For a moment there was only silence and the crackling of Jeanne Roy’s meagre fire. Then came a noise so startling it nearly knocked Élisabeth backwards. It was a cackle as dry as the bark on the outside of Jeanne Roy’s hut and just as brittle. The witch was laughing.
Jeanne Roy shook her head. “I cannot begin to think what to say to you.”
“Say anything. Please. I spoke to Father de Sancy. He said the demon is a great marquis of Hell. Marcosi is a wolf with a serpent’s tail and gryphon’s wings. He will fester inside of me until I no longer know myself. Perhaps… perhaps the demon shall turn me into a wolf with wings myself!”
Suddenly the witch looked weary. She stopped laughing.
“You will not become a wolf with wings, Élisabeth.”
“I might. Maman Poulin says werewolves—”
“No. You won’t. You are a harebrained fool who has listened to too many stories and who has chosen to believe them without a shred of reason or common sense. There is nothing I can do to help you.”
Élisabeth could hardly understand what she was saying.
“I am cursed. This is not astory. A demon lives inside of me. How else can you explain everything that has happened to me?” She stood up; Marcosi was agitated by the witch’s disdain and roiled her guts.
“Very simply.” The witch stared at her evenly. “Consider for a moment that witches and demons arenotreal.”
“They are real. As real as the trees outside. As real as God.”
“So you say—”
“It’s not me who says so. It’s Father de Sancy. It’s the church! Do you deny God’s truth?”
“Consider, just consider, that witchcraft does not exist. Magic is not real. Let us think of what other reason there might be for everything that has happened to you—”
“Nothing can explain why I lost a child that had already quickened! Nothing can explain why my guts churn like there’s a monster inside me, or why I can’t ever catch a full breath of air. There is a demon in my body, put there by a witch,” Élisabeth said, her voice cracking, unable to hold back her tears.
“Many women miscarry, even after the quickening. It is not an act of witchcraft to lose a child. You are more than likely perfectly able to have another.”
Élisabeth spluttered. “The Winter Witch pointed her finger at me! An old crone never seen in the village except in the darkest time of year, stumbles into the tavern and screams at me, a girl she does not know? Why would she point at me?”
“Perhaps she is afflicted with madness. Perhaps she only comes into your village in February because the wood she has carefully gathered all year has run out and it is cold and she is starving and begging for help to survive until the spring.”
Élisabeth flushed. “She did not beg for help. She pointed and screamed’twas for you.”
“Maybe she was trying to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
“Let us consider a new notion. Firstly, let us consider that witches are not real. They do not exist. I suggest the woman is a mad beggar, deserving of our pity. You say that doesn’t explain her behaviour entirely. Fine. Let us gather the evidence. You are an unmarried servant engaged in fornicationwith your mistress’s son. No, wait, don’t be angry. Is this not a fair and true assessment of your situation?”
Élisabeth glared at Jeanne Roy. The demon flicked his tail, his annoyance mounting. The witch stared down her long nose at her and continued.
“The boy led you to believe that by conceiving a child you would force his parents’ hand into allowing you to marry. The cook in the household suspects as much and warns you against the boy. You take no heed of that warning. Eventually you do conceive, and you let him know of it. He promises to tell his parents, yet he does not hurry to do so.”
“That’s not fair—”
Jeanne Roy waved away Élisabeth’s protest. “Next, he asks you to meet, not at his parents’ home, but at the tavern. He encourages you to partake of wine so sour that it is unpleasant to drink. Then a woman enters the tavern in a state of distress. Something has alarmed her. The boy is also fearful, almost terrified of her presence. He rushes forward and pays her a princely sum of money, a whole silver écu, and pushes her out the door. Then he arranges for you to slip out the back, making sure you do not meet the old woman again, lest perhaps she explain herself. After that your lover announces that you will never have another child because of a curse and he’s done with you.”
The cold-blooded manner in which Jeanne Roy spoke felt like a box to the ears. Élisabeth stood, staring at the velvet witch, full of hatred. Still Jeanne continued her tirade.
“Those are the facts. But we still have questions. For instance, whywasyour wine so strangely bitter? Had the barrel gone off and made you sick to the point of losing the child? Or is it possible—and I am only suggesting this as an idea to be considered—that Rémy poisoned your drink to make you miscarry? Had he grown tired of you? Had he come up with a way to be rid of that which bound him to you?
“And that night in the tavern, did the old woman see you and realize thatthe boy never intended to use the poison draught he bought from her on rats or cats or whatever he had told her? Did she see him slip it into your drink from the window? Was she dismayed and tried to warn you—’twas for you!—only to be attacked and pushed out the door by the man who said he would protect you?”
The demon was screeching in Élisabeth’s ears. Jeanne Roy was pitiless, she would not stop. Élisabeth wanted to kick her right into the fire.
