“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. Heruinedyou.” 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 nodemonin you.”
“Perhaps the demon comes and goes?”
