Élisabeth looked stunned, the expression on her face a mixture of fury and fear. “Y-you brought her here? For this purpose?”
Francoeur stepped towards her. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. Élisabeth, I am worried about you. Let Jeanne help you.”
“I already asked Jeanne for help and she refused me.”
“We are discussing medicine now, not folklore,” Jeanne Roy replied, her voice dripping disdain.
“Medicine? Do you mean gibberish aboutblack bile?”
“It is curious to me how humoral theory, understood since the time of the ancient Greeks, can be called gibberish by one who believes inwitches,” Jeanne snapped. “That istruegibberish.”
Élisabeth began to wring her hands, looking from Jeanne to her husband. Marthe could not let her twist any longer.
“Lili, listen. I know you fear what happened to Papa. But Jeanne says that if we let out a little bit of your blood, it will release the… demon. Isn’t that right, Jeanne?”
“No, that is not correct,” Jeanne said. “There are no such creatures as demons. Or witches. But letting a vein breathe will let out the bad humours that are making your sister ill.”
“Let my vein breathe?” Élisabeth was veering into panic. She turned to Francoeur. “Breathe? She will butcher me. And then God help us all. Marcosi will not stand for it! Marcosi will attack—”
“Stop.” Francoeur held up his hand. “It is because of this… thisthingthat we must listen to Jeanne. A little bloodletting will not kill you.”
“But itdidkill my father,” Élisabeth cried, her eyes darting between them. “Every time the barber came with his nasty little knives, Papa only weakened. So the barber said he must take more, more,more. He gouged Papa’s vein with his fat fingers and then, too late, he tried to stop the flow. The cut was too deep. The blood would not stop. The fool stammered and squeezed our father’s arm, as he lay bleeding at the kitchen table. He was such a strong man. But he faded away, as meek as a lamb. And I could do nothing—nothing!—but take my cloth and wipe his blood from the floor.”
“A country barber with no training might kill a patient,” Jeanne Roy said softly. “But I won’t make that error. You will be safe.”
“But youknowthe cure I need. I asked you to use your magic and you laughed at me. You called me a peasant! You said I was ignorant.”
“I did not mean it as an insult. It is a fact. Youareignorant. You talk of magic and have no education, no learning—”
“Idohave learning. I know my sums. I can run a household and a farm, which I wager is more than you can do.” Élisabeth was speaking quickly, like a rat in a trap, scrambling for any escape.
“Listen. You need to be bled to get well. The more you argue against it, the more you demonstrate your ignorance.”
“I do listen! I listen and learn all the time. I listen in church, and at market. And here in the bakery.” Élisabeth’s tongue slowed. “And I certainly listened when Father de Sancy told us about Chamberlen’s Secret.”
Jeanne Roy took a step backwards and nearly bumped into Francoeur. “What do you know about Chamberlen’s Secret?”
“I know how powerful it is,” Élisabeth said, her voice steady. “And I know it must beyouwho has it.”
Jeanne Roy paused, and looked at Élisabeth as if she was assessing her for the first time. Finally, she shifted her weight and spoke.
“It is true. I do have Chamberlen’s Secret. But whatever that priest has told you is wrong. It is certainly not what you imagine. It can be no use to you. What you need, Élisabeth, is to be bled.”
“Chérie, listen to Jeanne,” Francoeur reasoned. “Don’t be so wayward.”
Élisabeth’s hands flew to her ears. Her eyes were wild, and a red flush crept up her neck to her cheeks. Marthe took a step forward to calm her sister but stopped when Élisabeth began to scream.
“Maman Poulin!” Élisabeth rushed out of the workroom. Marthe gasped and bolted after her, Francoeur and Jeanne Roy close behind. “Maman Poulin!” Élisabeth cried again. “Jeanne Roy has confessed!Shehas Chamberlen’s Secret!”
Marthe’s heart raced. The child inside her began to kick furiously as Élisabeth lifted her hand and pointed her finger at Jeanne Roy.
“She… she killed the man on the woodpile. She is the witch that Father de Sancy seeks. Jeanne Roy is the queen of the Normandy coven!”
33
“Ridiculous,” Jeanne Roy snorted, but there was a look of fear in her eyes that gave Élisabeth a strange feeling of power. “I did not kill anyone. Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because… because… you are the Winter Witch!” Élisabeth said, her mind racing. It made sense. Jeanne was no different from the hag that cursed her. She loved the cold; snowflakes glittered in her hair. They were one and the same. Winter witches both.
