“My husband came by this morning to collect our order,” she said, eyeing the widow but taking the bread. “I am surprised that you did not know. Though I will not say no to another. Verger is a credit to Old Poulin’s skill.”
“I am as proud of him as if he were my own son. Though I will confess to you that I sometimes wish he had married this one here, rather than her sister. Lili is as dear to me as any daughter could be.”
The innkeeper gazed at Élisabeth, her expression blank. Then she picked up a cloth and began to wipe the counter. “Verger and Marthe have been joined together by God, so put that thought out of your mind, Barbe Poulin.”
“Oh, I’m not saying that Verger isn’t lucky to have Marthe. She’s as sharp a girl as you’ll ever meet. It’s only that sharp girls are like sharp knives. You need skill to handle them.”
The widow followed Anne Lamarque as she moved down the bar with her cloth. Élisabeth rocked back on her feet and felt the pinch of her boots on her heels.
“I hear that you have a new guest staying with you,” Maman Poulin continued. “And that she may be forced to take the path of the Magdalene.”
The innkeeper stopped wiping the counter and stared at the widow. “Who told you that?”
“It is known across the village.”
“It’s not true.”
“Not true that a certain servant is staying here, or not true that she may be forced into sin?”
Just then the door opened and a parade of men in black cassocks marched into the tavern. Folleville’s customers grew still at the sight of the Sulpicians. The fiddle player dropped his bow. Men standing by the fire slid into seats or turned their attention to their drink. The fallen women melted away until the room was full of nothing but artisans, fur traders, and three-year men.
At the head of the procession of priests was Father de Sancy. With a start, Élisabeth noticed one of the men that Marcosi had attacked in the alleyway months ago. She remembered the stench of his breath when he licked her cheek. The demon uncoiled himself from his sleep and sat upright as Élisabeth shrank back towards the bar.
Anne Lamarque glared at Maman Poulin. “What have you done?”
“Nothing!” the widow exclaimed. “I have only just heard of it myself. I did warn you that it has already spread around the village.”
“May I help you?” the innkeeper called to the priests.
“Anne Lamarque de Folleville?” Father de Sancy stepped forward, gazing around the room, taking in the men with their red eyes and unbuttoned shirts, a dog in the corner licking its groin. The priest observed it all before turning back to the innkeeper. “There wouldn’t be any natives among your customers today?”
“Of course not.”
“You understand the punishment for serving liquor to the Indians?”
“My tavern only serves Frenchmen,” she replied.
“And what about French women? It is a woman whom I seek today.”
Élisabeth took a step closer to Maman Poulin, hoping the priest and the man Marcosi had attacked would not notice her.
“There is no law against a woman having a drink.” Anne Lamarque’s voice was even.
“I believe a good deal more than drinking happens in this place.” The priest wheezed and pressed his hands to his chest before continuing. “I suspect you are up to your neck in debauchery.” He pointed to the man Marcosi had attacked in the alley, the one with the brand on his face, hiding among the priests. “I am looking for this man’s wife. I believe she is staying here?”
Anne Lamarque crossed her hands over her chest. “That man is a disgrace, as is his master.”
“Very well.” The priest paused, his tone reasonable. But something about his manner made Marcosi jab his talons into Élisabeth’s gut as he angled for a better view. “If you cannot produce his wife, perhaps I might spend the afternoon in conversation with you, Madame de Folleville.”
“Me?”
“I am curious why, of all the taverns and inns in Ville-Marie, yours is always the most frequented. Why are you so popular?”
“I serve the best wine and the best food. That is my secret,” she replied steadily.
“There is no magic involved? There is no book of spells to draw the most powerful men in New France to your door? What of the tales of you owning a grimoire written in Latin and Greek?”
Anne Lamarque made a show of shrugging her shoulders, though Élisabeth could see her click her fingers behind her back. A man in the corner rose to his feet and slid up the stairs.
