Chapter 36

Sidonie followed Aunt Eloise into the conciergerie. Her aunt’s gown of orange and yellow wool shone like a beacon among a sea of grey and black. Although rather than attracting attention, she seemed to repel it, for the further they moved into the building the more the gendarmes moved to avoid them.

‘They remember me,’ Aunt Eloise said with a satisfied smile. When one young gendarme ventured too close, Aunt Eloise gripped him by the arm. ‘Where can we find Capitaine Jean-Luc Vasseur?’ she said imperiously.

The gendarme paled at her tone and led them through the maze of hallways to the capitaine’s chambers.

The capitaine sat behind his desk, scratching with a quill on a piece of parchment. He raised his head when they entered and then lowered it with a groan. ‘I have done all I can to keep Madame Garnier safe. She is unmolested. She has not been harmed. Do you have any information that could be used to secure her release?’

As much as Sidonie wished to see Apolline, first they had to tell Capitaine Vasseur of Father Ignace’s attack on Lyse. As a witness, she had a responsibility to Lyse, to Léo and all the children who had not been saved and to any other children the priest might attack. Capitaine Vasseur listened to her account, his jaw tightening in concern. When she finished, he exhaled deeply.

‘I am sure I do not need to impress upon you the implications of this information,’ Aunt Eloise said impatiently.

‘No, madame, you do not,’ he said. ‘A priest murdering children? And then covering up his crimes by encouraging the hunt for a werewolf? I’ve never heard the like in all my years in the gendarmerie.’

‘You do not question the truth of what I have said?’ Sidonie asked, relieved but confused.

Capitaine Vasseur hesitated. ‘There have been rumours about him. I tried not to pay them any mind. And once Gilles Garnier had been apprehended, the rumours seemed to stop.’

‘Rumours of child snatching?’ Aunt Eloise asked.

Sidonie glanced at her aunt from the corner of her eye. Talk of the missing women and children of Dole had quietened during the frenzied search for the werewolf. If there was talk that an individual was responsible for the missing persons, then of course Aunt Eloise would want to know.

‘Or rumours that Father Ignace had an unnatural interest in children, especially girls with yellow hair?’ Sidonie said, echoing Apolline’s words.

A muscle in Capitaine Vasseur’s jaw twitched. Her words must have hit the mark. ‘Madame, I will need some more information from you,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Aunt Eloise replied.

‘Am I needed?’ Sidonie said. ‘Or can I see Apolline?’

Aunt Eloise reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘If that is what Sidonie wishes, I do not argue. But what of Monsieur de Lancre? What if he were to find Sidonie and Madame Garnier together?’

‘I don’t expect Monsieur de Lancre to return today,’ the capitaine said. ‘I’ve left one gendarme guarding the cells, so you will have some protection. If there’s any trouble, he will fetch me immediately. Baroness de Montargent and I have much to discuss. But once our conversation is concluded, Mademoiselle Montot will have to leave.’

It was not enough time. It would never be enough time. But it was all the time they had unless she could think of a way to save Apolline.

The capitaine ushered them discreetly through the conciergerie and down the stairs to the cells. She hesitated at the first step, but only for a moment. When she had been locked down here, she had been just as afraid, just as desperate. She kept her eyes fixed directly in front of her as they walked past the cell where she had so recently been held. Capitaine Vasseur handed Sidonie a lantern, nodding to the gendarme stationed outside the door of another cell. He stepped to the side and Sidonie entered, unsure of what she would find.

Apolline crouched in the furthest corner of the dim cell, her slender form coiled tightly against the oppressive chill. She clutched her own body, arms wound around herself in a futile attempt to ward off the shivers that coursed through her. Dark strands of hair, limp and lifeless, nearly grazed the floor. At the creaking of the door, her head snapped in its direction, a flicker of hope in her eyes as she saw who held the torch.

Capitaine Vasseur instructed the gendarme to leave the two women undisturbed. Sidonie barely heard him leave as she rushed into the cold, damp room and closed the door. A key turned in the lock with a click, followed by footsteps walking away. She flung herself at Apolline, burying her face in her hair and breathing in her scent. Beneath the odour of the cells, she could still detect a hint of the earthiness of the forest.

‘I will get you out of here,’ Sidonie said. ‘Aunt Eloise is working on it right now with Capitaine Vasseur. We will save you.’

While Sidonie’s eyes were already wet with tears, Apolline’s remained resolutely dry. Her voice held no tremor but nor did it hold any of its customary humour. ‘I don’t think there is anything worth saving.’

‘Don’t say that. Not even in jest.’

‘I moved from place to place, from village to village, but still I find myself back where I was before. More or less. I’m so tired. I don’t know if I can do it again. Or if I want to.’

‘You must keep hope. You have to fight.’

‘I’m tired of fighting. Tired of running and hiding. I’m not angry or scared, not for my life. It just seems so unfair,’ she said, stroking her belly, ‘that this one will never get a chance at life. It’s a heavy burden for a soul not yet born.’

Sidonie reached for her hand; it was cold and trembling. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’

‘I thought ... No, it was foolish of me to think it.’

‘What did you think?’ Sidonie tucked Apolline’s hair back behind her ear, feeling the strands slide through her fingers like silk.

‘I never had hope until I met you. Then I lost you. And when I found you again, I thought that I’d finally found a family and a home. A place where I belonged, where nobody wanted anything of me other than who I was, and that was good enough for them. Listen to me talking rot when you’re dirtying your nice dress in this place. That’s what happens to everything around me. Dirt and filth, muck and grime.’

Apolline faced arrest, torture and likely execution. She had lost her home and her husband, her whole life. The way she spoke now, as if she had already given up, broke Sidonie’s heart. She rubbed her thumb across Apolline’s cheek, capturing the silent tears before they could fall to the floor. She replaced her thumb with her lips, tasting the salt as it ran from her friend’s eyes. Her oldest friend. Her only friend. The missing part of her soul.

‘I wish,’ Apolline said, straining to get out the words as her shoulders began to shake. ‘I wish you could have been my family.’

Sidonie held her tight as she wept.

Pierre’s steps echoed as he walked down the nave of Notre-Dame Cathedral. It was a heavy silence, for every inch of space was filled with the Holy Spirit. He breathed in deep, savouring the aroma of frankincense and sandalwood mingled with the earthy, sweet honey perfume emanating from the scores of candles hanging from wall sconces and the ceiling’s chandeliers. The cathedral was empty of all but a few pious devotees, their heads lowered, their hands clasped in quiet prayer. He found his way easily to Father Ignace’s office and knocked upon the heavy wooden door.

‘Enter.’

‘I am sorry to intrude, Father ... In the name of God, who did this to you?’

The priest was slumped in a chair, his hands gripping the wooden arms. His normally pale skin was marred by purple and black bruising. What appeared to be claw marks scoured his cheek, down his jaw and onto his neck.

‘What wickedness has befallen you?’ Pierre asked, aghast.

Father Ignace inclined his head, the filtered light from the stained-glass window cascading down upon him, bathing him in an eerie red glow. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed softly into it before putting it away. The gesture had all the weight of ritual but was also entirely human. ‘Wickedness indeed. Do you not recognise the work of witches?’

‘Witches?’

‘Three of them. One, the known witch Apolline Garnier. The other, her companion, with eyes the colour of liquid hellfire. The third, the Devil’s own spawn.’

The name of Apolline Garnier caused Pierre concern, for the woman languished at his convenience in the conciergerie. ‘When did this attack take place, Father?’

‘The evening of yesterday.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Pierre said.

The priest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you call me a liar?’

Pierre quickly reassured Father Ignace that he had meant no such thing. ‘I meant only that the Garnier female has been held in the conciergerie for the past two nights.’

A flash of annoyance passed across the priest’s face but was quickly wiped away. ‘A witch need not be present to work her magic. A powerful witch can project her body and inflict harm from afar. Or she can use another, weaker vessel. It is why we must always be on our guard. For even the bodies of children – young girls in particular – have the potential to harbour evil.’

From the first, Pierre had known there was something unnatural about Apolline Garnier. There had to be, for her to marry a man like Gilles Garnier – a beast, a brute, a monster. His hands longed to draw the secrets from her flesh, to hear her sweet cries as she confessed all. Yet Capitaine Vasseur had stymied him at every turn. The Chancellor of the Court had not agreed with the capitaine’s assessment that Pierre be banished from Dole, but he had reinforced the authority of the capitaine when it came to prisoners of the conciergerie. Pierre had been unable to interrogate the witch. He ached to put his hands on her, to wrest the cries from her body.

‘I must bring this news to the chancellor,’ Pierre said hotly. ‘We must act before further harm can be inflicted.’

‘Alas.’ Father Ignace spread his hands. ‘What can they do with this information? Nothing. Two of these females live with another who is powerful in this town. She has usurped the natural world order, placing herself above men. Men cower at her feet, like dogs.’

Only then did Pierre realise of whom Father Ignace spoke. ‘Mademoiselle Sidonie Montot? The niece of Baroness de Montargent?’ He remembered the unsettling, amber-coloured eyes of the baroness’s niece.

The priest confirmed his suspicions with the slightest of nods.

‘But who is the third female? The baroness herself?’ Pierre asked, his blood thrumming in his veins with righteous fury. Dole was overrun with servants of the Devil. It was his place, nay his duty to dispense justice and restore order. And besides, a werewolf who was an imbecile and a hermit was nothing compared to the glory he would experience if he brought down a trio of witches.

The priest tilted his head to the side in thought. ‘Perhaps. Although the witch of whom I speak is but a child, with golden hair. Three witches – two fair, one dark.’

‘This cannot be allowed!’ Pierre leaped to his feet. ‘I will put a stop to this. I will do what needs to be done. Do I have your blessing, Father?’

‘Take my blessing and go forth, my son.’