THE BURNING WOMAN

by

Edward Stasheff

 

The priest led them into the woods as the shadows grew long.  As the leafy canopy thickened overhead, the forest took on a forbidding gloom.  They trekked for a long time over the gently rolling earth.  If the young priest was following some sort of trail, Matt couldn't see it. 

Finally, he picked up the scent of woodsmoke in the air.  Looking up, he could discern the thin plume of smoke from a charcoal hearth rising over the branches. 

Matt caught a glimmer of movement up ahead.  He craned his neck and could just make out a little girl off in the distance.  As they drew closer, Matt noticed she wore a simple dress of green homespun and a crown of braided flowers in her blonde hair.  She was drawing with a lump of charcoal on an outcropping of rock (which was already quite well covered with her pictures).

"Good day, Michelle!"  Father Heureau called out, raising a hand in greeting.. "Is your mother home?"

Michelle jumped, startled, and spun around.  She stared at them with wide, frightened eyes for a moment, then sprinted off through the woods, yelling, "Mamma!  Mamma!  There's MEN!"  She disappeared over the lip of a depression in the earth.

Father Heureau turned to his companions, looking embarrassed.  "Er… Charlotte hath taught her daughter to be wary of strangers."

"Probably a wise precaution for two women living alone and isolated out in the woods." Matt shrugged.  "Besides, we are strangers—and I'm about as strange as they get!"

A dark woman appeared, half-crawling and half-running out of the shallow, sunken clearing in the woods from which the trail of smoke rose.  She scooped the child up into her arms and clutched her tightly, simultaneously muttering soothing platitudes while looking all around for the intruders.  Her eyes latched onto the trio of men, and narrowed.  She set her daughter down, barking an order for the child to stay behind her, and ran for her woodpile.  She yanked an axe out of the chopping block and turned toward the men, hefting it in her hands. 

"Who are ye!?  What do ye want!?"

This, presumably, was Charlotte the Harlot, the village hussy.

She wasn't quite what Matt had expected.

Well, one expectation had been validated, at least.  Despite being smeared with soot and dirt, she was still a beautiful woman.  Her face was a sun-bronzed oval with huge brown eyes and full lips, framed by loosely curling black hair tied behind her head. Even her dirty, worn, and patched bodice and skirt couldn't disguise a figure that was simultaneously slender and voluptuous.  Her skirt, hiked up to her knees on one side, revealed flashes of sleek thigh.  She had the type of beauty that made every man take notice and every woman seethe with envy—which, Matt suspected, played no small part in her rumored reputation.

Charlotte stared at the priest hurrying toward her.  Far from seeming assured by the presence of a holy man, she raised her axe higher and stepped back into a fighting stance.  It was only then that her eye caught Matt and Montmartre following behind the clergyman—two well-dressed lords in the middle of a forest—and did a double take.  She paused, then blinked, and her fierceness slowly ebbed away as she lowered her axe, but kept it in her hands.  She still regarded them with caution and suspicion, if no longer open hostility.  Her daughter Michelle peeked out from behind her skirt.

"Who are ye?" she repeated.  "Why are ye here?"

"We're here on the Queen's business," Montmartre returned in that tone of gentle authority only nobility could master. 

Charlotte's eyebrows shot up. "The Queen?  But… what wants she with me?"  Before they could answer, she turned to her daughter.  "'Tis all right, love. You can go play." 

The little girl took a step back, but continued to watch the unfolding drama with wide, fascinated eyes.

"'Twas a murder in Montville some months ago," Montmartre said.  "We come seeking the Queen's justice.  Mayhap you know the victim… good Father DuVois?"

"Good father DuVois?" Charlotte spat.  She turned back to the woodpile, set a log on it.  'Twas nothing good about him!  'Twas an arrogant, righteous tyrant, he was!"  She heaved her axe and cleaved the log clean in two with a practiced chop.  "Forever passing judgment, he was, on them he thought lesser than himself—which was everyone, a'course!"

The three men were shocked silent for a moment by her vehemence.  Michelle placed another log on the chopping block for her mother, who half-hacked, half-bludgeoned it to death with an energy born of anger.  Matt narrowed his eyes, wondering if a priest simply being a prude could really warrant the intense hatred Charlotte seemed to bear Father DuVois.  He suspected there was something else going on, something he didn't understand yet.

"Well… you do seem to be alone in your opinion," Montmartre finally spoke.  "The rest of Montville hath nothing but praise for the man."

"That means nothing," Charlotte retorted.  "Aye, no one speaks ill of the dead!"  With one more vicious heave, she sank the axe blade deep into the chopping block with a strength born of fury.  She turned to the men, panting with exertion. chest heaving.  If any of them noticed the pleasant effect this had on her bosom, they wisely chose not to stare at it.  "But what hath the Father's death to do with me?  I did not kill him!" Charlotte declared, hands on her hips.  "The sorcerers slew him!  The whole village did see that!"

Methinks the lady doth protest too much, Matt thought.

"Aye, and 'tis not in question," Father Heureau agreed in a soft, soothing tone.  "You do not stand accused of his murder, goodwife, nor hath anyone suggested so."

"We're just trying to find Father DuVois's personal effects, that's all," Matt explained.  Charlotte stared at him blankly.  So, for that matter, did the priest and the duke.  "His stuff, his things.  You know, clothes, books, tools, that kind of stuff.  That's all we're looking for."

"Well, look for it somewhere else," Charlotte snapped, gathering the wood and turning to head back down into the shallow bowl of earth that held her charcoal hearths.  "They're gone.  I have them not."  Her daughter turned and followed her without saying a word, carrying a small log of her own.  The three men exchanged puzzled glances.

"But…" Montmartre protested, following her down the earthen slope, "We did hear that the Father did live here during the usurper's reign."

"Aye, he did, but 'twas months ago," Charlotte shot back over her shoulder as she added the wood to the low pyramid of logs in one charcoal pit.  "And like the priest himself, his things are gone now."

"What happened to them?" Matt asked, following.

"I burned them," Charlotte replied, picking up a spade and crossing to the other charcoal hearth, already burning.  "They did make good kindling."

Matt suspected there was a lot more to it than that.  If kindling was all she was after, dead leaves would do just fine—and the forest floor was covered with them.  No, she burned Father DuVois's possessions out of spite, an anger and vengeance that was not, apparently, sated by his mere death.

Young Father Heureau pulled in a long, shaky breath and crossed himself.  "Not his Bible, I pray!" he gasped, eyes wide.  "Tell me you did not burn his Holy Bible!"

That made Charlotte pause.  She looked back at the young clergyman and said, almost reluctantly, "Nay.  That I did not burn.”  She continued walking around the low earthen dome where the logs smoldered, studying it.  “I have sin enough on my soul without adding blasphemy to the list," she said, dumping dirt over a hole that had burned through the side of the hearth, and packed it down with the spade. The hearth had to be sealed, the air flow carefully controlled, to keep the fire burning hot and slow enough to turn logs into charcoal.

Young Father Heureau breathed a sigh of relief, then turned thoughtful.  He turned to Matt and Montmartre.  "I do keep important letters in my Bible sometimes," he said slowly.  "'Tis a safe place to keep them, for I never forget where I've lain my Bible.  Mayhap Father DuVois did the same…?"  His voice trailed off.  He was grasping at straws, and they all knew it.  Still, if there was even a chance they could find that all-important letter…

Matt turned to Charlotte.  "If you didn't burn his Bible, then where is it?  Do you still have it?"

Charlotte paused in shoveling dirt onto the hearth long enough to glace back at him.  She jerked her head toward her hut.  "Inside," she said, then went back to shoveling.

"Uh… can we, um… see it?"

Charlotte hesitated for a second.  Her gaze pierced each eye of the male trio, evaluating them.  "Aye… I suppose so," she sighed, driving her spade into earth with a stomp of her foot.  "An' welcome ye are to it—I've no use for it."  At Father Heureau's scandalized stare, she clarified.  "I can not read, ye see."  She turned and led the way to her hut, followed obediently by her daughter Michelle.

Charlotte held her daughter’s hand tightly and gestured for the men to enter the shack first.  Matt suspected it had less to do with courtesy and more with paranoia—she didn’t want to turn her back on them.  Matt and Montmartre both carried daggers, after all.

Charlottle's hut was much smaller than Father Heureau's, and almost as empty.  The biggest difference was the walls.  They were covered with charcoal drawings, stopping at about five feet up—presumably as high as little Michelle could reach.  Despite the one-room dwelling being barer than a nudist colony, Charlotte had somehow found a place to hide the book.  She reached up into the thatch of the hut's roof, felt around, and pulled down Father DuVois's old, worn Bible.  She brushed it off before placing it in Matt's eager, waiting hands.

Matt immediately flipped through thick parchment sheets with his thumb, hoping for gaps that would indicate letters between the pages.  He immediately found far too many.  Father DuVois was apparently a pack rat (or a control freak) and kept everything.  Matt divided the letters among the three literate men, and for a moment, the small crowded hut was utterly still and silent, except for the odd tug and rustle of shuffling pages. 

"This one mentions Bloodhounds," Father Heureau said.  "It says that…" his voice trailed off as he read.  "Wait… someone tried to warn him…?"

Matt all but ripped the letter from the young priest's hands and read it.

 

The Bloodhounds are coming for you.

Run far, run fast, run now,

to the Abbey of St. Moncaire in the west.

 

It wasn't signed, of course. 

But Matt didn’t need a signature to know who wrote it—he recognized instantly the tight, precise calligraphy of a certain royal scribe.   Still, he had to make sure, if for nothing else than to convince young Father Heureau.  Matt felt around in his belt pouch and pulled out a folded, wrinkled sheet of parchment with his monthly calendar on it, inked weeks ago by Ortho's hand.  He compared the two in silence for a moment.  

"The handwriting matches," Matt announced. He leaned over and held the parchments up side by side in front of other men.  "Look at the 'un' in 'Sunday' and 'run'.  The 'r' in 'Thursday' and 'far'.  The 'f' in 'Friday'.  They're exactly the same."

"And yon calendar was written by…?" Montmartre prompted.

"Ortho."  Matt nodded. 

Montmartre said nothing, but his face spread into a slow, satisfied smile.

Matt was surprised to discover himself smiling, too.  He felt enormously relieved, as if he had just survived a vicious battle.  For all that Matt had been telling himself he was an objective, impartial investigator and nothing more, apparently some small part of him had been hoping for Ortho's innocence—and that part had only grown over time as he learned more and more about the scribe’s deeds.

And if this part of Ortho’s story was true—if he really was the Frank—then the chances that the rest of his story was also true skyrocketed.  Ortho was innocent.  He wasn't a sorcerer, or a murderer.  He hadn't lied to Matt.  Well… some understandable lies of omission perhaps, born of shame or fear for his life, … but ultimately, he hadn't betrayed Matt's trust.  Matt felt a sudden twinge of guilt for ever doubting a man of such courage and principle.  He took a deep breath and returned to his investigation.

Matt looked up at Charlotte.  She had put as much space between the men and herself as possible, her back to the wall.  Matt suddenly noticed a cooking knife on a shelf easily within Charlotte’s reach.  He decided a little paranoia of his own might be called for.

Little Michelle, meanwhile, had produced another lump of charcoal from somewhere.  She was busy doodling on the wall next to her mommy, blissfully oblivious to all the potential dangers her mother seemed keenly are of. 

"Uh… any idea how father DuVois got this letter, Charlotte?" Matt asked.

She shrugged.  "I know not.  It did appear one morning, thrust under the doorjamb and over the threshold.  I know not what it said… but it did make DuVois angry."

"Interesting," Matt mused.  "And what did he do then?"

Charlotte shrugged again.  "He did leave a note of his own outside the door that night, with a gold coin upon it.  Come the next morn, another letter had been thrust under the door.  And the coin with it."

"You're sure it was a different letter?"  Matt said.  "Not just the same one Father DuVois wrote the night before?"

Charlotte glared at him.  "I may not read, Sir," she said frostily, "but I know the difference still twixt a few words, and many.  Nay, 'twas a different note, of that I am certain."

"Did Father DuVois tell you what the letter said?" Matt asked.  "What they were all about?"

"Nay," Charlotte shook her head.  "He would talk not of it.  I will own to being curious—but as I could read them not, 'twas little I could learn.  And, in truth, I did not much care."

Matt turned back to the other two men and raised an eyebrow.  "Still… a second letter… did you guys find anything like that?"

"Nay…" Montmartre shook his head.  "But we did stop our search once we did find the first..."

"Then let's keep looking!"

The three men flipped through each page of the Bible, examined every letter, but none seemed even slightly relevant to their search.  Matt didn't recognize any of the handwriting as Ortho's.

"Perhaps the Father destroyed that letter?" Montmartre suggested.

"Could be—but why destroy one letter, and not the other?" Matt wondered aloud.

"Hmm."  Montmartre scowled.  "Mayhap he had it upon his person when the barn burned?"

"If that's the case—and it could be—then the second letter is gone.  Still," Matt said, looking at the parchment in his hand, "this letter's enough to prove that Ortho is almost certainly the Frank."

In Matt and Montmartre's rapid exchange of ideas, they forgot to include young Father Heureau.  He looked on with mild interest, but seemed utterly confused.  And small wonder—he was missing too much information to make sense of their words.

"More than that, wizard," Montmartre continued, "we know now that Ortho did warn Father DuVois to run… and yet he did not.  He stayed."  Montmartre frowned.  "And then, after trying to save the man, Ortho did try to arrest him—then did kill him, when he tried to escape!  Yet why?  Wherefore did Ortho change his mind?"

"Uh, well…" Matt creased his brow in concentration.  "Ortho did say that Father DuVois was 'wicked,' and 'abusing his flock'… but he didn’t really explain how or why.  Seemed kinda evasive on the whole matter, actually.  At the time, I just took that as proof he was making it all up.  But now… well, I'm not so sure…"

"Myself, I would say he did seem more… embarrassed… than evasive," Montmartre replied.  "I took that to mean the priest's villainy was too distasteful or shocking to recount."

Father Heureau was completely lost by now, puzzled, impatient, and bored.  He looked absently around the hut.  Charlotte merely glared at him.  Michelle was sketching away, oblivious to him.  Mildly interested, Father Heureau crouched down to look at the pictures.

"Either way, we need to find out what Ortho learned about Father DuVois.  Whatever it was, it seems to have changed Ortho’s mind about saving the priest," Matt said, staring off into the middle distance, lost in thought.  "What could possibly be so bad it would make a former monk go after one of his own?  What was the Father up to?"

"I'd wager someone about these parts knows," Montmartre said.

Matt looked up.  "Why do you say that?"

"For that we do suspect 'twas someone from Montville who did betray Father DuVois to the Bloodhounds," Montmartre said firmly.  "If 'tis so, then that man must needs have had reason for betraying the priest.  But why would someone do so?  Mayhap because they knew of DuVois’s wickness!"

"Is that a priest?" Father Heureau asked Michelle, pointing to a freshly drawn picture on the wall of a man with a cross on his chest.  "Is that me, girl?"  Little Michelle nodded, smiling.  "Well, then 'tis a very good likeness!"  Michelle beamed, and started drawing another figure. 

"Your theory makes sense," Matt nodded slowly.  "But if he really was wicked, then it must have been a very well-kept secret.  Everyone in Montville had good things to say about him—in fact, the only person we've come across who didn't like him… was…" Matt's voice trailed off as he turned to stare at Charlotte. 

The instant his eyes met hers, she looked away.  Her face a careful mask of neutrality, but she shifted her weight uncomfortably, realized she was wringing her hands, and shoved them behind her back.  She's hiding something, Matt thought, his social instincts kicking into overdrive. But what?

Montmartre followed Matt’s gaze. The pair stared at the young woman without a word.  She stood perfectly still and utterly silent.  It was a verbal standoff, and Matt felt the sudden absurd urge to curl his fingers near an imaginary six-shooter at his hip. 

Father Heureau's cheerful voice was loud in the sudden silence.  "Why, that must be your mother!"  He leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on the little girl’s back, and pointed to another drawing.  "And is this you?"

Charlotte snapped instantly to life.  "Don't you touch her!"  Charlotte seized her daughter and pulled Michelle back with a surprised squawk.  "Don't you ever touch my daughter!"

Matt blinked and glanced at Montmartre, who looked equally surprised and confused.  It seemed a rather extreme response for so small a gesture—and Heureau was a priest, of all things!  Why be so suspicious of—

Suddenlly all the pieces fell into place in Matt's head.  He stood silent and stunned for a moment.  Her actions and their motivations suddenly became crystal clear.  It made perfect sense—he must have been blind not to see it before. 

"The only person around here who had a grudge against Father DuVois was you," Matt said quietly to Charlotte.  "And someone betrayed him to the Bloodhounds.  Was it you?"

"Nay, a'course not!" she said, tossing her head indignantly.

Matt shook his head.  "You're lying."

"I am not!" she insisted. "And who are you to say so, besides?"

"A wizard," Matt replied calmly, crossing his arms across his chest.  "Her Majesty's Wizard, actually.  You know, the most powerful one in the kingdom?  So don't bother lying, because I'll know if you do."

It wasn't true, of course.  Matt knew nothing of the sort.  But the chances were good that she was hiding something, and his title and office did carry with it a certain level of intimidation.  And it appeared to be working.

The color drained from Charlotte's face as she stared back at him, afraid to say anything more for fear of damning herself.  She clutched Michelle against her and looked around, breathing quickly, eyes wide with alarm—frightened, caught, cornered, and trapped.  Her eyes rolled over the three men, sizing them up, preparing to fight to flee.  She glanced at the kitchen knife on the shelf.

Matt decided he’d better calm things down quickly before Charlotte panicked and someone got hurt.  "Oh, don't worry, you're not in any trouble," he told her with a dismissive wave of his hand.  "We’re not going to arrest you.  You see, technically, you didn’t betray anyone—not for lack of trying, though.”

Charlotte’s eyes tightened as she stared at Matt, confused and suspicious of trickery.  She kept her mouth firmly closed. 

"You turned in Father DuVois to the wrong Bloodhound," Matt said with a sigh.  "That man—Ortho—wasn't a real Bloodhound.  He wasn't even a real sorcerer, as far as we can tell.  He was a wizard and former monk pretending to be a sorcerer.  In reality, he was helping priests escape before the Bloodhounds caught them.  So, technically, you didn’t do anything wrong."

Charlotte remained stone-faced and blinked at him, but then her eyes lit with understanding.  She drew in a long shaky breath, comprehending suddenly the depth of her mistake, the irony and even humor of it all.  "What you do say can not be true," she breathed, “for the sorcerers did kill Father DuVois!"

"Yeah, but one of them warned the Father to run before that happened.  Remember this?"  Matt held up the scribbled note.  "That's what it says, in Ortho’s handwriting.  'Run away, the Bloodhounds are coming.'  And who would know that better… than one of the Bloodhounds?"

Charlotte’s brow furrowed.  "But then… why did he not run?"

Matt and Montmartre exchanged glances.  “Were still trying to figure that part out,” he admitted. 

“As near as well can tell,” Montmartre said, "Father Duvios did not fear the sorcerers, and did believe they would leave them in peace."

"But wherefore?" Charlotte asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Probably because the Bloodhound sorcerers knew what you knew," Matt explained.  "That despite his outward show of piety, Father DuVois led a second, secret life—a wicked one.”

“But I know of no such thing!” Charlotte protested, a little too quickly.

“Oh really?” Matt said.  “Then tell me, Charlotte … why do you hate him so much?"

"I've told you," she said, and Matt noticed she was breathing faster.  "He was an intolerant, self-righteous judge who did gossip of me to his congregation every Sunday morn!"

Matt shook his head slowly.  "You don't turn a man over to his executioners just because he talks about you behind your back.  I think you're telling the truth, yeah… but not the whole truth.  No, you hated him for another reason, Charlotte.  A worse reason.  An older reason.  One that goes all the way back to your childhood."

Charlotte's eyes widened, anxiety and anger warring on her face.  She cast a worried glance down at Michelle and clutched her daughter tightly against her.  "I know not of what you speak, Sir!" she insisted, but wouldn’t meet Matt’s gaze. 

"Sure you do," Matt said as casually as he could.  "You were an orphan. Father DuVois took you in.  I'll bet you thought it was a godsend at first.  But then something changed.  Something went wrong.  You began running, hiding, fighting him…"  Matt watched as Charlotte's entire body tensed.  He was closing in on a disturbing truth, and the stress was getting to her. 

"You know, celibacy is hard for any man to maintain, even a priest,” Matt continued.  “Especially when there's a pretty little girl living with him.  Under the roof of his one-room house.  All by herself.  Behind closed doors.  All night long."  Charlotte the Harlot seemed to fold in on herself, bristling defensively.  "What happened during those long, cold winter nights, Charlotte?  It’s too cold to go outside… not much to do inside…"

"Stop," Charlotte almost whispered, half plea and half demand.  "Pray you, for my daughter's sake, speak no more!"

Matt glanced at Father Heureau and Duke Montmartre, and they took their cue at once.  The imminent conversation was most certainly not approved for all audiences, and especially not for children.

"Come, Michelle!"  Father Heureau smiled as he leaned down to the little girl.  "Would you like to play outside?  'Tis not yet dark."

"You're not going anywhere with my daughter!" Charlotte snapped.  "What would you know of children anyway, priest?"  She made his vocation an insult, venting her anxiety on the hapless young clergyman.  Father Heureau paused and stared at her, taken aback and perhaps a bit hurt.  

"I am a father."  Montmartre smiled, stepping forward.  "And a grandfather too, many times over.  Surely I must know how to amuse children by now!"

"Michelle is not leaving my sight!"

"And no one is saying that she should," Montmartre said in his quiet, soothing voice.  "You can watch us if you wish—aye, as well you should!”  Matt could feel the tension in the room steadily dropping as the nobleman spoke.  “She need only be out of earshot, not out of sight—for what must be said now should not be heard by young ears."

Charlotte glared at the old man, torn between his convincing argument and a mother’s protective instinct toward her young.  "Well… how if I should refuse to speak?  She need not leave the cottage then, aye?”

"Well, you can clam up if you want."  Matt shrugged.  "It's your choice.  It won't make much difference, though.  You see, we will find out what you know, one way or another.”  Matt used the ominous-sounding phrase on purpose.  “Of course, it will be a lot easier if you cooperate.  And your daughter really shouldn’t hear it, either way.  Now," Matt said, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles, "what's a good spell to use?  Ah, I know!"  Matt began waving his hands in complex, exaggerated gestures, babbling nonsense words off the top of his head.

 

"Do wah diddy, diddy dumm, diddy do,

A bee-bop-a-lula, a whop bam-boo,

Rama lama ding dong, do be do be do…

 

Matt had no intention of casting a real spell, of course.  Mind magic was delicate work, and even the slightest mistake could cause a magical lobotomy.  Aside from all the sticky ethical issues involved, if that happened, they'd never find out what Charlotte knew.  Still, the nonsense chants and gestures had their intimidating effect, and Charlotte decided not to call the wizard's bluff.

"Aye, aye, all right, all right!" Charlotte said.  "Enough!  I'll let my Michelle wander whilst we parley.  But I shall keep her always in my sight!”  She turned and pointed at Montmartre.  “And if you so much as harm a hair on her head, I swear to God I'll get the axe and—"

“”Oh, we have no desire to harm anyone,” Montmartre said with a smile, despite the peasant’s shocking insolence to a lord.

"We just want to find out what really happened the night father DuVois died, that's all,” Matt chimed in, doing his best imitation of Montmartre's soothing, commanding tone.  “All we want is information, and all we're after is the truth. Nothing more."

"You know, Michelle," Montmartre said almost conversationally.  "I was a fair artist myself as a lad.  Still am, I suppose.  In fact, I daresay I can draw a better face than you can!"

"Nuh-uh!"  Little Michelle shook her head, honored the old duke with an actual word.

"Oh, indeed?" Montmartre said.  "Then prove it!"  He showed her two empty hands, clapped them together, rubbed, and held out a piece of charcoal to the little girl. Matt had no idea where the nobleman had picked up a commoner's sleight-of-hand trick, but it didn't matter.  Father Heureau chuckled, and a smile slowly spread over little Michelle's face.  She thrust her chin out and plucked the charcoal from the old man's fingers, accepting his challenge.  She turned and strode out the door, head held high, determined to prove herself the bestest drawer in the whole wide world.

The adults watched as the little girl and old man crossed to the far side of the charcoal pit.  Montmartre chattered constantly, his voice fading as he walked, letting Matt know when the duke and the child were out of earshot.  Michelle stopped before a freshly fallen tree stump, the soft and white wood making an excellent canvas, and began to sketch.  Montmartre sat down to watch her. 

Charlotte walked out the door to keep a better view on her daughter—and, Matt was glad to see, didn’t take the kitchen knife with her.  Matt and Father Heureau followed her outside, and they all silently watched as Michelle and Montmartre took turns drawing off in the distance.  Charlotte gazed at Michelle with a look of concern and love that was heartbreaking to see. 

“All right, wizard,” she said at last in a voice barely above a whisper, for fear the wind would blow her words across the hearths to her daughter’s ears.  “Ask what ye will, and I’ll tell what ye would know.”

 

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