“I must see him for myself,” Maman Poulin said, standing up and straightening her skirts. She walked towards the shed, grim-faced and silent, Françoise and Thérèse at her heels, Élisabeth and Marthe close behind. They filed through the open door.
Élisabeth blinked.
Dufossé’s eyes were fixed somewhere on the cabin’s far wall. His beard was full of ice, his lashes trimmed with frost.
“Witchcraft.” The widow gave an almost contented sigh.
“Why so?” Marthe challenged her.
Maman Poulin shot her a peevish glance. “It is the strangest thing I ever saw.”
“I cannot bear to look,” Thérèse said, her voice catching on her words.
Apolline leaned closer to the dead man. “He must have frozen to death.”
The widow shook her head, disbelieving. “Look at him, sitting there withhis hands in his lap. Why would anyone just sit down and wait to freeze to death?”
“Maybe he could not get back into the house?” Françoise suggested. “There was a good deal of snow outside the door.”
“Nonsense. Lili broke through the door and look at her. She’s the size of a sparrow.”
“Perhaps he was drunk,” Marthe said. “And could not find his way home. Perhaps he fell asleep.”
“With his eyes open? Sitting up? Who sleeps sitting up in the cold?” Maman Poulin sneered. “No. There is only one explanation for what happened here.”
“My husband is a surgeon,” Apolline announced, though everyone knew Le Picard’s profession, “and he sees a good many corpses. If witches were behind every frozen body in this land, they’d be responsible for half the deaths each winter.”
“Precisely,” the widow said. “Witchesareresponsible for half our troubles. The Iroquois are responsible for the rest.”
“What… what are we to do about him?” Élisabeth finally found her voice. She averted her eyes from the dead man’s gaze, but she knew the half-moon slits in his blue face continued to stare straight at her.
“We must tell Father de Sancy, of course,” Maman Poulin said. “And I suppose we should let Hélène know that she is a widow now.”
“Do we just leave him here?” Élisabeth asked.
“He’s doing no harm where he is. He won’t be buried until the ground thaws in May.”
Élisabeth hid her face in her hands so as not to look at the dead man again. One by one the others made the sign of the cross and left the cowshed. Maman Poulin strode purposefully ahead, determined to be the first to bring the grim news to the man’s widow. Françoise stopped Élisabeth before she could follow.
“Why would Jeanne do such a thing?” Françoise whispered, kicking the snow pile with her boot.
“I thought she was a sorceress, a magical healer. Not an evil witch,” Thérèse said nervously.
Élisabeth was about to reply that Jeanne Roy had never done one good thing for her, when Marthe pinched her arm.
“That’s enough,” she snapped. “Do not speak Jeanne’s name aloud again. Especially not in front of the widow.”
“Why not—”
“Because we cannot have her accused. This is the spark that starts the fire. We cannot, must not, let her burn.”
“But what if she killed that man?” Élisabeth demanded. “What if a child is next?” She blinked and no longer saw Dufossé’s blue face. She saw the Winter Witch, her finger pointed, lips trembling.
’Twas for you.
Marthe pinched her again, harder.
“Ow,” Élisabeth cried.
