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The old woman looked at the book on Reine-Marie’s lap, in which, they were certain, was a surefire cure for warts.

“Oh yes,” she continued, “and breasts / And a sweet pear hidden in my body. / Whenever there’s talk of demons, those come in handy.”

It was the poem Ruth had written for the women murdered in the Polytechnique.

They were silent for a moment, before Reine-Marie spoke.

“Anne Lamarque was one of the Filles du roi. One of the women recruited by the King to help colonize New France. But rather than be subservient, as expected, she stood out.”

“How?” asked Clara.

“Well, among other things, she wore glasses and could read,” said Reine-Marie.

“You’d have been screwed,” Ruth said to Reine-Marie. “All of you. All of us. We’d be witches.”

Myrna laughed. Then grew serious, realizing Ruth was right. They’d have been screwed. They’d have been witches.

“It went beyond the fact she could read,” said Reine-Marie.

“True,” said Ruth. “She pissed off the authorities by owning and running a business. A successful inn in the seedier part of town, back when Montréal was little more than a puddle of shit and broken promises.”

“The church wanted to exert control, so they imposed a curfew,” said Reine-Marie. “And banned alcohol.”

“When the priests showed up to close her down, Anne told them to fuck off,” said Ruth, as though she’d been there. “Then chased them down the street shouting abuse. That pretty much sealed her fate. Bishop Laval and the Jesuits hated her for defying them.”

“For proving it was possible to defy them,” said Clara.

“Oui,” said Reine-Marie, nodding. “She was a brave woman. By all accounts a robust, generous, and brilliant woman who loved to sing and dance and laugh. A bit undisciplined, perhaps. She might not have seriously considered the consequences. But she meant no harm. New France was a pretty joyless place. She and her inn were bright spots.”

All four women in the room knew they too would have been targeted. For dancing and reading and having breasts and wombs and minds of their own. For laughing.

And God only knew what would have happened to Gabri, to all the Gabris.

They were quiet for a moment, imagining Anne. Her inn. The dirt floor, the homemade booze. The dancing. The singing. The laughter. The respite from the wilderness. From fear and despair.

And then they saw the black-robed figures, the joyless Jesuits arriving.

Myrna, Clara, Ruth, Reine-Marie, and Gabri watched as Anne kicked the clerics out, into the filth that was Montréal in the 1670s. They could hear the riotous, the dangerous, the lethal laughter that followed the humiliated men as they ran away.

And then … And then …

Reine-Marie looked down at the book. And then what? How did it get here? In Three Pines.

Sam looked out the window, then said, “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“It’s raining,” said Fiona. “I’m staying here.”

“Fine.” Sam got up and looked at Harriet. “How about you? You won’t melt in the rain, will you?”

Harriet smiled. “Like the Wicked Witch? I don’t think so.”

Fiona watched Sam. She hadn’t seen much of him, not since she was put in prison and he wasn’t. She hadn’t seen him grow up. Into a man. And yet, she still thought of him as a child.

Were they ever children?

The talk of forgiveness had shaken her. Could everything really be forgiven? Even what she’d done? Even what she was about to do?

She remembered what the minister had said to Sam. About goodness. And what he had not said to her.