witchcraft.”
Bridget bucked and shrieked as though to confirm her grandmother’s words. She tossed her head from side to side.
Meg clasped the girl’s head to stop the wild movements. “Bridget. Bridget Tillet. Open your eyes and look at me.”
The girl writhed beneath Meg’s restraining grasp. When Meg repeated her command in a firmer voice, Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open. Meg stared deep into the blue depths, capturing Bridget’s gaze and holding it.
The girl’s eyes were remarkably clear, unclouded by anything other than fear and defiance. From the time she had been a child, Meg had been adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes. She felt she had lost some of her skill as she had grown older, but Bridget Tillet was a simple country girl. She possessed neither the cunning of madness nor the guile to keep Meg from discerning her thoughts.
Discomfited by Meg’s probing, Bridget twisted her head to one side, letting out a howl of protest when Meg peeled back the blanket further to examine her.
Bridget’s chemise was soaked with sweat, outlining her thin frame. There did appear to be a slight protrusion in the region of her abdomen. Meg ran her hands gently, but firmly over the swelling. Bridget jerked beneath her touch, scrabbling for possession of the coverlet.
“Grandmère! Help me. Make her stop.”
Sidonie clutched her granddaughter’s hand. “I am here, my child. What ails you, dearest? Tell me where it hurts.”
“Everywhere. I ache, I burn! Old Mère Poulet torments me so. She swears not even the Lady of Faire Isle shall save me. Oh, cannot you hear her horrible cackling laugh, Grandmère?”
“No. Oh my poor angel!”
Poor devil would have been a more apt description of Bridget Tillet, Meg thought. She swallowed the caustic remark, realizing it would do little good. The girl was faking this possession and doing it badly. Meg had encountered far more clever deceivers. But Bridget’s performance was quite good enough to terrify the credulous villagers of Pernod and cause a harmless old woman to be hanged for witchcraft.
She longed to seize Bridget by the shoulders and shake a confession from the foolish girl, but that would prove no remedy. If she confronted Bridget and called her a liar, the girl might well turn on Meg, naming her as a witch in league with la Mère Poulet to torment her. Meg realized if she was to have the truth out of Bridget Tillet, it would require more subtle means and she would have a better chance of that if she was alone with the girl.
Meg drew the coverlet back over the girl. “Alas,” she said. “It is all too apparent this poor child is cursed. Fortunately, I do know how to break this witch’s hold over her. There is a powerful spell I can use, but I will need help.”
“Anything,” Sidonie said. “Anything to save my granddaughter.”
“I need you to go below and brew up a kettle of water. And you—you must, er, fetch some garlic. Chop up a large quantity of it.”
“Garlic?”
“Yes,” Meg replied solemnly. “For my spell.”
The old woman looked mystified by her request, but hastened below to obey. As Sidonie left the room, Meg caught a glimpse of Denys Brunel pacing on the landing. He darted an anguished look in the direction of the room.
It struck Meg that the young man took far too tender an interest in these events for one who claimed to be merely a good friend of the Tillet family. An idea formed in her mind, one not without its risks, but she hoped it would succeed.
She stepped out into the hall, offered the boy a reassuring smile, but refused to answer any of his anxious questions. She sent him down to fetch Seraphine, and when her friend approached, Meg asked, “How fare matters below?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” Seraphine said in a disgruntled tone. “No one has left to go after old Mère Poulet, but that is due less to my charms than that blasted English doctor. He has been lavish with his coin, buying
Bridget bucked and shrieked as though to confirm her grandmother’s words. She tossed her head from side to side.
Meg clasped the girl’s head to stop the wild movements. “Bridget. Bridget Tillet. Open your eyes and look at me.”
The girl writhed beneath Meg’s restraining grasp. When Meg repeated her command in a firmer voice, Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open. Meg stared deep into the blue depths, capturing Bridget’s gaze and holding it.
The girl’s eyes were remarkably clear, unclouded by anything other than fear and defiance. From the time she had been a child, Meg had been adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes. She felt she had lost some of her skill as she had grown older, but Bridget Tillet was a simple country girl. She possessed neither the cunning of madness nor the guile to keep Meg from discerning her thoughts.
Discomfited by Meg’s probing, Bridget twisted her head to one side, letting out a howl of protest when Meg peeled back the blanket further to examine her.
Bridget’s chemise was soaked with sweat, outlining her thin frame. There did appear to be a slight protrusion in the region of her abdomen. Meg ran her hands gently, but firmly over the swelling. Bridget jerked beneath her touch, scrabbling for possession of the coverlet.
“Grandmère! Help me. Make her stop.”
Sidonie clutched her granddaughter’s hand. “I am here, my child. What ails you, dearest? Tell me where it hurts.”
“Everywhere. I ache, I burn! Old Mère Poulet torments me so. She swears not even the Lady of Faire Isle shall save me. Oh, cannot you hear her horrible cackling laugh, Grandmère?”
“No. Oh my poor angel!”
Poor devil would have been a more apt description of Bridget Tillet, Meg thought. She swallowed the caustic remark, realizing it would do little good. The girl was faking this possession and doing it badly. Meg had encountered far more clever deceivers. But Bridget’s performance was quite good enough to terrify the credulous villagers of Pernod and cause a harmless old woman to be hanged for witchcraft.
She longed to seize Bridget by the shoulders and shake a confession from the foolish girl, but that would prove no remedy. If she confronted Bridget and called her a liar, the girl might well turn on Meg, naming her as a witch in league with la Mère Poulet to torment her. Meg realized if she was to have the truth out of Bridget Tillet, it would require more subtle means and she would have a better chance of that if she was alone with the girl.
Meg drew the coverlet back over the girl. “Alas,” she said. “It is all too apparent this poor child is cursed. Fortunately, I do know how to break this witch’s hold over her. There is a powerful spell I can use, but I will need help.”
“Anything,” Sidonie said. “Anything to save my granddaughter.”
“I need you to go below and brew up a kettle of water. And you—you must, er, fetch some garlic. Chop up a large quantity of it.”
“Garlic?”
“Yes,” Meg replied solemnly. “For my spell.”
The old woman looked mystified by her request, but hastened below to obey. As Sidonie left the room, Meg caught a glimpse of Denys Brunel pacing on the landing. He darted an anguished look in the direction of the room.
It struck Meg that the young man took far too tender an interest in these events for one who claimed to be merely a good friend of the Tillet family. An idea formed in her mind, one not without its risks, but she hoped it would succeed.
She stepped out into the hall, offered the boy a reassuring smile, but refused to answer any of his anxious questions. She sent him down to fetch Seraphine, and when her friend approached, Meg asked, “How fare matters below?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” Seraphine said in a disgruntled tone. “No one has left to go after old Mère Poulet, but that is due less to my charms than that blasted English doctor. He has been lavish with his coin, buying
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