“Angélique is her real name?”
“You must be the neighbour.”
Élisabeth realized the entire village must know that she had been the one to accuse Jeanne Roy of witchcraft. “I am, yes.”
“The one with the demon spirit.”
Élisabeth was stunned to hear the truth from this stranger’s lips. She looked away, her eyes sweeping across the hut. Jeanne Roy had clearly spread her story, even as she refused to help. Élisabeth could not bear the stranger’s gaze. She stared at the cabin walls, still hung with furs and bunches of dried herbs, then shifted her eyes to the wooden table, where a goose feather lay next to a pile of stones and a pot of ink. Small glass bottles half filled with liquid were clustered nearby. The cabin was so thick with magic the air nearly shimmered with spells. It was absurd to deny it. Élisabeth turned back to the witch’s friend.
“What did she tell you about my demon, then? She who claims that demons and witches do not exist.”
Wari sat down on a stool by Jeanne Roy’s small fire pit. She pulled off one of her boots and wiggled her toes, then felt inside and pulled out a pine needle. Only when she put her boot back on did she turn to face Élisabeth.
“It is true that Angélique does not believe in demons. But I am curious about how you manage to live with one inside you. What is that like? Does it cause you to suffer greatly?”
Élisabeth gawped at the woman. “No one has ever asked me that before.” It was true. Marthe was embarrassed by her. Jeanne Roy had ridiculed her. Francoeur tried to fix her. But no one had ever asked her to merely describe her affliction. She sat down next to Wari.
“I do suffer,” Élisabeth confessed. “More than anyone could imagine.” Élisabeth gazed at the goose feather on the table at the back of the hut. “Although… although I expect it is what I deserve.”
“You deserve to suffer?”
“Yes. I was wayward, in France. I led a wayward life. I did not do as my mother taught me.”
“I’m sorry, my French is not perfect…” Wari wrinkled her nose. “What does it mean,wayward?”
Élisabeth considered this for a moment. “I suppose it means that I turned away from the right path. And so the Devil sent the Winter Witch to curse me.”
“You chose your own path? I would call that freedom.”
Élisabeth was so shocked she laughed out loud. “No, no, this is not freedom. This suffering—snakes in my knees and wings in my belly—this is not freedom, this is… this is fear.”
Wari nodded. “I suppose itisfrightening to travel an unknown road.”
Élisabeth was struck dumb by the woman’s words. Once again two ideas twisted together: She was wayward, she deserved the demon’s torment. Or she was wayward, travelling an exhilarating new path.
Wari stood up, appearing tired of their conversation. “Perhaps your demon has given you new strength. I wish you luck.”
Élisabeth mirrored her, leaping to her feet. “What do you mean by strength? Can I be rid of this demon? Can I… can I bear children? For I fear that thefeeling of the spirit lunging and growling inside me means that I am still barren. That I am still cursed.”
The stranger pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She looked past Élisabeth to the door. “Why did you not accept the cure that Angélique offered you?”
“She was going to bleed me! Opening my vein cannot cure a demon. Magic is what is needed. Jeanne could have broken the spell, but she kept her magic to herself.”
The woman looked at her. “If you believe Angélique has magic, then why would the cure she offered you not also be magical?”
Élisabeth faltered again. She had not considered this. She knew there was always a price to pay when seeking a witch’s help. That blood sometimes had to be spilled. Perhaps Jeanne Roy’s talk of bloodletting was merely the price of the magic she meant to perform. If only the witch had explained that, rather than making Élisabeth feel so stupid and small.
“I… I thought she would give me a potion. Something to drink.”
The woman adjusted the strap of the bag against her shoulder. She made for the door.
“Wait,” Élisabeth said. “Do you think witchcraft is real? Is Jeanne Roy truly a witch who could cure me of my demon?”
Wari relaxed her grip on the strap of the beaded bag. “These words—witch, witchcraft—are French words. I would call Angélique a medicine woman. Is that the same aswitch?”
“I-I don’t know,” Élisabeth said. “I think one is born with magic, but medicine must be learned.”
“Angélique learned her medicine.” Wari stopped and studied Élisabeth’s face. Then she sighed. “I want to tell you something about Angélique. Something that I hope will bring balance to how you see her. Will you listen?”
