Élisabeth hopped down from the chair and took her neighbour’s hands in hers. “I believe what you’ve told me about natural philosophy, I do. But science and reason will not get your doll back from a priest. Tonight, you must listen to me. You must believe in magic.”
Jeanne Roy opened her mouth, as if to object, then she stopped. “Heaven help me for what I am about to say.” She cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “Let the witches’ hunt begin.”
Élisabeth leapt back onto the chair. “There is no time to waste. Take off your bodices and strip to your shifts. Rat your hair and use the flour in the workroom to powder your faces white. Make yourselves alarming, deranged. From this moment, we are the Normandy coven!”
No one moved. The brides from theSaint-Jean-Baptisteeyed her doubtfully. Then Apolline spoke.
“Surely we are not the Normandy coven,” she said. There was a pause, and the only noise was Marthe’s fretful moan from behind the burlap curtain. Apolline raised one eyebrow. “Surely we are the Montréal coven.”
It was the spark that lit the fire. Chaos broke out in the bakehouse. Girls unlaced their bodices and flung them in the air. They tore off each other’s caps and pulled ribbons out of their hair. Élisabeth took off her skirt and ran her fingers through her already tangled brown curls. She twisted and teased until her mane was thick and terrible to behold.
“You have the cunning of a wolf,” Wari told her. “Do not forget that.”
Élisabeth smiled shyly. She felt somehow as if she had been blessed, as surely as if she had put the Eucharist on her tongue. She gazed around the room, her eyes landing on each of the wild girls, and for a moment she saw each of them as they should be. Their true selves. If Élisabeth had the cunning of awolf, then Lou had the stealth of a wild cat, Rose the heart of a bear. Apolline the wisdom of an eagle. Each of the girls was transformed.
Witches, all of them.
“It’s time,” Élisabeth declared.
One by one the ghostly brides slipped out into the dusk. The sky was bruised and purple, day hovering on the cusp of night. Apolline took her place at the head of the coven, Élisabeth walked beside them, imparting instructions along the row. When they reached the stone seminary, she put her hand on the wrought-iron gate and pushed it open. The witches floated towards the priests’ home.
They spread out and walked slowly as they approached the manor, the white of their chemises shining in the rising moonlight. When they reached the front door, Élisabeth tried the handle. It was locked.
“What do we do now?” Lou whispered.
Élisabeth scanned the rough-hewn edges of the stone building, then drifted towards the windows. The shutters of the study were not fully closed. She pushed one back and pried her fingers underneath the window.
“We climb,” she announced, pushing the frame up and open. She put her foot into a space between the stones in the wall and pulled herself up. With her hair loose and her cheeks white with flour, she was a demon climbing her way out of Hell. Using all the strength in her arms she hauled herself up and over the windowsill.
She landed in an empty room. It was the library, where not many months before she had come to ask the famed witch hunter her questions. She blinked rapidly, trying to force her eyes to see what she was looking for. Rose clambered up and onto the sill behind her, followed by the rest. Some were too heavy with child to climb forward and so were dragged in backwards. Lou swung over the sill more forcefully than she expected and swore out loud when she landed hard on her bottom.
“God’s wounds!” she cried.
Élisabeth heard a noise overhead. She knew they only had a moment before the priests came down the stairs to discover them. She turned around, trying to get her bearings in the dark. Where would Father de Sancy have put the doll?
“Try the cabinet,” she whispered to Lou, as a voice rang out from the hallway.
“Who is there?”
Élisabeth raised her hand above her head, a captain readying her troops. The brides waited, frozen, as they heard the sound of footsteps shuffling across the paving stones. The door swung open, and the glimmer of a candle spilled into the room.
“Christ in Heaven!” a young priest shrieked. He quickly slammed the door shut. Élisabeth put her finger to her mouth. From the other side of the door they could hear Father de Sancy’s voice.
“What is it?”
“It is a… an abomination,” the young priest stammered.
“Be ready,” Élisabeth signalled, turning to face the door. The girls spread out, their hands stretched before them. Élisabeth heard sturdy footsteps and knew the witch hunter was coming to see for himself. The door opened slowly.
“Onésime Gaudin de Sancy,” Élisabeth intoned, and raised her arms slowly. The other brides repeated her words in heavy, lifeless tones. The priest’s name echoed around the room into a crescendo of sound.
Father de Sancy stood in the doorway with a taper in his hand, two younger priests cowering behind him. One held an iron poker.
“Whoarethey?” the younger priest whispered. “Whatare they?”
“You know who I am,” Élisabeth said. One by one the girls repeated her words.You know who I am. You know who I am. You know who I am.They were back on the ship, singing in rounds. But this time, rather than joy and hope, their song brought darkness and despair.
“I am Angélique Aubert de Brétigny,” Élisabeth bellowed as the ghostly chorus picked up the words and turned them into an incantation.
