Chapter 16

‘Help! Help us!’

Sidonie looked up from the flower she had been studying in the garden. A bright-yellow bloom comprising bunches of flower heads tightly packed together. Yarrow – one of the remedies Apolline had used on Olivier.

‘We need help!’

Three strange men had pushed through the heavy ironwork gates, leaving them gaping widely like an open mouth in a soundless cry as they ran towards the house. The instinctive urge to retreat from loud, male voices disappeared when she saw what one of the men carried in his arms.

Antoine stood by the open door and Sidonie rushed past him to the receiving room, into a mass of noise and a confusion of human bodies. She pushed Fabien and a frightened-looking Lyse aside.

‘Where’s Aunt Eloise?’ Sidonie asked.

The man with the bundle in his arms had his back to her. She reached for his shoulder to turn him. The back of his shirt was damp, soaked through with sweat.

‘She needs help,’ the man said, turning to face Sidonie. His cloth-covered arms and chest were red with gore, and a thick smear of dried blood ran from his forehead to his cheek. His knuckles were white, and his arms trembled as he clutched the bundle to his chest. Sidonie gasped; the thing he carried was a child – a girl. Pieces of her shredded dress hung from the man’s arms, as if she were falling to pieces right before their eyes. Mother Mary, how could she be alive?

She reached for the girl, but the man held her closer to his chest.

‘I have to see if she breathes,’ she explained.

The man holding the child was breathing in short and shallow gasps. He might drop the girl if he did not place her down soon. She coaxed him to lay the child down on the rug and pressed her head to the girl’s chest. There was a heartbeat, but it was erratic.

The girl’s lips were moving as if trying to speak. ‘Louis? she said faintly, blood spilling from her lips.

‘Fabien,’ Sidonie said to the groundskeeper. ‘Run for the surgeon. Bring him here as fast as you can.’

Fabien nearly collided with Aunt Eloise on his way out.

‘Whatever is going on?’ Aunt Eloise said, her eyes alighting on Sidonie and the man with a bloodstained shirtfront. ‘Gaston? What are you doing here?’ When she saw the girl, she dropped to her knees beside Sidonie.

‘I know this girl,’ Sidonie said to her aunt. ‘It was she who came here barely a week past with her brother – at least, I think it was her brother – looking for help.’

‘There is no time for that,’ Aunt Eloise said. ‘Sidonie? Sidonie!’ She snapped her fingers in front of Sidonie’s face. ‘Tell me what you need me to do.’

It brought her back to the moment. If only she could still her shaking hands. ‘I need boiled water. And a clean knife. Very sharp.’

‘Lyse! Fetch hot water and a sharp knife. Make sure it’s clean,’ Aunt Eloise said before turning back to Sidonie. ‘What else?’

The girl moaned and Sidonie winced. ‘Something for the pain. Do you have syrup of the poppy?’

‘We have it,’ Liane said quietly. Sidonie hadn’t even noticed her enter the room. ‘I’ll run and fetch it.’

‘Send Cerise,’ Aunt Eloise said.

Liane shook her head. ‘It’s best if she stays away from all of this.’

Lyse placed a basin of hot water, a cloth and a knife in front of Sidonie. Aunt Eloise dismissed her.

‘I want to stay. I can help,’ Lyse said.

‘Go to the gate and watch for the surgeon,’ Aunt Eloise said. ‘Please, my dear.’

‘Lyse, wait!’ Sidonie said. ‘Do you have a spare chemise? We will need something for the girl to wear.’ Sidonie lifted the knife, but her hands were still shaking. ‘Help me?’ she asked her aunt.

Aunt Eloise took the knife from her hand and used it to cut away the girl’s clothing. ‘Oh, my poor sweet child. What could have done such a thing?’

The girl’s body was so awash with blood that it was difficult to see the extent of the damage, let alone determine the cause. Sidonie waited until Liane returned with syrup of the poppy, adding drops directly into the girl’s mouth. When her body stilled and her eyelids began to flicker, Sidonie knew the medicine had taken effect.

She soaked a cloth in water and began wiping away the blood as gently as she could. Every pass of the cloth revealed more torn skin. The savagery of this attack – it was unlike anything she had ever seen. There were so many wounds. It was a miracle the girl had survived this long. There was a gash on her neck that ran across her collarbone, another on her left arm and one on her right thigh. Turning the girl onto her side, she saw a smaller wound across her left buttock. But the one that worried Sidonie the most was the cut across her back. It was so deep she could see exposed bone and muscle. The lacerations were jagged and uneven – had an animal caused this? A wild dog, maybe? Or – Sidonie shuddered as the thought entered her mind – a wolf .

Two of the men who had brought the girl were standing by the door. Gaston crouched anxiously by Sidonie’s shoulder. Beneath the odour of sweat and the metallic reek of blood, she could smell ale.

‘I need spirit, thread and a needle tough enough to pierce flesh,’ Sidonie ordered, pinching together the torn flesh with her fingers. Her gloves made it difficult to gain purchase and she did not want to risk injuring the child further. She pulled them off and thrust them into her pocket.

Gaston produced a flask of strong-smelling spirit while Liane retrieved the other items from her embroidery bag. As she handed the needle and thread over, she glanced down at Sidonie’s hands and drew in a sharp breath. Sidonie took the items without comment.

She tried to be gentle as she poured the alcohol across the girl’s back, but the girl moaned in pain.

‘You’re hurting her!’ Gaston cried, moving forward to stop her.

‘I have to clean the wound before I close it, or sickness will be trapped under the skin.’

She threaded the needle and began to sew the wound together. It took some time, but the wound on the girl’s back was finally closed, and Sidonie moved on to the next one. The girl had stopped moaning, her breathing now ragged and harsh. Blinking back tears, Sidonie focused on her work, even though deep inside she knew it was futile. There was so little of the child to piece together. But she had to do something. She had to do more. She muttered a prayer while she sewed.

As Sidonie tied off the last stitch, she wished she knew the herbs and flowers Apolline had moulded into the clay for Olivier’s poultice. What she did remember was the yellow flower she had seen in the garden.

‘Madame Reynard?’ Sidonie said. ‘Could you cut some yarrow from the garden? And meadowsweet? Mix it with a small amount of oil to form a paste.’

‘Will it help?’ Aunt Eloise asked as her companion hurried away.

‘I don’t know,’ Sidonie said. ‘But it won’t harm her.’

Before long, Liane returned with a small bowl, saying she had done her best. After applying the poultice, Sidonie wrapped the girl’s wounds with clean bandages and dressed her in Lyse’s clean chemise. Lyse was older and larger, but perhaps it was for the best that the material would not cling.

With Gaston’s help, they gently carried the girl to the servants’ wing and placed her on a spare bed. Aunt Eloise had offered her own bed, but Sidonie had objected, fearing that the stairs would be too arduous. They stood around, helpless, watching the girl struggle to breathe, blood-speckled foam forming at the corners of her mouth. Sidonie wiped it away with a fresh cloth.

‘What happened, messieurs? Gaston?’ Aunt Eloise asked.

Gaston tried to speak but his voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘We were going home. The work in the fields had run out too early and they sent us home. We stopped at a tavern along the way. And then when we were walking across the meadow near Authume, a boy came running towards us. Something had got his sister, he said. He took us to her but then he saw something in the trees, and he ran off. I had to bring her here, it was too far to town. After what happened to the other little girl, the sheep farmer’s daughter ... No wolf could do this. They hunt in packs, at night. They go after sheep, not children, and never while the sun is high in the sky. Father Ignace was right – this is the work of a cursed werewolf!’

Aunt Eloise’s head snapped up. ‘Whom did you say?’

Gaston shook his head, turning his face away to hide his tears.

‘Father Ignace is a priest at Notre-Dame,’ Sidonie said, accepting a glass of brandy from Liane.

Aunt Eloise took a glass as well, her eyes staring into the distance.

The hours stretched and they were all trapped in the same nightmare, watching the girl fade before their eyes. When the shadows grew long, Aunt Eloise fetched Lyse and put her to bed.

Night had fallen and Antoine was lighting the lamps when Fabien finally returned with the surgeon. The man had wiry grey hair and a pinched expression as if squinting at something he couldn’t quite see. He folded back the blanket covering the girl and peered beneath the bandages. He enquired about the poultice and murmured approvingly at Sidonie’s stitches as he poked gently around the torn flesh. At no point did the girl move or stir.

‘Where did this happen? Where did you find her?’ he asked, looking around the room. He was met with exhausted silence. It was Liane who finally spoke, reciting the events in her soft, careful tone.

Once the surgeon had the account, he shook his head. ‘Her wounds are similar to the sheep farmer’s daughter who died a month ago, and although damaged she has retained all of her flesh. I had hoped, prayed, that the first was a random attack, but now I know that the monster is still with us. There were no witnesses to the first attack, so you must report to the conciergerie tomorrow, messieurs, and tell them what you saw.’

‘But surely it cannot be a werewolf?’ Aunt Eloise said incredulously. ‘There must be some other explanation.’

‘There have been reports across France of these beasts roaming the lands and terrorising children. Father Ignace believes it to be true and I believe it also. We live in evil times, a time of war, which corrupts the heart and the soul, turning a man monstrous. I am a learned man, madame, but even I must concede that there is great evil in the world that is beyond our comprehension.’

‘Will she live?’ Sidonie asked.

The surgeon’s silence confirmed what she already knew. There was no hope.

‘If we had gotten here sooner? If we’d run faster?’ Gaston said.

The surgeon shook his head. ‘It would not have made any difference. These wounds are fatal. With your treatment, she may live a few hours more.’

‘Is she in pain?’ Gaston asked.

Reaching into his bag, the surgeon produced a small, amber-coloured glass bottle. ‘Give her syrup of the poppy. It will ease her pain. Nothing else can be done. There is no reason for me to stay any longer. I shall return tomorrow morning for the body.’ Antoine showed the surgeon to the door, Gaston and the men not far behind. Although Gaston in particular seemed loathe to leave the girl behind.

‘I would stay. I want to stay. But my wife and children, they would worry. Especially my daughter.’ His face contorted with pain and tears spilled from his eyes.

‘You did all that you could and more,’ Aunt Eloise said, clasping his hands in her own.

‘I never forgot what you did for me, madame. I never really thanked you.’

‘You were a good boy, Gaston. You’ve grown into a fine man. Now, go home to your family.’

Sidonie insisted on staying with the girl all night. She piled blankets and pillows next to the bed and made herself comfortable, taking the little girl’s hand in her own.

The surgeon was correct. When the first rays of the morning sun brightened the room, the child was dead, never having woken. Sidonie looked at the small hand in her own, now cold and empty of life. She gently turned the girl onto her back and folded her arms over her chest. The surgeon arrived shortly after dawn, bringing with him a cart and two strong men to convey a litter. He said a prayer as the men carried the girl’s body away. All that remained was a blood-stained mattress.

We never even knew her name , Sidonie thought.

She let herself be led from the room, her legs cramped and numb from lying curled up all night. In her bedchamber, a kind soul had drawn the curtains, lit a fire in the hearth and left a basin of warm water for her to wash her face and hands. Her lip trembled; those simple gestures of kindness nearly undid her. The cat Ra slept peacefully on one side of her mattress, his body tightly curled around itself. She washed her face and hands before crawling into the other side of the bed. She shut her eyes and willed her body to sleep, but her mind would not quiet itself. It replayed the events over and over again. In the stillness and the silence of the room, her thoughts clamoured to be heard. There must have been something she could have done. Something more than just stitching a torn girl back together. She had lived in the same house as a physician for ten and five years. Uncle Claude had books – why had she not read them? Why had she not asked him questions instead of remaining silent and simply doing as she was told? She should have spoken up, insisted, fought if need be! If she had done so, the little girl might still be alive.

She did not think Apolline was a witch, but the woman knew how to heal. She resolved to go to her, to learn from her. She never wanted to feel this way again.

It had not been difficult for Sidonie to sneak away from the estate before daybreak. They would assume she was still resting. It had taken some convincing for Fabien to let her take Kelpie and ride to the hermitage alone. The firmness in her voice had surprised even herself. Fabien had reluctantly agreed not to alert the household as long as she returned before noon. At her request, he even showed her how to saddle Kelpie on her own.

As the sun rose weakly on the new day, its rays offered no warmth, hidden as they were beneath a heavy, grey sky. Sidonie rode to the hermitage, the events of the previous night playing through her mind. The feeling of impotence at her inability to do more to help that little girl. She wanted to yell, cry, scream, rage at something, but there was no target for her anger other than herself. Frost-tipped leaves brushed against her cheek, and she furiously brushed them away, leaving a trail of icy residue behind.

When Sidonie reached the clearing she found it illuminated in a haze of sunlight. Apolline was sitting on the ground in front of the cottage, warming her bare feet in front of a small fire encircled in a ring of stones.

‘Lovely morning, mademoiselle. We won’t see many more like this before winter sets in.’

Sidonie flung Kelpie’s reins over a hanging branch and dragged her feet towards the source of light and heat.

Apolline’s brow furrowed in concern. She put her hands on her knees and pushed herself up. ‘What ails you? Are you ill?’

‘I came to ask for your help.’

‘Are you sure you’re not poorly? You’re white as snow.’ Apolline placed her work-roughened hand on Sidonie’s forehead.

‘I’m not ill, I’m only tired.’

Apolline lowered her hand and looked her in the eyes. Sidonie tried to look away; she did not want to see kindness or pity. Not at this moment. There was learning to be done. And then she would be prepared, for the next time. The next time someone she loved was ill, or a babe was being born, or a dying child was placed in her arms. Sidonie turned away and covered her mouth with her gloved hand. ‘No, please don’t look at me in such a way, don’t say kind words. Give me a moment to collect myself, I beg you.’

Apolline pressed herself tight to Sidonie’s back, resting her chin on her shoulder, wrapping her arms around her waist, tight enough to hold her if she fell, strong enough to pull her back to her feet. ‘You take your moment,’ Apolline whispered in her ear. ‘And you let me hold you up.’

From her cheek down to her shoulders, back, hips and legs, she felt the warmth of Apolline. She could feel the other woman’s heartbeat through her back, could feel her breath – sweet with a trace of lemon – against her cheek. No one had ever held her in such a way. She usually ran from touch because it always meant something else. That someone felt they had a right to her body. As a girl in Paris, she had learned it was best to let no one touch her. But this, Apolline holding her now – there was no expectation, no possession, nothing other than a desire to comfort her . Her body clenched, but this time she didn’t fight it. Heart-wrenching sobs tore themselves from her chest, her throat constricting as she cried out her pain, frustration, loss, anger, sadness, guilt and shame. All the while, Apolline held her in arms as steady and reliable as rope. And when her sobs had subsided, and she had no more tears left to give, she let Apolline lead her over to the fire.

They sat together, side by side, legs pressed closely together.

‘Do you wish to speak on it?’ Apolline asked.

‘Not now,’ Sidonie said softly.

And so they sat in silence, listening to the crackle and pop of the fire. Sidonie took off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, mimicking Apolline as she wiggled her toes before the flames.

‘It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?’ Apolline said.

‘Will you teach me?’

Apolline poked her foot with her bare toe. ‘Nothing to learn. You’re a natural.’

Sidonie laughed. It felt good. ‘Not that. Will you teach me to heal?’

‘Something happened, didn’t it?’

‘A great deal has happened. This was just one more. And I want it to be the last. I don’t want to feel so ... to be so useless anymore. I’m a surgeon’s daughter, a physician’s niece. I can manage a household. I know how much coal is needed to heat a home. Or how to wash just about every stain imaginable out of cloth. I was even taught to read and write, enough to fulfil the duties my uncle required of me. But none of that seems important. Not when these hands’ – she held them up before her – ‘could prevent a needless death.’

‘You don’t have to speak of it if you’re not ready.’

Sidonie felt she could, that she had to. She told Apolline about the girl who had come to Aunt Eloise’s house. How she had done everything she could, but the girl had still died. How it made her feel. She spoke of her guilt that the girl and her brother, Louis, had come to the house and then had run away. That she hadn’t been able to stop them. ‘There must have been something more I could have done. What would you have done?’

‘Little more than you did, if I’m being honest. From what you’ve told me, the girl could not have survived.’

‘The surgeon said the same.’

‘You should believe him then. And if not him, then believe me.’

‘He said it was the werewolf that attacked her.’

‘Did he now?’ Apolline said, tilting her face towards the sky.

‘The priest believes the werewolf is hunting children.’

Apolline snorted. ‘I don’t put much stock in what priests say.’

‘I do. Or I did.’

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a shard of lightning split the sky, illuminating the clearing. Kelpie reared up on her hind legs, untangling her reins from where Sidonie had only loosely tied her. Apolline remained seated, counting aloud – ‘Un, deux, trois’ – until an enormous clap of thunder blocked out all other sound. Sidonie had run to the horse’s side at the mare’s first sign of distress, but when the thunder began Kelpie took off, reins trailing behind her.

‘Leave her. She knows the way home,’ Apolline said, sniffing the air. ‘We need to get inside before the rain starts.’

‘I need to get home.’

‘You won’t be going anywhere until this storm passes.’

Then the rain began to fall, hard, fast and in earnest, pounding against her skin like hundreds of tiny fists. Within seconds her clothing clung to her limbs as she blinked to see through the deluge. A strong hand gripped her arm, pulling her towards the shelter of the cottage. They fell through the door and into the dark and close space, overwhelming the light scent of herbs with that of sodden wool. Inside, the heavy stone walls dulled the fury of the storm, yet still Sidonie flinched at every rumble of thunder and flash of lightning.

‘Storm’s getting closer,’ Apolline said. Her cap had come loose and sections of her hair hung like weeds, black as night. ‘We cannot stay in these wet clothes – come with me and mind your head.’

The warning was unnecessary, for Sidonie stood shorter than Apolline and did not need to bend to avoid brushing her head against the bunches of herbs and flowers suspended and drying from the ceiling. She followed Apolline to a small room separated from the main living area by a ragged curtain. There was no window, and it was too dark to see anything until Apolline lit a candle. The stink of tallow accompanied the small illumination.

‘Get those clothes off before you catch your death,’ Apolline instructed, peeling off her own clothing.

Sidonie stood in an ever-increasing pool of water, looking over her shoulder, her teeth chattering. ‘What of your husband?’

Apolline had turned to face away from her, and as she removed her cap and dress, she revealed her naked back, covered in a fine network of scars. None looked new. Some looked very old. The marks left behind shining like silver threads in the dim light.

‘This is my space. He won’t come in here,’ Apolline said.

Where does he sleep? Sidonie wondered. Her fingers were so cold it took an age to undo the laces on her gown before she peeled it from her body. It was quickly followed by her petticoats and stockings, and soon she stood clad only in her sodden chemise and gloves. She held the wet garments in her arms, silently searching for a place to put them other than on the hard, packed-earth floor.

‘All off,’ Apolline said. ‘I won’t have you putting dry over wet.’

As quickly as she could, she undid the laces on her chemise, adding it to the pile. She took the blanket Apolline offered her before handing over her wet clothes.

Apolline’s arms remained outstretched. ‘Hand me your gloves.’

‘There is no need.’

Apolline continued to stare at Sidonie, her fingers beckoning.

Keeping her hands under the blanket, Sidonie removed the gloves one by one and then quickly passed them to Apolline, who handed her a worn but clean linen shift, the material thin from frequent washings.

‘I’ve only got the one other dress,’ Apolline said by way of an apology.

‘It’s fine,’ Sidonie said. ‘I’m grateful for these.’

They returned to the larger main room where Apolline stoked the fire in the hearth. Together they wrung out the wet clothing and laid it out to dry.

‘You should take your hair down and dry it before the fire,’ Apolline suggested.

Sidonie had thrust her hands beneath the blankets once more, where they could not be seen. ‘That’s not necessary.’

‘It’s falling around your ears.’

Sidonie knew that. She could feel it sliding down her neck, wet and cold as melting ice. Even so, she kept her hands hidden.

‘Wait here,’ Apolline said, going to her bedroom once more. She quickly returned with a comb in hand. ‘Would you let me?’

Sidonie looked at the comb and pulled the blanket in a little tighter.

‘I’ll leave you be if that’s what you want. I won’t touch you without your word.’

Sidonie could not stop the memory of Apolline pressed against her back, supporting her, caring for her. She relented. ‘That would be welcome.’

She sat on the floor with the blanket wrapped over her shoulders. Apolline sat behind her, stretching her legs out to either side of Sidonie’s body. Her long fingers undid the ribbon holding Sidonie’s hair in place. When she had unwound the thick rope of hair, she began to comb it with her fingers. Had her maman combed her hair in such a way? She closed her eyes and tried to remember.

‘How did it happen?’ Apolline asked, now using the comb to work through the tangles.

Sidonie’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up straighter. ‘How did what happen?’ she asked, even though she knew the answer. She had not been as quick as she thought when handing over her gloves. ‘A fire. When I was a child.’ She kept her scars hidden because of the way other people reacted to them. They had been with her for longer than she could remember. At times she almost forgot about the raised red marks that stretched over her left palm, until someone took notice and said something, or she caught the look in their eyes. Like it was something of which she should be ashamed, something that made her different, broken, soiled. People felt entitled to comment on her hand and even touch it without her consent. Worse still were the people who pitied her. That was worse than disgust.

‘Does it trouble you?’ Apolline asked, the comb moving in long slow strokes from her scalp down her back.

More than you could know , she thought. ‘It does not pain me.’

Apolline spread Sidonie’s hair over her shoulders, leaving it to dry. ‘It’s not as bad as you fear. It’s a part of you now, though you weren’t born with it. But it’s just one part of what makes you a whole. Will you tend my hair now?’ Apolline tossed the comb on top of Sidonie’s blanket before pulling her legs back and turning to face the other direction. Sidonie turned as well, wondering if she could ask for her gloves back. Apolline didn’t wait for Sidonie to unbind her hair. She unwound it herself, pulling it over her right shoulder. ‘You can ask. I won’t be angry at you.’

Where Apolline’s left ear should be there was instead only pink and white scarring. The light from the fire flickered against the skin, highlighting ragged edges and the small hole through which she could hear. Showing her was intentional, Sidonie realised. Apolline could have hidden it from her, as she had done before, beneath her cap. But as Sidonie had shown her scars, so Apolline would share hers too.

Sidonie lifted her hands from beneath the blanket and picked up the comb, reaching up to run it through Apolline’s long black hair. ‘How did you lose your ear, if you care to share the tale?’

Apolline laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t lose it, for a start! It was taken. They did it to shame me, to punish me for whoring. Ahh, that feels nice, keep on doing that.’

Sidonie smiled as she combed.

‘It’s not a pretty tale,’ Apolline said. ‘So consider yourself forewarned. Me and Marie were working the streets of Lyon. We always worked together. It didn’t stop all men from using their fists or even their teeth, but it kept away the ones who were spoiling for a fight and looking for easy pickings. The first warning we got were the bells.’

‘Bells?’

‘I’ll never forget it. That soft rattling of tin. It was the sound all harlots like me and Marie feared. They never came in the night. They weren’t hunting the men who used the women’s services. No, they wanted to wait until those men were safe at home, tucked in their beds with their dutiful wives by their sides. It was the harlots they hunted. And they were sanctioned by the city watch. They grabbed Marie first, pinning her to the ground, tearing her dress from her back, hacking at her long hair with a knife, letting the curls drop to be stamped into the muck. There was a big one, with small squinty eyes like a pig. When he pulled out a whip, I knew what was coming and I fought against the man holding me. Pig-eyes told me, “Wait your turn, whore.”’ Apolline added a piggish grunt at the end. ‘Marie had thought she’d have a better life on the streets, away from the father who beat her, and worse. She cried as each lash fell onto her back. I got myself free, but then they turned on me.’

‘Why didn’t you run?’ Sidonie asked.

Apolline’s voice grew soft. ‘I couldn’t leave Marie like that. She couldn’t leave me either – more fool her. It was Pig-eyes who took my ear. I didn’t know it at the time. I blacked out after that first knife stroke. Marie got us back to the room we shared with a score of other women. I took a fever, a bad one. But it was those women who helped me. With herb-craft, tinctures and ointments, as well as kind words.’

Sidonie wanted to say she was sorry for what Apolline had been through, but she knew pity would be unwelcome. Like Sidonie, Apolline did not consider herself a victim. Instead, she asked, ‘What happened to Marie?’

‘She left, gone in the night. She didn’t leave a note; neither of us could read or write. I like to think she went on to the better life she always wanted. More likely she went back to the only home she knew. I’m not ashamed of who I was, or who I am, or what I had to do to get here. I’m on good terms with myself,’ Apolline said.

Sidonie looked at her left hand. ‘But if you are not ashamed, why do you hide it?’

Apolline thought long before answering. ‘I don’t hide it out of shame. It’s a part of me. And like all parts of me, I get to choose who I share it with.’

The storm raged for several hours more. And then, as abruptly as it had come, it passed. Light began to pour weakly into the cottage. Sidonie braided her hair and tied it back up, securing it under her cap. With her garments now dry, she returned the borrowed items and dressed in her own clothes.

To her surprise, Apolline’s husband, Gilles, stood outside the cottage, holding Kelpie by the reins and gently stroking her nose.

‘She ran right past me,’ he said. ‘Can we keep her?’

Apolline gently told him no and handed the reins over to Sidonie, helping her mount. Gilles she ordered indoors to change his clothes, for it seemed he had decided to wait out the storm in the forest.

‘Wait a moment,’ Apolline said to Sidonie. ‘I have something for you.’ She hurried back inside, returning with a small ceramic jar fitted with a stopper, which she pressed into Sidonie’s hand.

She opened the stopper and sniffed its contents. ‘Rosemary?’

‘Oil of rosemary. Use a small amount on your scars. It can help them fade over time.’

Sidonie thought of the silver scars she had seen on Apolline’s back and accepted the bottle with thanks.

‘There’s more, plenty more I could show you,’ Apolline said. ‘If you care to know it.’

‘I do. I’ll return soon.’ She nudged Kelpie with her heels and they started for home.