Élisabeth grew warmer as she spoke. She parsed her words when describing their passion on the clifftop, leaving out their continued meetings in the orchard and cellar, or wherever Rémy found to press himself upon her. She explained his plot to conceive a child and then announce it to his parents so that they could not refuse the match. She made sure the witch understood how alone they were, how they had not a single ally in the household, how even Old Geneviève, the cook, muttered dour warnings. Jeanne Roy listened intently while pouring the brew she’d made into a tin cup and handing it to Élisabeth. She took a tentative sip. The potion slid down her throat, scalding Marcosi and causing the demon to dance on his hind legs and whimper with pain. Élisabeth glowed at this proof of the witch’s powers. She leaned in closer.
“So you see, on Saint Agnes’s Eve I was not obliged to eat dumb cake and walk backwards up the stairs to know whom I would marry. My dreams were already assured. Then, they turned into a nightmare.”
A slight frown formed across the witch’s face. “Go on.”
“Nine months ago, in February, I was with Rémy in the tavern by the mill.” Élisabeth found her words slowly, remembering the night that the household had gone out to celebrate Shrove Tuesday. While the others dallied behind, Rémy had accompanied her down the hill, walking beside her, so it had felt like they were walking out together, just the two of them, though he’d been careful not to touch her elbow.
“We were about to tell his parents, knowing that my condition was certain. We were perfectly content, united in our joy. But no sooner had we settled at a table than a powerful witch stormed into the tavern, ablaze with fury. She pointed her finger—”
“Stop.” Jeanne Roy’s face turned dark. “What do you mean?”
“A witch came into the tavern. She pointed her finger and laid a curse upon me. I lost the child that very night.”
A sharp sadness came over Élisabeth as visions of that night flashed like lightning in a summer storm. Rémy laughing as he returned to the table with a stone jug. The bitter taste of the wine. Élisabeth leaning closer to her lover, whispering to him what it felt like now that the child had quickened. And once that word—quickened—had escaped her mouth, the door blowing open in one wintery breath. She had turned, expecting to see Old Geneviève, whose hip troubled her more at night, limping in to join them. Instead, an unsettling sight: a haggard crone with long grey hair, dressed in rags. Cloudy eyes casting around the room, seeking something she could not find. Then, the raised hand, the long bony finger pointed at Élisabeth.
’Twas for you.
At first, Élisabeth had covered her mouth to hide her titter, but Rémy leapt up and rushed towards the hag. She saw a flash of silver and an ashen face.Rémy came back to the table, his voice shaking as he told her what the Winter Witch had done. She shook her head—that cannot be, I have eaten no fruit nor been touched by her hands, how can I be cursed?—but the turmoil in his eyes told her the truth. Her brow grew slick with sweat and her breathing shallow as the spell began its terrible work. She stumbled back to her father’s house, whispering prayers to ward off the cramping. But the holy words—grace, blessed, and the one she could barely utter without choking,sinners—rang with such sibilance that it sounded like she was hissing through a forked tongue.
That was when the child slipped from between her legs in a slick of dark blood, and the demon took its place in her belly.
“I cannot believe it.” Jeanne Roy sounded dismayed.
“It’s true,” Élisabeth murmured through tears. “I cannot have another child until the Winter Witch is killed or the curse is lifted by a more powerful sorceress.”
The sound that broke from Jeanne Roy’s lips was as ragged as an animal being slaughtered. She placed her hands over her eyes and her knuckles grew white as she pressed her fingertips against her forehead.
“You are not barren… because an old woman… pointed her finger at you.” She spoke haltingly, struggling to form the words.
Élisabeth did not understand. “But I saw what she did. Rémy explained it to me. I lost the baby that very night.”
Jeanne Roy rubbed her forehead, as if trying to smooth out the creases on her brow. She began to mutter in a way that made Élisabeth uneasy.
“You stupid… ignorant…peasant.”
Élisabeth flinched. Inside, the demon Marcosi began to growl.
Jeanne Roy’s voice rose. “Do you really believe that? You believe that a woman can simply point her finger at you and by her will alone do you harm?”
“Yes, of course.” Élisabeth blinked. Jeanne Roy’s anger was startling. “Such curses are near impossible to break. Rémy spent weeks searching the woods to find the hag and kill her. When he did not succeed, I came to this holy land atthe edge of the world to lay myself down on its sacred soil. Yet that too has not worked.”
Jeanne Roy’s face twisted and her voice shook. “You sent your lover tokillher?”
Élisabeth grew wary. She lowered her voice to prevent Marcosi from hearing what she said next, lest it stir the demon further. “The Winter Witch still lives. If she were dead, my demon would have disappeared.”
“Your demon?”
“He is called Marcosi. When the Winter Witch pointed her finger and cursed me, she must have caused him to grow inside my womb. It is why I am barren.”
Jeanne Roy groaned. She wrapped her hands around her own neck and kneaded the base of her skull. She took a deep breath and gazed at Élisabeth, shaking her head. “It is the stupidity more than anything else that I cannot abide. Malice is comprehensible. One need only read the Bible to understand that men are greedy and hateful. It’s the ignorance—thewilful, lazy ignorance!—that is so… so reprehensible.”
Élisabeth flinched. She had known that approaching a witch would be dangerous, that Jeanne Roy was bound to exact a heavy price. But she did not know she would have to bear insult as well.
“I am not stupid,” she said quietly.
“Are you certain?” Jeanne Roy taunted her. “Let us look at your story again. In the study of natural philosophy we are taught to include only what we know to be true—what we have proven—in our observations. Shall we try that and see what truth your story reveals?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
