“It is, Antoine.”

“I was fourteen. I had a father. Brothers. Aunts and uncles. They all assumed I wouldn’t know what to do. They had it all arranged before I could say a word. They said I wouldn’t know how to care for a baby. They said I’d never live with the shame.”

“What happened?”

“They were going to give it to my cousin Sophie,” said Antoine. “I was never even consulted. Sophie had three children already, and she was only eighteen. She would raise mine with hers. The scandal would soon be forgotten. Laughed over. Fancy that! The stupid fat girl had a child! But, my dears, who was the father? A blind man?”

“What happened?” I said.

“I took a pillow.” Her voice was low and reflective. “I put it over my child’s head. My little son’s soft dark head. I waited.” She gave a smile of terrible tenderness. “No one wanted him, Auguste. He was the one thing I’d ever had of my own. It was the only way I could keep him.”

“And Clémente?” My voice was a whisper.

“I told her everything,” said Antoine. “I thought she was different. I thought she understood. But she laughed at me. Just like the others…” Again the smile, and just for a second I glimpsed once again the dark beauty of the woman. “But it doesn’t matter,” she said with a hint of malice. “Père Colombin promised-”

“Promised what?”

She shook her head. “This is mine, my secret. The secret I share with Père Colombin. I don’t want to share it with you. You’ll know soon enough, anyway. You’ll know on Sunday.”

“Sunday?” I was dancing with impatience. “Antoine, what did he say?”

She put her head to one side, an absurdly coquettish gesture. “He promised. All the women who laughed at me. All the ones who made fun of me and made me do penances for greed. No more poor Soeur Antoine, stupid Soeur Antoine to blame or to bully. On Sunday we light a flame.”

And from then on she was silent and would say no more, but folded her fat arms onto her bosom and turned away with that maddening, angelic smile.

She found me in the church at daybreak. For once I was alone. The air was rancid-sweet with last night’s incense, the thin sunlight filtering through layers of floating dust. For the luxury of a moment I closed my eyes and smelt the hot reek of smoke, the scorch of flesh…But not mine, this time, Monseigneur. Not mine.

How they would dance! The habits, the virgins, the hypocrites. What an act it would be! What a rapturous, unholy finale!

Her voice jolted me from a reverie that had sunk me almost into slumber. True, I had not slept in three days. “LeMerle.”

Even half-conscious I knew that note. I opened my eyes. “My Harpy. You’ve worked well for me. You must be looking forward to seeing your daughter tomorrow.”

Three days ago that ploy might still have worked. As it was, she barely acknowledged my words, shaking them aside as a dog may shake water from its pelt.

“I’ve spoken to Antoine.”

Ah. A pity. I always knew my plump disciple to be a little unstable. It was like her to let something drop without considering the implications. A loyal slave, Antoine; but no thinker. “Yes? I trust she was a stimulating conversationalist.”

“Stimulating enough.” The sequin eyes glittered. “LeMerle, what’s happening?”

“Nothing that need concern you, my Winged One.”

“If you’re planning to harm anyone, I’ll stop you.”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I know you would.”

I shrugged and held up my hands. “Forgive her, Lord, her hurtful remark. What more can I do to make you trust me? I’ve kept Fleur safe. I’ve asked nothing more of Perette. I was thinking that tomorrow you could skip mass and collect your daughter-take the road while I’m tying up my few loose ends-meet me, perhaps, on the mainland, and-”

“No.” Her tone was final.

I was beginning to lose patience. “What then? What more do you want of me?”

“I want you to announce the bishop’s visit.”

I wasn’t expecting that; trust you, my Winged One, to find my weakness. “What, and spoil my surprise?”

“We don’t need any more surprises.”

I touched her face with my fingertips. “Juliette, it’s of no importance. Tomorrow night we’ll be in Pornic, or in Saint-Jean-de-Monts, drinking wine from silver cups. I have money put aside; we can start again, start a theater troupe or anything you’d like-”

But she was not to be cajoled. “Announce it at Chapter,” she said. “Do it tonight, Guy, or I’ll do it myself.”

Well, that was my cue. I should have liked your cooperation, my dear, but I had never really expected it at this late stage. I found Antoine by the well-the spot seems to hold a special place in her heart since Germaine’s hanging-and she reacted quickly to the signal she has been anticipating for the past week. Perhaps she is not as slow-witted as I take her for, for I saw her face light up in real pleasure at the task. In that moment she looked neither dull-witted nor ugly, and I felt a moment’s unease. Still, she follows me without question, which is what counts; she does not have your scruples, and she at least understands revenge.

Oh really, Juliette. You always were a simpleton despite your learning. What do we owe to anyone but ourselves? What do we owe to the Creator, sitting there on his golden throne dispensing judgment? Did we ask to be created? Did we ask to be thrown into this world like dice? Look around you, little sister. What has he dealt you that you should take his side? Besides, you should know better by now than to play against me; in the end, I always win.

I knew she would wait until Chapter. Knowing that, I struck first, or rather, Antoine struck, with the help of Soeur Virginie. It was a rousing performance, so I hear; a vision led them to your cache and to the evidence concealed therein-the tarot cards, the poisons, and the bloodied quichenotte of the Unholy Nun. You would have fought but were no match for Antoine’s brute strength; on the orders of the abbess, you were taken to the cellarium and imprisoned there, awaiting a decision. The rumors took wing at once.

“Is she-”

“Possessed?”

“Accused?”

“No, not Auguste-”

“I always knew she was a-”

It is a sigh almost of satisfaction, the whisper taken up-wishwishwish-with a coyness, a fluttering of eyelash and lowering of lids more at home in a Paris salon. These nuns have more feminine tricks than a battery of society prudes, exercising their false modesty to captivate. Their desire smells of sour lilies.

I made my voice grave. “An accusation has been made,” I announced. “If this is true, then we have-we have nurtured-hell’s catamite in our midst from the very first-”

The phrase enticed them. Hell’s Catamite. A good name for a burlesque or a tragédie-ballet. I saw them squirm in scarce disguised excitement.

“A spy, mocking our rituals, secretly in league with the forces that seek to destroy us!”

“I trusted you,” you said as I led you to the cellar door. And then you spat in my face and would have gone for me with your nails if Soeur Antoine had not pushed you into the room and shut the door.

I wiped my brow with a Cholet handkerchief. Through the slit in the door I could see your eyes. Impossible to tell you at this time why I have betrayed you. Impossible to explain that this is the one measure that may save your life.