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their direction and the entire room fell silent.
    “Merde,”
Seraphine muttered.
    Although Meg would not have expressed herself so crudely, she agreed with the sentiment. The air crackled with tension like green logs tossed upon a roaring fire. Meg caught a few whispered words.
“The Lady. Faire Isle. Sorceress.”
    Meg was subjected to a score of stares, some curious, some hostile. She was known to many of the villagers, although folk from the mainland sought Meg’s healing skills with more wariness than they had the previous Lady of Faire Isle.
    As she drew back her hood, a few of the villagers crossed themselves as though seeking protection from the evil eye. Meg flinched, wondering if they had ever done so with Ariane, or did these simple folk perceive something more sinister in Meg’s countenance? A trace of Cassandra Lascelles’s darkness trapped in her daughter’s eyes, despite all of Meg’s efforts to bury her past.
    But it was not the stares of the villagers that unnerved her. She was aware of the stranger studying her, his eyes quiet and watchful. Meg averted her gaze.
    “Clear the way,” Seraphine growled, preparing to shoulder a path for Meg through the crowd. It was unnecessary. They fell back, whether out of fear or respect Meg could not tell, perhaps a mixture of both, for while they eyed Meg uneasily, they gaped at Seraphine. Whether she was clad inleather breeches or dripping with satin and jewels, Seraphine was very much Madame la Comtesse. Her haughty expression defied anyone to cry shame upon her or even remark upon her unwomanly apparel.
    Someone in the room found his tongue to ask, “So is it true then? Is the Tillet girl bewitched?”
    Other voices piped up.
    “Do you know who cursed her?”
    “Can you save her, milady?”
    “Is your own magic strong enough to remove the curse?”
    Before Meg could frame a reply, Seraphine said, “There is no bewitchment. The Lady is here to heal the girl who likely suffers from
mal de bêtise.
”
    “
Mal de bêtise?
What is that?” A boy quavered.
    “A disorder that attacks your wits, rendering you incredibly stupid. I hear that it is highly contagious.”
    “Seraphine,” Meg remonstrated, observing the confused scowls that her friend’s sarcasm produced.
    “The best thing for you all to do is return to your homes,” Seraphine added. “In case you haven’t noticed, there is a storm coming.”
    No one budged. To Meg’s relief, she spied young Denys Brunel near the door leading to the kitchen. He stood conferring with two lanky ginger-haired men. The younger of the two had his arm wrapped about the shoulders of an elderly woman who wept into her apron.
    Denys’s face lit up at Meg’s approach. At least someone looked glad to see her, she reflected. The boy hastened to perform introductions.
    “Milady, this is Master Raimond Tillet and his son, Osbert. And this is Madame Sidonie Tillet, the grandmother of mypoor Bridget—” Denys paused, reddening before amending, “I mean Mademoiselle Bridget Tillet, the girl that I told you about who is so sorely afflicted.”
    The two men nodded curtly, but the old woman staggered toward Meg. Squinting at Meg through her tears, she clutched Meg’s hand. Sidonie Tillet’s grip was strong, her skin rough and work worn.
    “Oh, milady, bless all the saints that you have come to remove this curse from my poor granddaughter.”
    “Well, I—” Meg began, only to be cut off by a stern voice that she recognized.
    “This is no work for women. This is a matter for the holy church.” Meg started as Father Jerome, a spare man in his late forties, descended the wooden stairs that led to the chambers above.
    Meg had crossed paths with the priest on previous visits to Pernod. Unlike some of the lower clergy, he was a fairly educated man and tolerant of women like Meg as long as she confined her craft to midwifery or healing the sick. But his stern look warned her that he regarded her appearance in this matter as