—There is a child here. Isabelle placed a hand on her belly and stared defiantly at Etienne.

In an instant his pale eyes darkened like the shadow of a cloud crossing a field. He looked at her hard, calculating.

—I will tell my father, then we must tell your parents. She swallowed. What will they say?

—They’ll let us marry now. It would look worse if they said no when there is a child.

—They’ll think I did it deliberately.
—Did you? His eyes met hers. They were cold now.
—It was you who wanted the Sin, Etienne.
—Ah, but you wanted it too, La Rousse.
—I wish Maman were here, she said softly. I wish Marie were here.

Her father acted as if he had not heard her. He sat on the bench by the door and scraped at a branch with his knife; he was making a new pole for the hoe he had broken earlier that day. Isabelle stood motionless in front of him. She had said it so quietly that she began to think she would have to repeat herself. She opened her mouth to speak when he said:

—You have all left me

—I’m sorry, Papa. He says he won’t live here.

—I wouldn’t have a Tournier in my house. This farm won’t go to you when I die. You’ll get your dowry, but I will leave the farm to my nephews over at l’Hôpital. A Tournier will never get my land.

—The twins will return from the wars, she suggested, fighting tears.

—No. They will die. They’re not soldiers, but farmers. You know that. Two years and no word from them. Plenty have passed through from the north and no news.

Isabelle left her father sitting on the bench and walked across their fields, along the river, down to the Tournier farm. It was late, more dark than light, long shadows cast along the hills and the terraced fields full of half-grown rye. A flock of starlings sang in the trees. The route between the two farms seemed long now, at the end of it Etienne's mother. Isabelle began walking more slowly.

She had reached the Tourniers’ empty cleda, the season’s chestnuts long since dried, when she saw the grey shadow emerge skittishly from the trees to stand in the path.

—Sainte Vierge, aide-moi, she prayed automatically. She watched the wolf watching her, its yellow eyes bright despite the gloom. When it began to move towards her Isabelle heard a voice in her head:

—Don’t let this happen to you too.

She crouched and picked up a large branch. The wolf stopped. She stood up and advanced, waving the stick and shouting. The wolf began to move backwards, and when Isabelle pretended to throw the branch, it turned and skittered sideways, disappearing into the trees.

Isabelle ran from the woods and across a field, rye cutting into her calves. She reached the rock shaped like a mushroom that marked the bottom of the Tourniers’ kitchen garden and stopped to catch her breath. Her fear of Etienne’s mother was gone.

—Thank you, Maman, she said softly. I won’t forget. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14