She had never been inside the Tourniers’ farm, though it was not far from her father’s, down along the river. It was the largest farm in the area apart from that of the Duc, who lived further down the valley, half a day’s walk towards Florac. It was said to have been built 100 years before, with additions over time: a pig sty, a threshing floor, a tiled roof to replace the thatch. Jean and his cousin Hannah had married late, had only three children, were careful, powerful, remote. Evening visits to their hearth were rare.

Despite their influence Isabelle’s father had never been quiet about his scorn.

—They marry their cousins, Henri du Moulin scoffed. They give money to the church but they wouldn’t give a moldy chestnut to a beggar. And they kiss three times, as if two were not enough.

The farm was spread along a slope in an L shape, the entrance in the crux, facing south. Etienne led her inside. His parents and two hired workers were planting in the fields; his sister, Susanne, was working at the bottom of the kitchen garden.

Inside it was quiet and still. All Isabelle could hear were the muted grunts of pigs. She admired the sty, the barn twice the size of her father’s. She stood in the common room, touching the long wooden table lightly with her fingertips as if to steady herself. The room was tidy, newly swept, pots hung at even intervals from hooks on the walls. The hearth took up a whole end of the room, so big all of her family and the Tourniers could stand in it together — all of her family before she began to lose them. Her sister, dead. Her mother, dead. Her brothers, soldiers. Just she and her father now.

—La Rousse.

She turned around, saw Etienne’s eyes, the swagger in his stride, and backed up until granite touched her back. He matched her step and put his hands on her hips.

— Not here, she said. Not in your parents’ house, on the hearth. If your mother—
Etienne dropped his hands. The mention of his mother was enough to tame him.

—Have you asked them?

He was silent. His broad shoulders sagged and he stared off into a corner.

—You have not asked them.

—I’ll be twenty-five soon and I can do what I want then. I won’t need their permission then.

Of course they don’t want us to marry, Isabelle thought. My family is poor, we have nothing, but they are rich, they have a Bible, a horse, they can write. They marry their cousins, they are friends with Monsieur Marcel. Jean Tournier is the Duc de l'Aigle’s syndic, collecting tax from us. They would never accept as their daughter a girl they call La Rousse.

—We could live with my father, she suggested. It has been hard for him without my brothers. He needs—
—Never.
—So we must live here.
—Yes.
—Without their consent.

Etienne shifted his weight from one leg to the other, leaned against the edge of the table, crossed his arms. He looked at her directly.

—If they don’t like you, he said softly, it’s your own fault, La Rousse.

Isabelle’s arms stiffened, her hands curled into fists.

—I have done nothing wrong! she cried. I believe in the Truth.

He smiled.

—But you love the Virgin, yes?

She bowed her head, fists still clenched.

—And your mother was a witch.

—What did you say? she whispered.

—That wolf that bit your mother, he was sent by the devil to bring her to him. And all those babies dying.

She glared at him.

—You think my mother made her own daughter die? Her own granddaughter die?

—When you are my wife, he said, you will not be a midwife. He took her hand and pulled her towards the barn, away from his parents’ hearth.

—Why do you want me? she asked in a low voice he could not hear. She answered herself: Because I am the one his mother hates most. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14