Dawn broke blue over the trees and gradually illuminated the farmstead. Louis woke as Modestine slept on, and he stumbled outside and stretched, breathing in the clean morning air. He roused himself by walking around the barn, investigating its stone and its climbing vegetation, then standing back to observe its wide red-tile roof. It looked suitable to live in and he envied the cows, sheep, and goats.
As the sky grew lighter and the air began to lose its dewy quality, the door to the cottage opened and out came Father Secours. He’d begun to walk toward the stable, but upon seeing Louis, he stopped and waved him over. Louis, in turn, signed a negative and for the priest to come to him. When Father Secours approached, Louis motioned for him to come into the stable.
Modestine shifted and snorted in her sleep.
“The clawed thing,” Louis said, pointing to his effects. “The cloaked man’s weapon; it’s gone.”
Father Secours nodded and thought.
“It is what it is,” he said.
“No!” Louis exclaimed, kicking his sack of belongings for emphasis. “Not everything simply is, some things canbe!”
“What could this be, Louis?” Father Secours asked, his eyes calm, but searching. “Will you snap your fingers and bring the thing back? Will you speak the magic words and bring this to an end?”
Louis hung his head.
“There is nothing we can do. Come, wash up inside. Sylvie is making breakfast.”
Louis followed the priest back to the house. Inside was warmed cozily by a healthy fire in the hearth.
Bonjours and smiles were exchanged; a breakfast of eggs, potato, onion, and bread was laid out. Coffee was abundant.
“Now is as good a time as any,” Father Secours said before he stuck a forkful of egg into his mouth. He looked at Louis, and Louis—his fork poised to do the same—looked back. The priest chewed and tried to gesture with his eyebrows what Louis should be doing.
It finally occurred to Louis that he needed to tell his story, again. He looked longingly at his breakfast. Gilles laughed and took a bite of his meal.
“Eat and speak, monsieur Stevenson,” he said. “These are special circumstances; we won’t stand on propriety.” He chewed and grinned to make Louis more comfortable.
Louis laughed. Decorum be damned. He stuffed his mouth with egg and followed it with a bite of warm bread. Distracted for a moment at how good it was, he nodded emphatically to Sylvie and pointed at the remaining slice on his plate.
“Bien, je vous remercie beaucoup, monsieur Stevenson,” she said, smiling.[1]
“Please,” he said cautiously around his chewing. “Please call me Louis.”
Everyone around the table nodded, including the children as they beamed at the strange Scotsman, amused at his relative discomfort.
Louis began his story, and paused at the most violent elements, looking from the parents to the children, but the couple insisted he go on.
“Violence, in some form, is an ordinary part of our lives,” said Father Secours. “Although the children are not susceptible to the change, it is good they learn what it means. And it gives these good young people the practice of teaching what it takes to raise that one there.” He pointed to Sylvie’s belly and smiled.
No one seemed upset or particularly bothered that this—changing from a man to a wolf-like creature—may or may not be in store for their unborn child. Just weeks ago, Louis wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of werewolves at all, but here this morning, at the table of this fine family, he’d accepted the concept so completely that he had to remind himself to be disconcerted at the strangeness of their reaction. Of course they would have to wait and see, but it made little difference either way. One way meant one thing, and another only meant some extra guidance. They’d been doing this for generations.
As Louis brought his story to a close, and began to focus more on eating—although he’d already cleared half of his plate—they heard footsteps padding unhurriedly down the stairs. He’d forgotten that there was another occupant of the house that he hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of.
The first thing he saw were the yellow corkscrew curls, and then he was gazing onto the countenance of a younger Clarisse, a face of about fifteen years old. Clémence displayed the same fairness of skin, the same ruddy blush of the cheeks, and the same small blue eyes that penetrated one so thoroughly. She was lovely, but for the fire.
One half of her face and head was bandaged, leaving her cyclopsed, and her hair seemed to explode from where the bandage ended, so stark was the contrast between that and the hair clearly lost. It would likely never grow back. The arm on that side was also wrapped and slung with a clean piece of cotton sheeting.
“Victor,” she said quietly, but surprised, to Father Secours as she approached the table.
He stood and rounded the table to embrace her carefully.
“Are you hungry, mon petit oiseau?” Sylvie asked, getting up.[2]
“Un peu,” Clémence responded.
“Well, a little is better than not at all,” Sylvie said and moved Clémence into her own chair. She cleared her plate and went to fetch a clean one for her cousin.
Father Secours returned to his place at the table. The girl sat down gently as she was fussed over, and then fixed Louis with her one eye. Louis nodded a greeting to her and shifted uncomfortably.
Gilles sensed his uneasiness.
“Clémence, this is—” he began.
“Monsieur Stevenson,” she finished. “Clarisse mentioned you.”
At the sound of Clarisse’s name from the lips of her poor, disfigured surviving sister, Louis almost burst into tears.
“Please, call me Louis,” he managed, his voice quivering.
It was then that Louis noticed a small lump beneath her blouse, just at the sternum. By the shape, he already knew what it was the foal’s bell. And with that, he fought to keep his emotions in check.
“Please let me extend my deepest condolences, mademoiselle Clémence,” he said. “I met your sister only briefly, though she displayed to me all the strength and honor that reads across your own face.”
“What is left of my face,” she said.
Louis was speechless and ashamed. As he searched vainly for a response, Sylvie placed a plate before Clémence and then shooed the children from the table and sat down herself.
“Monsieur Stevenson was there,” Father Secours said. “He saw what happened.”
“There was nothing I could do,” Louis pleaded to the girl.
She simply looked at him, mildly surprised at his sentiment.
“I know that,” she said, and then began to eat, daintily but evenly.
“Did you hear what we were discussing, cousin?” Gilles asked the girl but looked at Father Secours.
“Oui,” she said, and ate.
A collective sigh spread quietly over the table.
“Well, it is probably better,” said Father Secours. “If it was Clarisse, we wouldn’t get away with a single secret. This one is even worse.”
He smiled at Clémence, who didn’t smile back but didn’t seem angry or agitated either. Louis assumed that, on some level, though she was walking, speaking, eating, the girl was still in shock.
“You could,” Father Secours said to her, “maybe be of some assistance, actually.”
Clémence tilted her head up, chewing.
“Your sister rode home that night,” the priest began. “She must have arrived well before the mob, but she was unsuccessful in convincing your parents to flee.”
“Father did not understand,” she said. “Mother even less so.”
“You understood,” Father Secours said.
“I trusted Clarisse.”
She had finished her small breakfast, and she dabbed her mouth with her napkin and pushed her plate forward a little.
“You were right to trust her,” Father Secours said. “Would that your father—”
“I thought he would, but it was just so absurd,” said Clémence. “We both tried to persuade them. But it was too late.”
“Clémence, did Clarisse say anything that you think might help us to . . . deal with this beast?” Louis interjected, only slightly worried of butting in, and very aware of the irony of discussing another human being as a “beast” with a family of werewolves.
Her gaze turned from her cousin to him and he felt chilled by the evidence of the atrocity that he had witnessed just a few days ago. She then looked at the table, thinking. Involuntarily, her hand fetched the foal’s bell from beneath her chemise. Louis winced, for it was now charred black. The remaining loose soot stained her small fingers.
“Non,” she said, finally, and everyone around the table slouched a little in defeat. “But, when our parents refused to leave, she entreated me to run myself. To take Voila and ride her as far as I could get. But I could not leave them.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“She told me to ride out and find monsieur Stevenson. She said he would protect me.”
Louis looked at her quick and firm, the tears gathering and threatening to spill. Everyone was silent.
“I could not save you, girl,” he said quietly. “I don’t know that I could have had you run.” And then he cast his eyes down, ashamed to look at this fragile, injured child.
“If Clarisse thought you could,” she replied, “you could have. It wasn’t your fault. I should have listened to her.” She reached across the table to Louis and patted his hand with hers. He took it into his and pressed it, and then let it go, feeling unworthy.
Who was this young woman? And where had she found such stamina? Louis thought of her father, braving the flames and enduring the unthinkable burn, just to attempt to save his wife. He thought of Clarisse’s quick thinking in action, flying out of Pont de Montvert on Voila just to attempt to save her family. This strength was not simply discovered, it was innate. This young woman in front of him might bear these terrible scars for the rest of her days, but Louis took some comfort in that she would never allow them to defeat her. Of that, he felt sure.
“Here, you should rest,” Sylvie said to Clémence, placing her hands on the girl’s shoulders to guide her to a quieter area of the cottage. “Victor and Louis have much to discuss.” She looked to her husband, “and you and Thierry should be in the fields.”
Gilles nodded and pushed himself from the table. Thierry, who had been listening from the open attached family area leapt to his feet.
As Sylvie led her away and toward the stairs, Clémence paused and turned to Louis and Father Secours.
“You will kill him, won’t you?”
There was a spate of silence.
“We don’t know what we will do with him, cousin,” Father Secours finally answered. “If we can get a hold of him, that is.”
“You will,” she said. “You will get him. And he must be killed.” She turned to Louis. “Victor cannot; he is a holy man. But you can. You must.”
Louis thought for an instant, but then nodded to her.
“I will.”
She looked at him a moment longer, then turned slowly to the stairs, and disappeared into the rooms above.
[1] “Well, thank you very much…”
[2] “ . . . my little bird?”
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