this superstition that it will wither and die.”
“So you do not deny it?” Maman Poulin asked, gleeful.
“There is nothing to deny,” Jeanne Roy retorted. “Witchcraft is not real. I was convicted of nothing and banished for nothing.”
“And what of the dead man in the barn?” Maman Poulin said. “He was bewitched into sitting down to freeze to death!”
“Enough,” Francoeur thundered. “élisabeth. Recant your lies now.”
“But she admits it herself!” élisabeth said.
“She admits no such thing. That man’s death was an accident. Jeanne has done no wrong.” He turned to his neighbour. “I am sorry. My wife is not well, as you know. We will see you safely home. Jambon, Lajeunesse, make room in your sleigh for Jeanne.”
The two men looked nervous until Rose prodded her husband’s shoulder. “You will come to no harm,” she whispered to Lajeunesse. “She is a white witch.”
“And you,” he turned to élisabeth, “come with me.” She could feel him fume as he laid her cloak on her shoulders and pulled her outside.
“Don’t be angry.” The wind whipped across her cheeks. “I was only doing what I should have done from the start: my duty. I had to let you know what she really is.”
“What is your duty, élisabeth? All I know is that you want to avoid the treatment that you need. Now your fear of a lancet may have condemned a soul to death.”
“But that witch is a danger to us! She is the one Father de Sancy seeks.”
“élisabeth, your melancholy has made you wild. You must come home and rest.” He moved to grab her by the arm.
She cringed, ducking away from him. “Don’t!”
Francoeur closed his eyes and placed his hands over his face. Then he ran them through his beard, tugging at the ends until he winced. He opened his eyes, giving her a long look. Finally, he turned to grab the snowshoes he had propped up against the house.
“Francoeur? What are you doing?” He slipped his boots into the wooden rackets and started lacing them up. “You heard her yourself. She admitted she has Chamberlen’s Secret.” Her husband stood up, his feet laced in, and started to walk away. “Francoeur! Wait!”
He stopped and turned back towards her. “We are a lost cause. We cannot be saved.”
“What do you mean?”
“We cannot chafe alongside each other any longer. It seems I cannot help you. What’s more, you cringe and cower as if you fear that I will hurt you. We must let each other go.”
“But we are married.”
“We have not lain together.” The accusation fell to the ground, weighted with lead. “The church cannot object to an annulment.”
“An annulment?” All at once the demon unfurled his leathery wings. Francoeur wanted to end their marriage? Marcosi grabbed for her heart and clung on, squeezing until she could hardly breathe. “The church will never agree to dissolve—”
“Oh, it will. Only last year a man complained that he was bewitched and could not perform the duties of a husband. His marriage was annulled and he wed someone else within the year.”
She grabbed both of his arms. “No! Francoeur… wait. I love you.”
For a moment, his silence made her hopeful.
She stared into his hazel eyes, willing him to feel as she did, willing him to kiss her.
But he stood still and soon the cold settled on them, weighing them down.
His beard and mustache grew white with frost. She wanted to reach out and put her fingers over his lips and feel the ice melt under their warmth, but she did not dare.
“Goodbye, élisabeth.”
He shook himself free of her hands and turned away.
She stared at his back as he strode down the street.
She stood frozen, feeling the life drain from her.
The demon let go of her heart and slumped against her rib cage, wings drooping.
She could feel the bruise forming where Marcosi had gripped her, purple and tender.
When Francoeur was so far away that she could no longer see him, élisabeth sat down in the road.
Not dutiful, or good.
Barren. Useless.
And forever wayward.
She could not make sense of it all. She curled up into a ball and lay her cheek on the snow, hoping that like the man in the shed, the cold might take her too.