Marthe looked groggily about the room for the child but before Rose could present him, she started moaning again.
“Jeanne?” Élisabeth’s voice rose in fear.
“It is the second child, clamouring to be born. I may not need the forceps this time.”
Marthe let out a cry loud enough to shake the entire village. Élisabeth knew that if she had the cunning and strength of a wolf, Marthe could claim the spirit of a lion. After several moments, she delivered the second child, a red-faced cherub with a squall to match her tiny brother’s. Jeanne cut the cord with Jambon’s knife and handed the baby to her mother as Rose handed over her twin. Marthe held them tightly, staring into their pomegranate faces.
“A boy and a girl, Marthe. Aren’t you clever?” Rose whispered.
“We have been blessed,” Marthe said, a note of awe in her voice. “Wait, where is Verger? Verger!”
The curtain twitched and Verger stuck his head into the room. Marthe looked up at him, her eyes shining.
“Come, meet our children.”
He tumbled over his feet to rush to her side. He laid a kiss on his wife’s forehead.
“Thank God,” he prayed, his eyes closed. “You’re alive.”
“Well, I couldn’t leave you,” she murmured. “We have a lot of jam to make.”
Verger started to laugh and cry, first covering Marthe’s forehead in kisses, then each of his infant children. Élisabeth took in the sight of her sister, safely delivered, and then gazed at Jeanne Roy. She crouched at Marthe’s feet, her raven-dark eyes heavy with fatigue, her skin bruised beneath her torn and bloody chemise. Gone were the velvet witch’s fine clothes and curled lip.
She had been broken for her beliefs. A saint in the making.
Shimmering with knowledge.
Jeanne tried to stand, but her ankles wobbled. Élisabeth leapt forward and took her arm. They hobbled out of the back room, leaving Marthe and her family in peace.
“How can you pretend you are not a witch, when you can work such magic?” Élisabeth blurted.
Jeanne Roy looked at Élisabeth “I will admit that the moment a child comes into the world is magical, even to me.”
Élisabeth gave her a triumphant smile. “So it is true. Magic is real. Witchcraft does exist.”
“I…” Jeanne Roy looked weary. They stepped back as Rose rushed past them to the workroom, where the rest of the brides had gathered. They heard a cheer go up next door as the news was delivered. Jeanne drew a breath. “Chamberlen’s Secret is just practical philosophy, the result of careful study and experimentation.”
“Yes, exactly. Knowledge is magic. And you have so much of it, you must teach us all. So that we too may become witches.”
Jeanne Roy laughed then, and the sound of fairies’ handbells chiming filled the room. Élisabeth felt her heart lift, then a sudden worry struck her. “Jeanne. The twins are so small. And more than a month early. Can your magic, or practical philosophy, help them live?”
Jeanne nodded. “They have every chance. I will watch over them as long as I can.” Then her smile wilted. “Though I may not be here for long. I will have to flee the Church soon.”
“No, Father de Sancy is dead,” Élisabeth told her. “He can never trouble you again. And with the witch hunter gone, perhaps reason can now prevail.”
“I will make sure of that,” Francoeur said, stepping into the room. “In the morning, I will go to the Sulpicians and say that there are rumours afoot they were bested by witches. That will quash their talk of a Montréal coven. For who would put their trust in an order that can’t cure an outbreak of demonic possession? They will hold their tongues and suppress that news, for fear of losing followers to the Jesuits.”
Jeanne Roy swallowed. “What of the accusation of witchcraft against me?”
“You never confessed to anything! And Dufossé’s wife will testify that he was drunk and fell asleep while stealing our wood. She will swear to it.” Élisabeth crossed her arms. “I will see to it that she does.”
“So it is over? Truly over?” Jeanne crumpled into a chair. Wari wrapped her arms around her.
“I’m sure every sermon for several months will preach nothing but the immorality of drunken wives and powdered faces,” Francoeur said. “But for you, Jeanne, yes. I believe it is over.”
Jeanne Roy put her face in her hands and wept. Élisabeth looked away, straight into her husband’s eyes.
“Francoeur?” Élisabeth stepped away from the witch and her friend, towards the bakery door. She motioned for her husband to join her. He followed, and then leaned against the wall opposite, eyeing her carefully. Élisabeth gazed back, not sure where to begin.
