Yes.

I could have stopped it with a word. But the scene was so compelling, so classic in its perspectives that I had not the heart to do so. The evil omens, the visions, the portentous death, and now the dramatic revelation amid the carnage…It was magnificent, almost biblical: I could not have scripted it better myself.

I wonder if she was conscious of the tableau she presented; head high, coiffe pulled back to reveal the dark fire of her curls, the wild girl clasped to her breast. Of course it is regrettable that tableaux should now be so out of fashion; more so that there should be so few here present able to appreciate it. But I have hopes for little Isabelle. An apt pupil in spite of her stolid upbringing, I could not have planned a more rousing performance myself.

Naturally, it was I who taught her all she knows, nurtured her, coaxed her from her meek obedience into this. I have, as you see, a vocation. A sense of pride moves me as I recall the tractable little girl she once was. But the good children, we are told, are always the ones to be careful of. A moment comes when even the most acquiescent of them may reach a point beyond which the cartographers of the mind can map nothing more.

A declaration of independence, perhaps. An affirmation of self.

She thinks in absolutes, like her uncle. Dreams of sanctity, of battles with demons. A fanciful child, in spite of everything, tormented by the visionary yearnings and uncertainties of her youth, the rigid conventions of her line. I suspected she’d declare herself today. You might say I staged it: a little divertissement between two acts of a great drama. Even so she surprised me. Not least by her perversity in choosing as her scapegoat the one woman I should have preferred her not to accuse.

Impossible to think that the girl suspects anything: it is instinctive with her, a child’s love of defiance. She feels the need to prove to me the rightness of her suspicions-I who have always remained maddeningly calm, almost skeptical in the face of her growing conviction-to earn my praise, even my discomfiture. For there is more to her now than submissive adoration. The declaration of self has elevated her, bred seeds of dissension in her that I must nurture whilst struggling to control. Her awe of me remains, colored now with a sullenness, a renewed suspicion…I must take care. Given her head she might fall upon me as easily as upon you, my l’Ailée, and in this the two of you are more alike than you know. She is a knife, and I must handle it with cunning. Perverse enough to welcome the subtle humiliations of my erstwhile designing, the core of breeding in her is strong, her pride obdurate.

You see, Juliette, that this changes things between us. I must not be seen to favor you. Both our heads might roll. I must be discreet now, or my plans will come to naught. I do admit to feeling a pang for you, however. Maybe when all this is done…But for now the risk is too great. Your weapon against me is gone now, even if you choose to use it. The word that stutters and hushes about the church must silence all accusations you may try to voice. You know it; I can see it in your eyes. And yet in spite of this it rankles to submit to the Arnault girl, even if it furthers my plans. My authority has been challenged. And as you know, a challenge is something I can seldom resist…

“There is no cause as yet to cry witchcraft upon our sister.” My voice was even and a little stern. “You are ignorant, led only by your fear. In its face a lavender sachet becomes an instrument of the dark arts. A gesture of mercy takes sinister meaning. This is foolish beyond permission.”

For an uneasy moment I sensed their revolt. Clémente called out: “There was a presence! Someone must have sent it out!”

Voices joined hers in agreement.

“Ay, I felt it!”

“And I!”

“There was a cold wind-”

“And the dancing-”

“The dancing!”

“Ay, there was a presence! Many presences!” I was improvising now, using my voice as a bridle to rein in this wild and spirited mare. “The very presences that were unleashed when we opened the crypt!” Sweat ran into my eyes and I shook it away, afraid to show the beginnings of a tremor in my clenched hands. “Vade retro, Satanas!”

Latin has an authority that common tongues sadly lack. A pity that necessity should force me to perform in the vernacular, but these sisters are sadly ignorant. Nuances evade them. And for the moment they were too distraught for subtleties. “I tell you this!” My voice rose above the murmur. “We sit upon a well of corruption! A century-old bastion of hell has been threatened by our Reform, and Satan fears its loss! But be of good cheer, Sisters! The Evil One cannot harm the pure in heart. He works through the soul’s corruption but cannot touch one of true faith!”

“Père Colombin has spoken well.” Mère Isabelle looked at me from her small colorless eyes. There was something in her expression I did not quite like, a calculating look, a look almost of defiance. “His wisdom puts our feminine fears to shame. His strength keeps us from falling.”

Strange words, and not of my choosing. I wondered where she was leading. “But piety may hold its own dangers. The innocence of our holy father precludes true vision, true understanding. He has not felt what we have felt today!”

Her eyes moved to the back of the church where the new Marie, newly scrubbed, stood in gracious lethargy. “There is a rot here,” she continued. “A rot so deep that I have not dared voice my suspicions openly. But now-” She lowered her voice like a child exchanging secrets. I have taught her better than I knew, for her voice was clearly audible, a stage whisper that carried to the eaves. “Now I can reveal it.”

Breathless, they awaited her revelation.

“Everything begins with Mère Marie. Did not the first Visitation appear from the crypt in which we interred her? Did not the apparitions you have seen wear her features? And did not the spirits speak to us in her name?”

There came from the crowd a low murmur of acquiescence.

“Well?” said Isabelle.

I didn’t like it. “Well what?” I said. “Are you saying that Mère Marie was in league with Satan? That’s absurd. Why-”

She interrupted me-me!-and stamped her little foot. “Who was it gave the order to bury Mère Marie in unhallowed ground?” she demanded. “Who has repeatedly defied my authority? Who deals in potions and charms like a village witch?”

So that was it. Around her the sisters exchanged glances; several forked the sign against evil. “Can it be a coincidence,” Isabelle went on, “that Soeur Marguerite took one of her potions just before she got the dancing sickness? Or that Soeur Alfonsine went to her for help before she began to cough up blood!” She blanched at my expression but went on nevertheless. “She has a secret compartment next to her bed. She keeps her charms in there. See for yourself, if you don’t believe me!”

I bowed my head. She had declared herself then, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. “So be it,” I said between clenched teeth. “We’ll make a search.”