“It is not shameful in the least,” Jeanne said. “Women want Mauriceau near them in part because fashionable ladies want what other fashionable ladies have. But also because some mothers would die in childbirth without him. Mauriceau has a brilliant mind and methods for every difficulty, the very latest advances for turning a breech, stopping certain types of blood loss, extracting a stuck child. He was—heis, he still is—frustratingly remarkable.” She was lost in thought, biting her lip so hard Marthe thought she might draw blood. Marthe thought of her own mother’s end. She wondered if this Mauriceau could have prevented her mother from dying in childbirth.
“Was Mauriceau the one who taught you how to be a man-midwife?” Marthe asked quietly.
“Yes, François Mauriceau is the best of all the accoucheurs in Europe. I learned a tremendous amount, though there were parts of his learning he sought to keep hidden from me.”
“You are a skilled medicine woman now,” Wari broke in. “And because you are here, your skill will grow.”
“Yes,” Jeanne said, her face brightening. “Marthe, did you know the Iroquois can cure a wound in eight days that would take French doctors thirty?” She turned back to Wari. “I meant to tell you. I’ve been thinking about a new remedy for chest ailments. I think we should start our studies with the leaves of maidenhair.”
“I thought we might start with a root, as it is wintertime. Were you not interested in the ginseng I brought you?”
Marthe watched, agog, as the two women debated how they would spendtheir time over the long winter months, which plants they would test, which tinctures they would brew: a pair of cunning folk plotting their potions at her table. She was so caught up in the conversation that she did not notice Barbe Poulin come in.
“What is this?” the widow demanded. Marthe leapt up. Barbe Poulin took her by the elbow and pulled her into the workroom. “Why is there an Indian sitting at my table?”
“You always have customers sit with you to while away the time.”
“Notsavages.” Barbe Poulin’s voice was cold. “Get rid of the pair of them.”
“No,” Marthe said. She put her hands on her hips and faced down the widow. “I won’t. They are my guests. They will stay in my house as long as they like.”
The widow glared at Marthe, her eyes narrowing. Marthe did not flinch. She had been desperate for a fight to ease the rage in her heart, and if her husband would not go to war with her, the widow could take his place.
“Marthe, we will take our leave of you,” Jeanne Roy called out from the hallway.
“Wait!” Marthe turned on her heel, running to catch them. The Agnier woman had taken the snowshoes and was already outside. “Let me give you some bread.” She took three loaves from the shop baskets and pressed them upon the midwife. “They are my gift. In turn I hope you might help me, if you can, when I am in childbed?”
“Of course, I am at your service.”
“And Élisabeth? Might you be able help her too?” Marthe whispered, careful that the widow not hear her plea. “With her curse?”
Jeanne Roy’s eyes turned to stone. “Your sister is deluded about what ails her.”
Marthe hesitated. “Do you mean to say… that is, has she spoken to you about the curse? And the… the demon?”
“Yes.”
“Jeanne, I cannot believe she is possessed, she shows none of the signs. What do you think? I accept she might be cursed with barrenness but notpossessed. Yet when Father de Sancy told her about a wolf with wings, a marquis of Hell, she became convinced that this demon haunts her. He planted a bad seed in her mind that has grown into bindweed.”
The witch wrapped a scarf around her head. “Her imagination has interfered with her reason.”
“So that is all it is? Her imagination?”
“No. That is not all.” The sorceress paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I have thought a great deal about Élisabeth’s condition since she came to see me in November. And I do believe there is an explanation for it.”
Marthe looked over her shoulder to ensure the widow did not approach. “Tell me.”
“I believe your sister suffers from melancholy, an ailment caused by an excess of black bile.”
“Black bile?” Marthe was confused. “Is that a type of dark magic?”
“No.” Jeanne gave her an incredulous look. “It is one of the four humours in the human body. To be in good health the humours—the blood, phlegm, and the black and yellow biles—must all be in balance. If a person has too much of one and not enough of another, they become ill.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve never heard of humours.”
“No, I don’t imagine you have.” The witch’s voice lilted with superiority. “Galen’s philosophy of medicine is not something I would expect most people to understand.”
Marthe was suddenly impatient. “Well then, how do you cure this black bile?Canit be cured?”
