Élisabeth bit the corner of her cheek. “Do you think Agathe is married now?”
“Good luck to her if she is. I’ll never forget her stumbling into a blackberry bush when Bernard Salé tried to give her a handful of daisies. I’ve never seen a more awkward couple.”
“Perhaps her love for him made her weak at the knees.”
“Good grief, Lili!” Marthe exclaimed. “If she were clever she wouldn’t fall in love at all. If she must, she certainly shouldn’t choose someone who watched slack-jawed as she tumbled into a patch of brambles.”
Élisabeth giggled—an uncertain hiccup that Marthe had not heard for months. Her heart lifted at the sound of it. “I should not laugh,” Élisabeth whispered, suddenly sober again. “Bramble thorns spell poverty and sorrow. Poor Agathe.”
“I am sure she’s well enough. You have had greater trials than her. But today your luck shall change.”
Élisabeth bowed her head. “I pray you are right. But do not speak of luck. Our fortune is thanks only to God’s mercy.”
Marthe squeezed her arm and encouraged her sister to stand. Élisabeth wobbled slightly at first, then brushed down her crumpled skirts. Marthe was encouraged by this small act of vanity. If her sister cared enough to smooth her skirts, she was on her way to being herself again. Once they were ashore and settled, Élisabeth would be well.
They emerged onto the deck and were struck by a sky the colour of a dying bonfire. Élisabeth flinched from not having seen the light all day, but Marthe imagined she could only feel better with the warmth of the evening sun on her face. She guided her sister towards the side of the boat and saw that they were no longer moving. They were moored several yards offshore.
“Where are we?” Élisabeth asked, bewildered.
Marthe looked around. There was still no sign of the village. It was not at all like it had been when they docked in Québec. There was no wharf thronging with villagers and soldiers, rushing through the rain to greet them. Here, there was neither sign of any dwelling, nor of any souls at all.
“Where is Ville-Marie?” Marthe asked the others.
“You missed it,” Apolline said, her expression cloudy. “And no surprise, for there was little more than a dock and a crowd of native men. That cannot be where we are meant to settle.” For once, her voice was uncertain. She turned to face a boatman. “Was that Ville-Marie?”
“Calm yerselves,” said a rusty-haired sailor with whiskers to match. “With the fur fair on, it wasn’t safe to drop you at the quay in town. The nuns sent word to bring you out here.”
“Wasn’t safe?” Élisabeth swayed.
“What’s a fur fair?” Marthe asked at the same time.
“It’s a lovely event where all the great ladies come and show off their furs,” the sailor jeered. “It’s very grand, you’ll see.”
Suddenly Lou shouted and pointed at the shore.
“Look!”
A small wooden boat was pushing off from a beach. A woman with a blackveil and white coif sat in the bow, a large man in a brown brimmed hat squarely in the middle of the boat. They watched as he rowed steadily closer until the boat was near enough to bump up against the side of their vessel. The nun craned her neck to look up at the crew.
“I’ve wasted an entire afternoon waiting for you to arrive.”
The captain leaned over the side of the riverboat. “We were given instructions not to stop at the quay but to bring the girls-for-marrying here. Are you Mother Bourgeoys?”
“I am not,” the nun said crossly, her wrinkled face inspecting the side of the ship. “Well? Get them down. We need them safely ashore before sunset and the hour is late.”
The captain beckoned to Élisabeth and pointed at a rope ladder fixed to the side of the ship. “Descend.”
“Down the ropes?” Élisabeth’s eyes darted to the swiftly flowing river. Upstream the water churned as if there might be rapids.
“Yes. Quickly,” the nun shouted from below.
“Do you need help, Lili?”
“No. I am well,” Élisabeth said, her eyes fixed on some spot on the shore. “Today my luck shall change. Today the curse shall be lifted.”
She gripped the sides of the rope ladder in her fists and swung her leg over the side of the boat. The boatmen whistled at the sight of her pale ankle, but Élisabeth did not turn back; her eyes were locked on the shore. Marthe scrambled after her sister, tumbling into the rowboat.
“It does not look at all as I was expecting,” Rose said when she joined them a moment later. The little boat rocked side to side as she boarded and Marthe gripped the gunwales to steady herself.
