“Yes, it can. Élisabeth’s black bile has overwhelmed her spleen and polluted her blood. A small cut with a lancet will let the bad blood run out so that she might be cleansed. I would happily bleed your sister. And then I believe she will be well again.”
Marthe felt a wave of desperation wash over her as Jeanne Roy nodded and thanked her politely for the bread. She stood staring at the back of the door when the midwife had gone. It was too cruel. Therewashope for Élisabeth, a cure that would ease her suffering. But she would never submit to it.
Not after what happened to their father.
25
When the sleigh pulled up outside the bakery, Francoeur gave Élisabeth a tender kiss, helped her disembark, and drove away, leaving her feeling as if her heart were being torn from her chest. Maman Poulin pulled her close, staunching the bleeding. She embraced Élisabeth as if she were her own child—pinching her cheeks and exclaiming that she was skin and bones and needed to be fed until she was as plump as a chicken and fit to roast.
“What sort of scandal is it that makes your husband rush off and leave his bride so soon after he is married?” Maman Poulin prattled as she pulled Élisabeth into the salon where customers gathered. Marthe stood in the corridor. Élisabeth could see she was vying for her attention, but she was exhausted from having been jostled and lurched in Jambon’s ox-drawn sleigh for the better part of an hour. She paid no attention to Marthe and sank into a chair.
“The governor has attacked one of the village wives,” Élisabeth said, untying her cap and scratching her head. “Francoeur is going to see about having him recalled to France.”
“What a to-do!” Maman Poulin’s eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. “Though I’ve been in this colony almost since its founding and have known scandals much worse than that.” She poured Élisabeth a cup of beer andcontinued her tale. “One of the worst was the girl-for-marrying from La Rochelle who landed in Québec already fat with child. She tried to pass herself off as a virgin fit to be married! The recruiting agent paid a hefty fine for the deception, I can tell you. The girl was sent straight back to France, and I expect she got fifty lashes on her return.”
“How terrible,” Élisabeth said, slipping her hand into her pocket. She vowed then that no matter how generous and kind Maman Poulin was to her, she would never tell her about Rémy. She did not want fifty lashes on her back.
“Lili, you must want to lie down,” Marthe said from her position at the door. Her sister was behaving as if she did not dare step foot into the widow’s room. “It is long after nightfall.”
“I am tired,” Élisabeth said.And heartsick, she thought.
“We haven’t any ticking or fresh straw to make you a mattress of your own, so you shall make your bed with me,” Maman Poulin insisted.
“Why should she sleep with you?” Marthe asked crossly.
“Because, little mistress, in case you have forgotten, you share your bed with your husband. Whereas I have plenty of room for your sister. You will like my pallet, Lili, it is made of cattail. Though I confess I never sleep entirely easy. I would prefer a house with a second story so that I could pull a ladder up behind us at night and thwart the Iroquois from scalping us in our sleep.”
“Have you ever known anyone who was scalped, Maman?” Élisabeth asked. Marcosi stirred and she felt the demon’s hot breath in her throat.
“Oh yes. Yes, indeed,” the widow said, providing no further information.
“But the Iroquois do not come into the village anymore. Not now there is a truce,” Élisabeth said.
“On the contrary. I saw one today.”
All of a sudden Maman Poulin leaned forward and sliced her thumbnail across Élisabeth’s forehead. Élisabeth shrieked, startled at the mock scalping. The widow started to laugh, the sound of a donkey’s honk filling the room. Élisabeth laid her hand on her chest to see if the demon was sharpening his claws,readying himself to attack. Would Marcosi try to sink his fangs into Maman Poulin’s flesh, here in her own home? But Élisabeth found that the demon did not mind the jest. Perhaps Marcosi was placated by the fact that Maman Poulin was as fearful of him—and all of his demonic kin—as Élisabeth herself was. As the sound of braying echoed around them, the spirit inside her curled himself into a ball and settled his horned head down upon his paws for a rest.
Élisabeth took a deep breath. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to spend the winter in Ville-Marie with Maman Poulin. While she would do well to make sure Maman Poulin did not glean anything about Rémy, the widow’s influence might be just what she needed. She was certainly righteous, keeping track of slatterns and fallen women, and pious, for her regard for the church higher than none. Maman Poulin would take care that their winter was free of both witches and sin. And besides, Marcosi seemed soothed by her presence. Élisabeth felt her shoulders loosen for the first time in many weeks.
Yes, a winter with Maman Poulin would do her good.
She did not notice that Marthe had left the room.
26
Marthe strode along Rue Saint-Paul, her breath billowing out of her mouth as if she were on fire. It was the coldest she had ever been in her life, yet she knew that with one long scream the bonfire within her could warm the village to the heat of a summer’s day.
“My eyelashes are stuck together,” Élisabeth complained.
Marthe pulled her shawl more tightly over her ears. She could not bring herself to agree with her sister, even though she could feel her own lashes sticking with every blink.
“Did you hear me? My eyelashes have frozen together. And I think my toes might turn black.”
“It’s really not that far to the merchant’s stores.”
In the month since Élisabeth had come to stay, Marthe had grown accustomed to stepping out into the cold air to cool her rage. She liked how winter gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, taking both her breath and her thoughts away. Marthe could not understand why her anger and tears were still so close to the surface, but it was only by storming down the freezing road in a quick march that she felt soothed.
She had not told Élisabeth about the governor’s attack. She’d thought shemight, but her sister had quickly fallen under the widow’s spell, and Barbe Poulin was too set on stoking her fears about the daily dangers of New France: rough labourers, fast-flowing rivers, open flames, freezing fingers and toes, natives (especially the Iroquois), werewolves, the Devil, witches of course, Protestants determined to sneak into the colony, as well as all other manner of heretics and sinners. Marthe had learned to sort wheat from chaff, and she knew that almost everything the widow said was useless husk; very rarely was there a grain that could be trusted in her words. She wanted to confide in her sister about the very real thing that Governor de Lafredière had done but knew Élisabeth was preoccupied with other worries.
