Élisabeth folded her hands in her lap. She wished her neighbour would leave. She did not want to hear any more. She turned and stared out at the river, trying to ignore Hélène’s glare. A handful of skiffs were already out on the open waters, hurrying firewood and other supplies across the river. Élisabeth saw a native woman in a canoe, paddling close to shore. She squinted at her, watching her progress.
“You seem able to keep your counsel now,” Hélène said. Still Élisabeth gazed at the river, wondering where the woman in the canoe was going. Hélène stepped in front of her to block her view of the Saint-Laurent.
“You did not have to cause us all such grief! It was a simple enough thing, and you ruined it.”
Élisabeth stared at her neighbour’s pinched face, then glanced back to the water. The native woman was disappearing out of view, now hidden by a thicket of trees on the riverbank.
“At least tell me again what he said to you. So that I may know if it was worth it.”
“What would you have me tell you that you don’t already know?” Élisabeth’s voice was hoarse from howling.
“I want to hear all of it,” Hélène demanded. “From the start.”
Élisabeth tore her eyes away from the river. She was weary but she knew her neighbour would not leave until she was satisfied. She took a breath. “Father de Sancy told us that the witch queen—”
“I don’t care about the damned priest!” Hélène cried. She took a step closer. “I want to know aboutMichel. Tell me again what he said about coming to look for me. How he hoped to find me widowed.”
Élisabeth blinked. Hélène meant the sailor on theSaint-Jean-Baptiste. The one who had saved her when she jumped overboard.
“Tell me about Michel, and how he calls me his mermaid still.” Hélène let out a deep sigh and collapsed onto the stump, putting her head in her hands.
Élisabeth recognized that sigh. It was the sound of exquisite longing. She thought of what she had once done to be reunited with Rémy. The lunacy that came of longing.
A wave of understanding came crashing over her.
“Hélène, did you lock your husband in our cowshed?”
The neighbour lifted her head from her hands. Her shoulders were hunched,her meekness returning at the mention of Dufossé. “I will never own it,” she whispered.
“You shut him in, to freeze to death?”
Hélène said nothing.
“How?” Élisabeth persisted. “How did you do it?”
“It was a simple enough thing,” Hélène said in a small voice. “He’d been stealing your wood all winter, ever since Francoeur left for Québec. Dufossé was in and out of your shed every few days. I only needed to fill him up with brandy and follow him. Then I shut the door and barred it. At first he was angry to be trapped, but I convinced him the door was accidentally stuck. I counselled him not to break it down lest you realize he’d been thieving. I bid him to sit quietly on the woodpile while I dug him out. Then I sang him a song. The same lullaby I sang to our child, before my husband shook him to death for crying for his mother in the night.” Hélène’s voice was bitter as she rose from the stump and brushed down her skirts.
“With the brandy’s help it did not take long for Dufossé to fall asleep. He felt no pain as he died. More’s the pity.”
Élisabeth felt sick, as bilious as she had ever been on the sea-tossed ship. She stared at Hélène. Jeanne Roy had not caused her husband to die. The witch had not bewitched the neighbour into awaiting his own death. It was the work of a mermaid caught flailing in a cruel man’s net, luring him with her siren song.
Consider, consider. Witchcraft does not exist.
What had she done? Suddenly Élisabeth felt the urge to run, to flee the monstrous mistake she had made. She stood and turned towards the forest.
“Where are you going?” Hélène called after her. “You will not tell anyone, will you? I will not own it! I will never confess!”
Élisabeth felt her heart pound as she ran past the house Francoeur had built with his bare hands. She reached the path at the edge of the woods. It hadnot been trodden for weeks and there was still snow in the shadows where the sun did not penetrate. Still she pressed on, not stopping when she slipped and branches tore at her face.
She reached the witch’s hut and pushed open the door.
A native woman was inside.
Élisabeth blinked to adjust to the gloomy light. The woman wore a blanket coat pulled snug around her waist with a bright scarf. Élisabeth had seen her before, at the Hôtel Dieu chapel, talking to Jeanne Roy.
“It’s—it’s you,” Élisabeth said, her breath coming in sharp pants.
The woman gave her a disinterested look. “I’m Angélique’s friend, Wari.”
