“Maman Poulin says she knows of a miller whose apprentice turned into a loup garou. Can you believe it, Marthe? The miller met the werewolf one night and slashed its ear with his knife. The next morning his apprentice came to work with a bloody ear. That was how he knew it was one and the same man.”
Marthe tucked her mittened hands into her armpits. She had heard the story, and many more, often enough. She did not answer.
“Do you think… do you think I should be concerned about that happening to me? I don’t mean about being attacked with a knife. Marcosi would kill anyone who tried to touch me. I mean about becoming a werewolf. Because Maman Poulin said—”
“I can’t bear that you call her Maman. She is not our mother. She’s not even Verger’s mother. She’s the former baker’s wife who refuses to leave my house.”
Élisabeth paused for a moment, letting a puff of frozen breath escape her mouth. “Don’t be so hard on Maman Poulin. Think what it would be like if Verger died. Wouldn’t you want to stay in your home rather than hand it over to a stranger?”
Her defence of the widow acted as dry kindling on a flame. “We have the largest oven in Ville-Marie behind our house,” Marthe snapped. “It’s theonlyhome where a baker could live. It isnotthe only home where a baker’s widow could live. Especially when she could remarry at any time.”
She pushed the door to Le Moyne’s shop open and stormed inside, Élisabeth right on her heel. Madame Le Moyne nodded from the far side of the room.
“Perhaps Maman Poulin hopes to fall in love before she marries again,” Élisabeth murmured.
Marthe snorted. “You are a goose, Lili. If Verger should die, I would carefully consider my choices and marry whichever man does not have his mother—or any other woman—already living in his house.”
She paused by the iron stove Le Moyne kept burning ostentatiously in the centre of the shop, a symbol of luxury Marthe could never afford. She gritted her teeth and strode over to the shopkeeper.
“Do you have any wool? I am in need of warmer socks,” Marthe asked, scanning the shelves of linen and bedding.
“It’s not cheap to come by,” Madame Le Moyne warned her. Marthe shot a glance at her sister, who was warming her hands by the iron stove.
“I know. Wewerewarned about these terrible winters, but some of us were determined to come, regardless of what it cost us in comfort.”
The shopkeeper offered her commiserations and a small bag of unwashed fleece for as good a price as she could manage, given the time of year and the fact there would be no more of it until the springtime when the few sheep on the island were sheared. Marthe talked her down a dernier or two but could not get her to budge further. Madame Le Moyne seemed content with the sale and showed her appreciation by adding a tidbit of gossip in for the price.
“Did you hear about the woman who keeps house for Governor de Lafredière?” she asked. The shopkeeper’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and a smirk.
“No.” Marthe lifted her chin, bracing herself.
“She has left the fort and is staying at Folleville’s. I don’t know what she’s thinking, running away like that. It’s not as if her husband doesn’t know where she is. He could go claim her at any time.” Madame Le Moyne lowered hervoice. “And as bad as it is at the fort, you know Anne Lamarque de Folleville won’t let her stay without earning her keep. Soon enough she’ll be forced to earn her living on her back.”
Marthe tried to smile and managed only a grimace. She could not remember the grip of Lafredière’s hands around her neck. It was his bulging eye, the sound of the brandy decanter smashing on the floor, and the servant’s haggard face she could not forget.
“Apparently the Sulpicians have caught wind of it and are furious,” Madame Le Moyne continued. “It’s all anyone can talk about.”
“Pray, forgive me,” Marthe mumbled, grabbing her wool and rushing for the door. The servant often came to Marthe in her nightmares; she did not want to think about what must have happened to convince her to finally flee. Élisabeth followed several paces behind as they scurried back to the bakery.
“Blessed Virgin, shut the door!” Barbe Poulin cried as they came in. Marthe hovered by the entrance, wondering if it would be best to take another turn around the village before facing the widow. Élisabeth rushed straight towards her, placing a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Do you want a nip of brandy to warm you up, Lili?”
There was a firkin on the table, fat-bellied and full of trouble, as well as several smaller bottles. In the widow’s hand was a funnel. She looked up at them expectantly.
“What are you doing?” Élisabeth asked, then quickly added, “Why are you only filling the bottles halfway?”
“I’m leaving room for water.”
“Whatever for?” Marthe scowled. The room was filled with the sharp smell of eau-de-vie. Barbe Poulin looked like she was set to challenge Folleville’s tavern business with the amount of liquor before her.
“I am going into the fur trade.” The widow smiled like a satisfied cat.
“What?” Marthe gasped.
Maman Poulin placed the funnel into one of the bottles and filled it halfway up with brandy. “You heard me. I am going to trade brandy for furs.”
“But that was… I wanted to trade furs!” Marthe was finding it hard to breathe. “Only, I did not know what to trade… or who to trade with…”
“Is that allowed, Maman?” Élisabeth asked doubtfully. “The Sulpicians have threatened to excommunicate anyone who sells liquor to the natives.”
