As Miri approached the small stone cruciform structure that was St. Anne’s, she sent up a silent prayer that Marie Claire would be there. She paused outside the heavy oak door to adjust the weight of the babe, the knot of the sling starting to chafe the back of Miri’s neck.
Miraculously, the child had fallen asleep. Miri only hoped it was a natural one. She had rescued the foundlings of many creatures in the wild, but a human infant seemed disturbingly more fragile, more lacking in any sort of instinct for survival. Cradling the child close to her, Miri shouldered open the door to the church.
The interior of Saint Anne’s felt dark and cool after the heat and brightness of the summer’s day. Miri squinted as she searched the hollow emptiness of the nave, the main altar appearing solemn and deserted.
But a candle had been lit at the niche where the statue of St. Anne presided with gentle open arms. Someone had prostrated herself before the mother of the blessed virgin. As Miri approached, her heart sank as she realized it was not Marie Claire, but a much thinner woman, her brown hair flecked with gray.
Her thin arms were stretched out rigidly before her, her hands clasped in a posture of supplication. Miri had no difficulty recognizing the gaunt figure of Josephine Alain, even though her head was bowed. Miri started to beat a swift retreat, but the sound alerted Madame Alain to her presence.
Madame Alain’s head snapped up. As she scrambled to her feet, Miri tensed, her arms tightening instinctively around the babe, hardly knowing what to expect from a woman who had hated her enough to betray her to a witch-hunter.
Madame Alain went white at the sight of Miri. “Dear God,” she rasped. “I thought that—that you might be—be—”
“Captured by that witch-hunter you sent after me?” Miri filled in bluntly. “No, I regret to disappoint you, madame, but Simon Aristide had no interest in arresting me. He is long gone and I am still here.”
“Oh!” Madame Alain’s hand flew to her mouth. She sank back to her knees, crying, “Oh, thank you, God. Thank you.”
Miri blinked. This was hardly the reaction she had been expecting from such an angry, vindictive woman. She crept closer. Tears tracked down Josephine’s face as she wrung her hands together. She bore the haggard look of a woman who had not slept for days, dark hollows beneath her eyes. She shrank down as Miri approached, averting her head as though she could not bear to meet her gaze.
“I thought you had b-been taken by that man or you m-might even be dead,” Josephine wept. “And I c-couldn’t find the courage to tell anyone what I had done until this morning.”
Her voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I—I am so ashamed. S-selling another woman out to a w-witch-hunter. Dear heaven, what kind of horrible person have I become? I have been praying to God that I may not burn in hell for it.” Her shoulders shook with a suppressed sob. “No w-woman on this island will ever forgive me or s-speak to me again.”
Despite all that Josephine had done, Miri was moved by the woman’s miserable state. She rested her hand gently on Josephine’s shoulder. “Of course, everyone will forgive you. I do.”
Josephine risked a glance up, torn between wonder and disbelief. “You-you do? I cannot imagine why you s-should. There is nothing I can ever do to make you amends.”
“I need no amends, only your friendship. And your help.” Miri eased herself down beside Josephine and nudged back the edge of the blanket that had fallen across the infant’s face.
Josephine sniffed and mopped the tears from her eyes. “Why—why, it’s a babe.”
“And a very hungry one, I fear,” Miri said. Even in his sleep, the tiny boy sucked earnestly at his fist in a way that tugged at Miri’s heart. “I tried to feed him a little goat’s milk.”
“Goat’s milk!” Josephine exclaimed in horror. “That is far too harsh for a babe of this age. Surely he cannot be more than—than—”
“A day old, I think.”
“Where on earth is his mother?”
“I don’t know. I found him abandoned in the woods.” Miri hesitated before adding. “He—he is very likely Carole Moreau’s child. I am terribly worried about her, madame. I believe she may have fallen under an evil influence and I can’t find Marie Claire either—”
“Then you have not heard?” Josephine interrupted.
The grave look on the other woman’s face deepened Miri’s sense of dread.
“Heard what? Has something happened to Marie?” she asked sharply.
“No, it’s that wretched girl. Carole has gone missing and her aunt is nigh frantic. That is where Marie Claire has gone and much of the town to aid in the search. They are likely looking for you as well since—since I finally confessed what I did.” Josephine flushed guiltily. “Did you see none of them on the road as you came into town?”
“I did not take the most direct way. I looped round behind the woods on the longer, but easier path, because of the child.” Miri flinched, imagining what a jolt it must have been for Marie Claire to hear about Simon’s visit to her cottage from someone else, how worried her friend must be.
“I have to find Marie at once,” she said. “But what of Carole? Does no one have the least idea of where she has gone?”
“The only report comes from Sebastian, a fisherman who lives in a hut the other side of Luna Cove. But the old man spends more time in his cups than he does at his nets, so his word is not always reliable.”
“What did he say?” Miri asked anxiously.
“He tells some wild tale of seeing Carole with two women, strangers to the island. One an elf and the other a veritable giantess.” Josephine paused to roll her eyes. “Carole appeared to be terrified and she was crying, at least according to Sebastian. But as I said, most of the time the old man drinks himself half-blind.”
Josephine touched the babe’s cheek, her work-worn hand surprisingly gentle. “And you think this is Carole’s son? No one even knew she had given birth. Her aunt and uncle meant to adopt the infant if it was a boy, give her a permanent home as well. This child would have been her salvation. Why would Carole just abandon him?”
Miri had not yet decided how much to reveal about the existence of the Silver Rose. She had no wish to raise more alarm among the women of Faire Isle, at least not until she had consulted Marie Claire.
“I don’t know exactly how Carole came to abandon her child or go off with these strangers,” she hedged. “Perhaps she was desperate, seeking the kindness and compassion she failed to find on Faire Isle.”
“That rebuke is meant for me, I suppose.”
“It applies to me as well. I made little more effort to reach out to Carole than anyone else did. But right now we must decide what is to be done with her little boy.”
As Miri shifted the child in her arms, the babe stirred and began to cry. Josephine held out her hands diffidently, “May I?”
Miri eased the child out of the sling and handed him off a little awkwardly. Josephine drew the babe close, shushing and rocking him with a tenderness Miri would never have imagined the woman capable of. She envied the easy confidence with which Josephine handled the fragile infant, the experience of a woman who’d had six babes of her own.
Holding the child to her shoulder, Josephine rose to her feet, nodding to herself and saying, “Helene Crecy.”
Miri followed suit, also rising. “I beg your pardon?”
“Helene had a child herself six months ago. She’ll help with this wee one. The woman has breasts the size of melons, enough milk to feed an army of infants.” Josephine’s lips quirked. Her thin face still held a trace of her former prettiness when she allowed herself to smile. She strode back through the nave, making crooning noises to comfort the whimpering babe. Miri hastened after her. The woman paused at the church door long enough to glance back at Miri.
“I didn’t keep the money that dreadful man gave me. I donated it to the church and, well—I—I wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you,” Miri began, but Josephine had already vanished out th
e door.
———
MIRI PACED the confines of Marie Claire’s cottage while the older woman carefully pulled back the ends of the linen towel Miri had wrapped around the poisonous rose. Its frosty petals glittered against the snowy white cloth as Marie Claire studied the strange flower through the lenses of her copper-framed spectacles.
She looked exhausted from the fright she had had regarding Miri’s safety and from helping in the fruitless search for Carole Moreau. The girl was nowhere to be found. She and her mysterious companions, whoever they were, had vanished from the island, along with old Sebastian’s battered fishing dinghy.
Carole appeared terrified and she was crying . . . that was what Sebastian had said. However the girl had first felt about these new friends of hers, Miri did not believe that Carole had departed with them willingly.
A chill swept through her despite the warmth of the day. She wrapped her arms about herself, arms that felt strangely empty since she had surrendered Carole’s child to the care of Josephine Alain. Miri felt a trifle guilty about that, as though by being left in her woods, the babe had somehow been entrusted to her. But she could do no better for the infant than turn him over to more capable hands.
When the other women had trudged home from the search for Carole, all exhaustion, all tension and enmity melted away at the sight of the helpless babe. Madame Crecy of the enormous breasts had immediately put the babe to suck while her neighbors crowded about cooing, offering up all manner of advice. Many of them were the same women who had joined with Josephine in persecuting Carole only days ago.
Perhaps like Josephine, they were stricken with remorse. Perhaps it was the innocence of the babe that had softened them. Or perhaps it was possible the gentler, kinder spirit that had once pervaded Faire Isle was not as dead as Miri believed. Grateful as Miri had been to witness it, she had felt shut outside that magic circle surrounding the babe. But it had been her own mind that had distanced her, carrying her far from the island to the man she had banished from her doorstep.
She had but to close her eyes and she could still see Simon’s harrowed face as he vanished into the storm. And she had just let him go, determined to be willfully blind to the threat he had described. If she had paid more heed to what he had said, paid more heed to anything in the world outside her own snug cottage, could she have detected the evil that had invaded her shores and saved Carole from it?
Simon had been battling the forces of this Silver Rose alone for months. Those witches had already tried to kill him several times. For all Miri knew, they might have succeeded by now. She was tormented by disturbing memories of her recent dream, her vision of the broken knight. The nightmare had been disjointed and vague, the face of the man unknown. It was only when the symbols in her prophetic dreams became crystal clear that they ran the danger of becoming true. Miri tried to draw some comfort from that thought.
A muttered exclamation from Marie Claire drew Miri’s attention back to her friend.
“I’ll be hanged if I ever saw the like of this cursed thing before,” Marie Claire said, shoving back from the table. Although she had taken great care not to touch the flower, she crossed over to the ewer and basin and vigorously washed her hands.
Miri glanced down at the sparkling rose, which showed no signs of wilting. “It is so unnatural,” she agreed. “This rose had to have been cut down a long time ago and transported a great distance. Yet the petals are not in the least dried or brown. Is it really possible for anyone to grow flowers that never fade or die?”
Marie Claire toweled her hands dry. “No, I think this was no more than an ordinary white rose. It is the dusting of this poison that acts as some sort of preservative.”
“A truly strong and deadly poison if it can be absorbed through the skin.”
“Not unlike the concoctions our dear Catherine has been known to use when handing out charming gifts like poisoned gloves.”
Miri would have almost found it a relief to think Catherine de Medici was behind all this. At least she was a known enemy, but Miri was obliged to demur. “No, Simon is certain that the Dark Queen is not involved.”
Marie Claire peered over the rims of her spectacles, frowning at Miri. Miri blushed a little, realizing how intimately Simon’s name had tripped from her tongue.
“I mean Monsieur Aristide,” she amended. “Le Balafre.”
She retreated to the open window, hoping the faint breeze from the garden would help cool the telltale fire of her cheeks. She had recounted for Marie Claire the details of Simon’s visit, at least most of them. She had omitted that searing kiss he had planted upon her in parting.
Marie Claire joined her at the window. “I heard the rumors of Aristide’s brief visit to Faire Isle. You are so adept at hiding in your woods, I foolishly allowed myself to believe he had come and gone without crossing your path. It never occurred to me you would seek to confront that dangerous man on your own. I should have known better.” She sighed. “I won’t pretend I am not hurt by the way you lied to me, choosing to keep me in the dark.”
“I am sorry—” Miri began, but Marie Claire forestalled her with a wave of her hand.
“I understand you were only trying to protect me, but you were the one who most needed protecting.”
“I already told you, Simon made not the slightest move to hurt me. In fact, it was quite the other way around and we should both be grateful that he came. If he hadn’t, we would have no idea what had happened to Carole or know anything about the threat of the Silver Rose.”
“True enough,” Marie Claire conceded. “Although I am ashamed to admit, I was happier in my ignorance.” She stripped off her spectacles, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I hoped I would never have to deal with anything like this again in my lifetime. It was bad enough those days when we had Melusine running amok. You are far too young to remember. You weren’t even born then.”
“I have heard the tales,” Miri said. “Not a great deal from Renard. My brother-in-law has always been reluctant to discuss his infamous grandmother. But the old apothecary Madame Jehan used to take a wicked delight in thrilling all the island children with accounts of Melusine’s terrible exploits, how she poisoned crops and cursed livestock. I used to have nightmares about little lambs and colts foaming at the mouth and dropping down dead in the meadows.”
Marie Claire grimaced. “Adelaide Jehan was a good old soul, but she was incorrigible when it came to spinning her wild yarns, and Melusine certainly gave her plenty of fodder. Renard’s grandmother fomented rebellion among the peasants of Brittany, aiding them with her knowledge of the dark arts. She believed she was fighting for justice, freeing the downtrodden from the oppression of their masters. All she did was lead a great many innocent people to their death and blacken the reputation of wise women everywhere.”
Marie Claire’s eyes welled with sadness. “We are already a dying breed, the daughters of the earth. There are so few of us left to study the ancient wisdom, keep it alive for the next generation. Soon the only ones left with the courage to practice the old ways will be those who distort it for evil like this Silver Rose. If Monsieur Aristide is right and this madwoman truly is attempting to raise an army of witches, may God help us all.”
Her shoulders slumped as though the full weight of her years were bearing down upon her, but she rallied, saying, “Well, the creature must be found and stopped. I can think of only one thing to do.”
“What is that, Marie?” Miri asked.
But Marie Claire seemed to be talking to herself as much as Miri. When she strode purposefully toward her cupboard, Miri trailed after her. There amongst the old woman’s crockery and books reposed a small wooden chest. As Marie Claire lifted it down, her wolf birds set up an excited squawking, fluttering about their cage as though they had anticipated what the old woman was about to do.
Marie Claire flung open the lid, revealing a store of writing materials, quills, ink, and parchment. As she reached for one of the quills, she said, “
We need to send word to the Lady of Faire Isle immediately, apprise Ariane of these events.”
“No,” Miri cried.
“I don’t like it any better than you do, my dear, but—”
“No, Marie,” Miri said even more forcefully. “You know as well as I that Ariane and Renard would rush back to France, putting both their lives in danger.”
“Ah!” Marie Claire arched one fine brow. “So despite the fact that you risked meeting with Monsieur Aristide alone, you don’t trust this witch-hunter of yours.”
Miri colored hotly. “He is not my witch-hunter. And . . . and no, I don’t entirely trust Simon, at least not where Renard is concerned. But remember, my sister and her husband have other enemies, the Dark Queen and the king of France.”
Marie Claire stroked the feathered tip of the quill through her fingers, her brow knit in a deep frown. “Then what about Gabrielle? She is alarmingly adept at intrigue, and she managed to hold her own in the court of the Dark Queen for over two years—”
But once more Miri shook her head. “Gabrielle has a husband and three little daughters to protect. Although their farm near Pau has remained safe thus far, they have always run the risk of being invaded by the Catholic League’s army. Navarre has taken the brunt of these endless civil wars plaguing France. Gabrielle already has more than enough to contend with.”
“But someone has got to deal with this Silver Rose,” Marie Claire protested. “And unfortunately I have neither the power nor the vigor of youth that I once did. So who in heaven’s name would you recommend we turn to?”
Miri plucked the quill from Marie Claire’s grasp and returned it to the chest. “I am afraid there is only me,” she said quietly.
“You?” Marie Claire’s startled exclamation and doubtful look were hardly flattering, but no worse than the doubts Miri entertained about herself.