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the clog-maker’s daughter, Françoise, threw Léon and me dark looks, but I couldn’t help feeling flattered. My cheeks burned and I was aware of the buds of my breasts tingling as they pressed against my chemise; of my hips brushing the coarse cloth of my skirt.
    When Léon paid me attention, I forgot my mother’s sadness, my brother’s jealousy. All I felt was the warmth that started in my ankles and crept up my legs, the heat peaking at the top of my thighs. It was that same strange but pleasurable sensation as when I removed my cap at night and brushed my hair out, or when I lifted my chemise and ran my hand across the patch of light brown fuzz below my belly.
    Firelight made macabre shapes of the wrinkled, toothless faces of the old people. The younger faces — scrubbed clean for the festival — glowed pink and smooth as ripe peaches. Flames threw shadows onto fat oak trunks, and I conjured up horned beasts with drooling jaws and ravens with hooked claws. I loved this time of year, when we all laughed, danced and made jokes together, giddy with the scent of flowers, the pulse of summer sweat and dirt.
    People leapt higher and higher, Léon the highest of all.
    Armand Bruyère beamed. ‘That is how high this year’s harvest will be then!’ he announced, and we all clapped and cheered.
    The flames began to lose their force, and the fragrance of grilled sausages, mushroom and cheese-filled crepes, pâté and sweetbreads filled the night air. Baskets brimming with fruit appeared. The dancing slowed and people began to drop, exhausted, to the ground.
    We washed our feast down with blessed water from the Vionne and wine from Monsieur Bruyère’s grapes, and I beckoned to Maman, standing alone, to come and sit beside me to listen to the stories people had saved up for this special night.
    ‘What of this Bête de Gévaudan the journeymen speak of?’ Grégoire asked.
    ‘Ah, the Gévaudan beast was an unusually fierce and daring wolf-like creature that roamed for two years, killing twenty people!’ Monsieur Bruyère said.
    ‘ Oh là là ,’ several people cried.
    I felt something creeping up behind me. I shivered and spun around, staring into the woods, dark in the waning firelight. I imagined the Night Washerwoman hidden amongst the greatest oaks, washing the shrouds of all her children she’d killed; the woman you had to be careful not to come upon, or she’d ask for help and you too would be covered in the blood of her infants. The trees were still though, nothing moved.
    The stories were over, and I had eaten more than I normally would in a week. I patted my swollen stomach and, with the other villagers, Maman, Grégoire and I curled up beside the glowing embers and closed our eyes.
    I awoke some time later, rubbed my eyes and stood, tugging down my crumpled petticoat. Maman was gone, probably to the church room where she liked to sit, alone. Grégoire was gone too, back to his wood-working.
    ‘See, the sun also dances with joy,’ Léon said, as I bathed my bare feet in the sacred, early dew. I looked to where Léon pointed, beyond the village, at the stripes of pale sunlight throwing soft lavender shadows across the hillsides.
    ‘As if we have washed the world clean and it shines like our very own diamond,’ I said, as Père Joffroy sprinkled more holy water for the crops.
    We scattered the bonfire ashes across the fields and, blessed, I went home feeling safe and protected.
    At least until the next storm.
     

6
     
    Dawn still darkened the countryside when I ducked outside to empty our chamber pots. Geese honked, a flock of doves scattered like ash and birds swooped and shrieked watery notes, as if announcing this summer day — the beginning of the harvest.
    I skipped up the steps of Saint Antoine’s. From the top step of the church, I looked out beyond the fields, and the vineyards boasting their new grapes, to the Monts du Lyonnais, westward boundary from where the clouds brought storms and rains