“I’m sure it will.”
The straw rustled again.
“Lili?”
“Yes?”
“We do have all the time in the world.”
She nodded in the darkness.
Press against him. Lay your hand on his back.
She clutched her hand to her side, squeezing her eyes shut and saying her prayers over and over again.
One more day and she would see the witch.
One more day and the demon would be turned to dust.
21
The soldier wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, then gestured towards a wooden house across from the old barracks. Marthe gripped her basket in her hand as she stepped through the fort’s main gate. With the Iroquois truce bringing security to the village and the troops of the Carignan-Salières now decommissioned, the fort was falling into disrepair. The handful of men left behind seemed the sort to have been forgotten in the refuse pit, without enough sense to find their way out. Marthe brushed past the sickly soldier and made her way across the compound to Governor de Lafredière’s door.
She had given up waiting for him to visit the bakery. She could not stand the idle torment of wondering when he might come and what advice he might give her. She had decided to take matters into her own hands. It had not taken her long to realize that her husband’s stores of flour were fixed and meagre, and with just a little more of the precious grain Verger could increase their living by baking more bread. She hoped that with so few soldiers left, she might appeal to Hannibal Flotte de Lafredière to give them a few sacks of the fort’s flour.
She rapped on the front door and then pinched her cheeks to redden them. She had put on a clean skirt and laced her stays as tightly as she could, forcing her breasts up and over the top of her bodice. It was the best she could do withher waist already starting to thicken. Ever since she had felt the tiny butterfly wings start to flap inside her womb, her shape had started to change. She was overjoyed to see evidence of the child growing inside her—though perhaps too fast? When she had confessed her news to Barbe Poulin, the widow had not seemed pleased. Within a week she had started tapping the side of her nose, muttering that Marthe was putting on weight far too quickly.
Marthe wished she’d kept her condition to herself. Perhaps that was why she did not tell the widow or her husband where she was going when she left for the fort.
The iron hinges groaned, as a mean-faced servant, her thick eyebrows knit into a scowl, pulled back the door. “What do you want?”
Marthe smiled brightly.
“Good day, I am the baker’s wife, Marthe Jossard. I have come to offer the governor a basket of our finest loaves and some buttered taffy, as it will soon be the Feast of Saint Catherine.” Marthe flashed the servant her dimples. She had sweated over the taffy the night before, telling Verger she was delirious with cravings for the sweet treat. In truth, for a measure of molasses, she was betting she could advance her family’s standing.
“Saint Catherine’s Day is not for weeks.” The servant reached her hand out. “But I’ll take it.”
“May I come in? I should like to give it to the governor myself.”
The woman stood solidly in the doorway, gazing at Marthe. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“Please. I’ll only stay a moment.”
The servant’s mouth drooped, weighted down with whatever regrets her thirty-some years had brought her. Marthe was embarrassed, suddenly, to be standing before her, bright-eyed and well-groomed.
“Suit yourself,” the servant muttered.
She stood back to let Marthe pass. “My lord,” she called out sarcastically. “You have a visitor.”
She took Marthe’s cloak and led her into a large room where the governor lounged on a settee. Two men sat opposite him. The salon was filled with more items of furniture than Marthe had ever seen in her life. Paintings and mirrors hung from the walls, as well as a gilded crucifix. There were several stuffed chairs, elaborately embroidered, as well as the upholstered settee where Lafredière reclined. Marthe marvelled that he had brought such luxuries with him from France, and imagined the chairs were so comfortable she would be content to sit in one all day long.
“It is definitely a weapon,” one of the men said. “The way the old priest described it.”
“Well of course it’s a weapon, you dunce. But what does itdo?” The governor looked up and noticed Marthe standing by the door.
“You have a visitor,” the servant repeated more loudly.
“So I see.” The governor’s voice flashed with irritation and Marthe thought he might snap at them both. Instead he rose and flicked his fingers at the men. The gesture was enough to make them stand. “Find out who Chamberlen is. Someone will have heard of him.”
