“What are you saying?” Maman Poulin reached her hand out, whether to steady herself or ward off Jeanne Roy, Élisabeth could not tell. “Who is the Winter Witch?”
“She comes out in the darkest months to steal what is not hers. She took Dufossé’s life. She cast a spell on him to make him sit down and die. Now she wants my blood. Next she might… she might take Marthe’s baby! Or any of your children.” Élisabeth pointed at Rose and Lou, then at their husbands. Marthe covered her mouth with her hands. Élisabeth’s ears rang and she could feel sweat under her arms. A feverish heat spread across her chest and back. This was the cost of finally finding her tongue. The toll of righteousness, now that she was no longer afraid to tell the truth.
“Blessed Virgin, stop!” Marthe grabbed her belly.
Élisabeth spun round to address the group. “She was banished from France. She made up a new name. She stole my papers to be allowed passage to Ville-Marie.”
“It’s not true,” Rose quivered, but there was doubt in her voice.
“It is,” Élisabeth said, raising her chin. “Ask the witch herself. Do you deny it, Jeanne Roy, or whatever your name is?”
Every pair of eyes in the room turned to Jeanne Roy. Marthe looked nervously at her, shaking her head, as if willing her not to speak. The men shifted on their feet, unsure whether this was women’s business, or something more serious. Slowly, evenly, Jeanne Roy crossed her arms.
“I am not a witch, and I am not a queen,” she said.
Rose and Lou exhaled as one. The men rubbed their beards and Francoeur started to unclench his fists. But then Jeanne Roy’s lips twitched. She pressed one hand to her mouth as if she were stifling a scream. She released her fingers and held her hand up, instantly stopping all activity in the room, as if she could control the movement of every man and woman before her with a flick of her fingers.
“But it is true that Jeanne Roy is not my name. And that I was among those poor souls banished by the king.”
Maman Poulin gasped. “Sheisthe witch queen!”
“Jeanne, stop,” Marthe cried. “Don’t say any more.”
“No. I am tired of all the stupidity. The days of magic-riddled nonsense must be behind us.” She lowered her hand, and they were suddenly able to move again. Jambon put his arm around his wife. Francoeur took a step towards Élisabeth, but she evaded his grasp. Jeanne turned to meet their gaze.
“I was the victim of a false accusation, made out of jealousy and spite. I would have been put to death for that lie, but the king granted me clemency. He knows, as all but the most ignorant do, that witchcraft is not real. It is a salve for silly minds. For those who do not have the fortitude to approach theirproblems with the patience and hard work they require. The king knows it, anyone with learning knows it. And it is only by shedding the true light of reason on this superstition that it will wither and die.”
“So you do not deny it?” Maman Poulin asked, gleeful.
“There is nothing to deny,” Jeanne Roy retorted. “Witchcraft is not real. I was convicted of nothing and banished for nothing.”
“And what of the dead man in the barn?” Maman Poulin said. “He was bewitched into sitting down to freeze to death!”
“Enough,” Francoeur thundered. “Élisabeth. Recant your lies now.”
“But she admits it herself!” Élisabeth said.
“She admits no such thing. That man’s death was an accident. Jeanne has done no wrong.” He turned to his neighbour. “I am sorry. My wife is not well, as you know. We will see you safely home. Jambon, Lajeunesse, make room in your sleigh for Jeanne.”
The two men looked nervous until Rose prodded her husband’s shoulder. “You will come to no harm,” she whispered to Lajeunesse. “She is a white witch.”
“And you,” he turned to Élisabeth, “come with me.” She could feel him fume as he laid her cloak on her shoulders and pulled her outside.
“Don’t be angry.” The wind whipped across her cheeks. “I was only doing what I should have done from the start: my duty. I had to let you know what she really is.”
“What is your duty, Élisabeth? All I know is that you want to avoid the treatment that you need. Now your fear of a lancet may have condemned a soul to death.”
“But that witch is a danger to us! She is the one Father de Sancy seeks.”
“Élisabeth, your melancholy has made you wild. You must come home and rest.” He moved to grab her by the arm.
She cringed, ducking away from him. “Don’t!”
Francoeur closed his eyes and placed his hands over his face. Then he ran them through his beard, tugging at the ends until he winced. He opened hiseyes, giving her a long look. Finally, he turned to grab the snowshoes he had propped up against the house.
“Francoeur? What are you doing?” He slipped his boots into the wooden rackets and started lacing them up. “You heard her yourself. She admitted she has Chamberlen’s Secret.” Her husband stood up, his feet laced in, and started to walk away. “Francoeur! Wait!”
He stopped and turned back towards her. “We are a lost cause. We cannot be saved.”
