“Mind what I said. Do not speak Jeanne’s name aloud,” Marthe’s voice was low and urgent. “Especially not in front of the widow.”
30
The village simmered with anticipation. Marthe watched with growing unease as her neighbours cast about, looking for the queen witch of the Normandy coven at every turn. A man had been bewitched to death. Such wickedness would not go unpunished. They put their faith in the magnificent witch hunter, Onésime Gaudin de Sancy, and the widow Poulin, who spared no details in her telling of the story to her customers. They lingered in the bakery, getting in Marthe’s way as she tried to sweep up flour and mop down bread baskets, hanging on the widow’s words:There he was! Hands raised, mouth agape, a tableau of horror, pointing at the space where the witch had stood as she cast her evil spell.
Some said they would make the trek all the way to Élisabeth’s house to see the frozen corpse in the cowshed, though if they did, they never came back to counter the accuracy of the tale the widow wove.
Marthe hung her cloak on the peg as she stepped inside the bakery. Her walks were no longer as soothing as they once had been. Now when she pounded the dirt paths of Ville-Marie, forcing the earth to absorb her fury, she met simpletons in wide-eyed agreement with the widow—that a witch was to blame for a man’s death—all while the brutal governor of Montréal attacked women and girls without censure.
The sharp clatter of Barbe Poulin’s voice rang out from the front room, admonishing Élisabeth what to do and what to think. Marthe stood apart, watching them from the doorway, unwilling to sit at the table no matter how much the weight she carried made her groin ache. Élisabeth’s feet were up on a trunk, her head in her hand. Barbe Poulin had stuffed a morsel of bread into her mouth and was chewing with her mouth open, her tongue forcing the sop of bread forward and back until it was the consistency of porridge. Marthe did not like to bother God with much, but she could not help saying a small prayer for the widow to swallow her food.
God paid no heed.
“Well then, little mistress, bring us the news,” Barbe Poulin trilled. The mashed sop was visible for a moment, then disappeared again behind her tongue. “We all know how you like to get about.”
“Did you cross anyone’s path?” Élisabeth loosened her hood and pulled it off her head.
“There was no one out but me,” Marthe mumbled, eyeing the brandy between them on the table. The widow had first opened one of her diluted bottles after they had returned from their grim discovery. A little something to calm their nerves. Now it was becoming habit. But the drink did not seem to have steadied them much, for the alarm Marthe saw on the streets of Ville-Marie was fourfold in her own home.
“What drives you out to walk the streets,” Barbe Poulin said snidely, “I can’t imagine. There is a witch afoot, for goodness’ sake. Use your head.”
“Chérie, won’t you stay inside?” Élisabeth pleaded, a crease in her brow.
Marthe beckoned for her sister to join her in the hallway. She would not step foot inside the widow’s web.
“I won’t forget what I saw for the rest of my days,” Barbe Poulin said as Élisabeth rose. “Eh? Lili? Do you recall? The poor soul’s hands raised, like so, trying to shield himself from the spell that took him?”
“Yes, Maman,” Élisabeth said as she crossed the room. “What is it?” she said to Marthe.
“Must you sit and drink with her all day while she embellishes her tale?”
“I have done nothing of the sort,” Élisabeth said, though her face was flushed. “Perhaps only a little sip or two. You know how the demon torments me, even more so now. Brandy helps Marcosi sleep.”
“Eh? What’s that? Who is Marcosi?” the widow called from her salon.
Marthe threw a glance to Élisabeth. Barbe Poulin lurked at every corner, sniffing out her words like a bitch after another dog’s urine.
“No one, Maman,” Élisabeth said, blushing. “I said the brandy makes my toes sleep.”
“Ah, mine too, child, mine too.” The widow put her feet up on the trunk.
Marthe lowered her voice. “Take care, Lili. If you are drinking to tame your worries, you are headed for ruin.”
Élisabeth steepled her hands in prayer. “You do not understand my suffering.”
Marthe could not bite her tongue any longer. “Oh, but Maman Poulin does?”
“Marthe, I have been thinking. Given Dufossé’s death, I do not believe I should deceive Maman Poulin any longer. I must tell her about Rémy, the demon, Jeanne, all of it—”
“No! You mustn’t. Jeanne had nothing to do with that man’s death, as you well know. And if you tell Barbe Poulin about the demon, how long do you think it would take for the widow to betray you to the priest? She will see you accused of both fornication and witchcraft before the day is out.”
Élisabeth frowned at the reminder of her past sins. “Marthe, listen to me. I know what I risk, but I ampossessed. I must conquer my fear and tell Maman Poulin. She cares for me; I know she does. She will help give me the strength to go to the priest to be exorcised, now before matters worsen—”
“Lili, do you not see that all the blame that widow has whipped up will land onyou? You could be accused of causing Dufossé’s death!”
“But what can I do? What in Heaven’s name can I do? The demon writhes in my entrails and squeezes my heart. It is so angry. One day soon, this unholyspirit will surely command me to howl like a wolf in public or force me into contorted leaps across the Place Royale—”
The bakery door opened and a gust of cold air swept the floor. Marthe watched the colour drain from Élisabeth’s face, then turned to the figure filling the doorway.
