Excerpt: The Witch's Daughter: Marie de Sauveterre's Classic Tale of Romance and High Adventure

So.

I had had parents. Tragedy struck. It happens to many. I might have grown up an orphan of the war in Dijon, at a children’s hospital or hunting the streets for scraps. But my mother had saved the life of a baron, and managed to secure a better future for me. I was lucky.
I put the letter down on the bed of clover. Next I pulled the locket out of my habit—now mean feat, considering the wimple—and inspected it. The thing was small, only the size of my two thumbnails, and made of gold. The color did not scrape off, so it was not gold foil. I opened it and found a tiny scrap of paper covered back to front with Maman’s handwriting.

We will write when we can. I know a life of the cloth is not for you; we will do our best to bring you back as soon as it is safe.
Your father met Mme Gagnier when he was in Dijon on business. He says he saw her work miracles, and that no such woman could be a witch. Besides, are we not taught that the ways of evil are subtle? I think that, perhaps, there have never been any witches, and in any case, your mother must have been closer to sainthood. Rest easy, dear Roseline. You are an ordinary girl in extraordinary circumstances. Your parents loved you, as Henri and I do now.

I read through the note once more, then folded it up not quite as small and put it in the pocket of my very ungainly habit. The locket I put back around my neck, not bothering with the wimple this time. The sun had moved since I sat down, but I had no desire to pick tomatoes. In fact, I had no desire to remain in the convent at all. I gathered my mother’s letter and stood up, kicking the basket aside as I did.

The morning’s light breeze had become a much stronger wind. I walked to the courtyard where the small baptistery stood and watched it sway the trees and furl the flags of the Pope, the King, and Lyon. I could even feel it through the layers of my habit, the thick fabric whipping around my legs. I spared a thought to put the letter into the deep pocket of my apron, and then opened my arms wide, facing the wind. It was wonderful.

“Roseline! What are you doing?” one of the sisters yelled from the shelter of the abbey.

Nothing, I thought. Nothing at all.

“Come in!”

No.

She said something more, but I stopped listening. Instead I opened myself to the wind, felt the air, and laughed when its strength increased again. Green leaves were torn from the trees, spiraling around the church towers. I longed to soar with them.

A man in a priest’s collar stood in front of me, yelling, recalling me to myself. I let my lips twist into the frown I had been holding back all week.

“Stop this devilry! Stop, now!”

What was he talking about? Stupid creature.

I made to go to the gate, and the road beyond, but he tried to stop me.

“What do you do?” I asked him.

In response, he began reciting the Our Father. He held his rosary in a hand outstretched, between him and me. What a strange man. I made to walk around him, but he matched my step, staying between me and my way out.

“What?” I asked again, in irritation.

He was yelling the Our Father now, in an effort to be heard over the gale. In a fit of temper, I joined in his recitation, yelling so that he could hear me back. Almost as soon as he did, he faltered, but continued, so that we were a syllable apart. When we finished, he watched me, his eyes wide with terror.

“What are you?” he asked, and somehow I could hear him despite the wind. Or perhaps I only read his lips.

“Leave me be,” I answered. I knocked his hand away and walked past him, right out the gate.

The wind was still blowing, but now I was too tired to enjoy it. I walked toward the woods, buffeted by the habit until I reached the trees. There it did not improve, as the fabric only caught on every branch and thorn bush I passed, and there was no path. All the while my exhaustion grew, until I could scarcely keep my eyes open or draw breath. Still the wind howled remorselessly in my ears, blowing my hair about my face so that I could barely see. Soon all I could see around me was the woods, and I had no idea which direction I had come from. Tired past endurance, I fell to my knees and then down to the ground, cushioned by ferns and bramble. I clutched the knife as sleep took me.