LITMIR.BIZ

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inside the old church, Monsieur Marcel had a Bible brought from Lyons, and Isabelle’s father built a wooden stand to hold it. Then the Tourniers’ Bible was no longer seen, though Etienne still bragged about it.

      —Where do words come from? Isabelle asked him one day after service, ignoring the eyes on them, the glare from Etienne’s mother, Hannah. How does Monsieur Marcel get them from the Bible?

      Etienne was tossing a stone from hand to hand. He flicked it away; it rustled to a stop in the leaves.

      —They fly, he replied firmly. He opens his mouth and the black marks from the page fly to his mouth so quickly you can’t see them. Then he spits them out.

      —Can you read?

      —No, but I can write.

      —What do you write?

      —I write my name. And I can write your name, he added confidently.

      —Show me. Teach me.

      Etienne smiled, teeth half-showing. He took a fistful of her skirt and pulled.

      —I will teach you, but you must pay, he said softly, his eyes narrowed till the blue barely showed.

      It was the Sin again: chestnut leaves crackling in her ears, fear and pain, but also the fierce excitement of feeling the ground under her, the weight of his body on her.

      —Yes, she said finally, looking away. But show me first.

      He had to gather the materials secretly: the feather from a kestrel, its point cut and sharpened; the fragment of parchment stolen from a corner of one of the pages of the Bible; a dried mushroom that dissolved into black when mixed with water on a piece of slate. Then he led her up the mountain, away from their farms, to a granite boulder with a flat surface that reached her waist. They leaned against it.

      Miraculously, he drew six marks to form ET.

      Isabelle stared at it.

      —I want to write my name, she said. Etienne handed her the feather and stood behind her, his body pressed against the length of her back. She could feel the hard growth at the base of his stomach and a flicker of fearful desire raced through her. He placed his hand over hers and guided it first to the ink, then to the parchment, pushing it to form the six marks. ET, she wrote. She compared the two.

      —But they are the same, she said, puzzled. How can that be your name and my name both?

      —You wrote it, so it is your name. You don’t know that? Whoever writes it, it is theirs.

      —But—She stopped, and kept her mouth open, waiting for the marks to fly to her mouth. But when she spoke, it was his name that came out, not hers.

      —Now you must pay, Etienne said, smiling. He pushed her over the boulder, stood behind her, and pulled her skirt up and his breeches down. He parted her legs with his knees and with his hand held her apart so that he could enter suddenly, with a quick thrust. Isabelle clung to the boulder as Etienne moved against her. Then with a shout he pushed her shoulders away, bending her forward so that her face and chest pressed hard against the rock.

      After he withdrew she stood up shakily. The parchment had been pressed into her cheek and fluttered to the ground. Etienne looked at her face and grinned.

      —You’ve written your name on your face, he said.

      She had never been inside the Tourniers’ farm, though it was not far from her father’s, down along the river. It was the largest farm in the area apart from that of the Duc, who lived further down the valley, half a day’s walk towards Florac. It was said to have been built 100 years before, with additions over time: a pigsty, a threshing floor, a tiled roof to replace the thatch. Jean and his cousin Hannah had married late, had only three children, were careful, powerful, remote. Evening visits to their hearth were rare.

      Despite their influence, Isabelle’s father had never been quiet about his scorn.

      —They marry their cousins, Henri du Moulin scoffed. They give money to the church but they wouldn’t give a mouldy chestnut to a beggar. And they kiss three times, as if two were not enough.

      The farm was spread along a slope in an L shape, the entrance in the crux, facing south. Etienne led her inside. His parents and two hired workers were planting in the fields; his sister, Susanne, was working at the bottom of the kitchen garden.

      Inside it was quiet and still. All Isabelle could hear were the muted grunts of pigs. She admired the sty, the barn twice the size of her father’s. She stood in the common room, touching the long wooden table lightly with her fingertips as if to steady herself. The room was tidy, newly swept, pots hung at even intervals from hooks on the walls. The hearth took up a whole end of the room, so big all of her family and the Tourniers could stand in it together – all of her family before she began to lose them. Her sister, dead. Her mother, dead. Her brothers, soldiers. Just she and her father now.

      —La Rousse.

      She turned round, saw Etienne’s eyes, the swagger in his stride, and backed up until granite touched her back. He matched her step and put his hands on her hips.

      —Not here, she said. Not in your parents’ house, on the hearth. If your mother—

      Etienne dropped his hands. The mention of his mother was enough to tame him.

      —Have you asked them?

      He was silent. His broad shoulders sagged and he stared off into a corner.

      —You have not asked them.

      —I’ll be twenty-five soon and I can do what I want then. I won’t need their permission then.

      Of course they don’t want us to marry, Isabelle thought. My family is poor, we have nothing, but they are rich, they have a Bible, a horse, they can write. They marry their cousins, they are friends with Monsieur Marcel. Jean Tournier is the Duc de l’Aigle’s syndic, collecting tax from us. They would never accept as their daughter a girl they call La Rousse.

      —We could live with my father, she suggested. It has been hard for him without my brothers. He needs—

      —Never.

      —So we must live here.

      —Yes.

      —Without their consent.

      Etienne shifted his weight from one leg to the other, leaned against the edge of the table, crossed his arms. He looked at her directly.

      —If they don’t like you, he said softly, it’s your own fault, La Rousse.

      Isabelle’s arms stiffened, her hands curled into fists.

      —I have done nothing wrong! she cried. I believe in the Truth.

      He smiled.

      —But you love the Virgin, yes?

      She bowed her head, fists still clenched.

      —And your mother was a witch.

      —What did you say? she whispered.

      —That wolf that bit your mother, he was sent by the devil to bring her to him. And all those babies dying.

      She glared at him.

      —You think my mother made her own daughter die? Her own granddaughter die?

      —When you are my wife, he said, you will not be a midwife. He took her hand and pulled her towards the barn, away from his parents’ hearth.

      —Why do you want me? she asked in a low voice he could not hear. She answered herself: Because I am the one his mother hates most.

      The kestrel hovered directly overhead, fluttering against the wind. Grey: male. Isabelle narrowed her eyes. No. Reddish-brown, the colour of her hair: female.

      Alone she had learned to remain on the surface of the water, lying on her back, arms stroking out from her sides, breasts flattened, hair floating in the river like leaves around

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