And now he wanted to be rid of her.
A wilful tear slipped down her cheek. Francoeur took her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. “Élisabeth, what frightens you so? Is it me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I see you jump when there is a knock on the door or praying as if the Devil himself is near. Do you fear that I am some kind of brute, like… like Dufossé?”
“No, of course not.” She stopped and looked at her hands. She wished she could tell him the truth about the Winter Witch and the curse and how the old priest said the spirit had the jaw of a wolf and the tail of a serpent and black gryphon’s wings as well. She could not. The friendly crinkles around her husband’s eyes would melt into a gaping mask of horror. He would turn her over to Father de Sancy to be stripped and whipped. Or never come back to collect her from her sister’s house. She would be shunned, again.
“It’s not you that I’m frightened of,” she whispered.
“Then what?”
She faltered. She could see Jambon stretch his arms above his head, impatient to be going. They had to start their journey now or risk travelling at night.
“You are right. It is the loneliness I fear.”
“Then we shall take you to the bakehouse and surround you with people all winter long.”
He took her hand, his mind made up. He seemed so satisfied with his plan, the mending of his broken wife. Élisabeth felt her heart ache as he pulled her to her feet. She smiled as best she could.
24
“They’ve been baked too long, they’re burnt on the bottom,” Marthe said dully, examining each loaf of bread as she laid it into the shop baskets. “We won’t be able to charge full price.”
Verger shrugged in a way that set her teeth on edge: an insouciant gesture of both submission and idleness. “Just adds flavour, Old Poulin used to say.”
Marthe kept her eyes on the bread, stifling her rage. “Well, they’re also flatter than usual, so you’re doing something wrong.”
Verger did not answer, which was somehow worse than a shrug.
“Did you hear me? The loaves are over-risen. I do not know how you can claim to be a master baker when your bread is so irregular.”
“If you will not let me be master of the one thing that I should, then what do you expect?”
The sound of her husband’s fist on the table brought a smile to her lips. For weeks, she had been angry. All she wanted was to scream, slam doors, and beat her fists against the wall. She hoped her amiable husband would give her cause to do so.
Turning towards him, Marthe glowered and touched her neck. After the attack, her bruises had turned the colour of rotting dandelions, a chainof decaying flowers stretched from her nape to her throat. In the presence of customers and Barbe Poulin, she’d hidden them with a scarf and complained loudly of the cold to cover her shame. Only Verger had seen the extent of her injuries. Verger, who had a childish notion that he might challenge the governor of Montréal over what he’d done.
“You, master of my honour? Please,” she sneered. In her heart she knew she was being unfair. But her fury burned with such heat it made her reckless. She did not understand why she was so angry, only that her anger made her cruel. “If you so much as tread near the fort our bakery will be shut down within a sennight.”
“And yet you appeal to your brother-in-law, with no fear of the repercussions for his livelihood?” Verger shot back.
“That was not my doing—Jambon and Lajeunesse said Francoeur would know what to do. They said he has dealt a blow to Lafredière in the past.” She paused, wanting her next words to bite. “And I trust them to solve this matter more than you.”
She watched as her husband’s slim frame caved in defeat. His fist was still on the table, though now it grew slack, lying impotently against the wood. He gave her a long look and pointedly raised his shoulders to his ears and down again. She wanted to grab a loaf of bread and hammer him over the head. Instead, she turned back to her baskets and listened for the slam of the door as Verger left for the tavern.
She tried to steady her breathing. She could not blame her husband; what had happened was not his fault. But her temper—always her greatest sin, her sister said—was like nothing she had ever known before. She could not sleep for the fury that crackled inside of her, burning all day and all night. It was so blinding she wondered if the demon that inhabited Élisabeth dwelt in her heart as well.
She heard the door and felt herself soften. When she was not enraged, she was close to tears. She turned, ready to run into Verger’s arms. She would forgive him, though of course there was nothing to forgive.
“Good day, Marthe.”
Marthe halted, taking in the sight before her. It was Jeanne Roy, her cheeks ruddy and her eyes bright. She wore a native-style woollen blanket coat, belted at the waist, underneath which Marthe could see a pair of tall moose-hide boots. The snowflakes caught in her hair glittered like starlight. Marthe was so astonished she sank into a deep curtsey.
“Whatever are you doing? I am not your better.” Jeanne Roy laughed, stepping into the room. “At least not in this country. May I present my friend Wari?”
Marthe noticed a native woman standing behind the witch. Again, she fell into a curtsey, not knowing how else to greet the stranger. The woman was dressed the same as Jeanne Roy, but with an intricately beaded bag over her shoulder and long black braids hanging below her cap. She leaned two pairs of snowshoes against the wall as she came in.
