Read an Excerpt
France 1531
Chapter One
On a warm April morning, a week after the terrible day on which Grand-mère Sylvie died, Sylvie walked away from her home. She left her mother, the cottage in which they’d all lived, Bresnois village, and everyone and everything she knew. The wet spring grasses, ankle high, seemed to clutch at the hem of her skirts as if to keep her from leaving. But Sylvie kept moving. She did not look back and she did not cry. She did not deserve tears.
She had made a terrible mistake.
She’d meant no harm. Quite the reverse — she’d been trying to help her mother, Jeanne, the healer who had never before needed healing. Grand-mère Sylvie had died, and Jeanne had spent five frightening days in her chair by the fire, holding her own elbows, staring into the flames. Not eating. Not speaking.
Not crying for her mother, even when Sylvie did.
Yes, Sylvie had been trying to heal Jeanne, in her own way.
Only Sylvie’s way wasn’t Jeanne’s way, and — she now knew — that was the problem, or one of them. Not one of the villagers would call Jeanne witch, not even quietly behind their hands. Jeanne as a healer and midwife possessed no mysterious powers or magic, only knowledge and caring and her deep Catholic faith.
As she walked, Sylvie pressed her fingers to her temples as if that could erase what she had done. Why had she not been more cautious? Grand-mère Sylvie had even warned her, barely three weeks before her sudden death. The memory burned.
Sylvie, just past her fifteenth birthday, had come finally into womanhood with her first monthly bleeding, and then the understanding — the power — had simply appeared inside her. When she touched people, she could reach and see their thoughts and their memories. To explain, she’d held Grand-mère Sylvie’s hand.
“I see you in a strange place.” Grand-mère Sylvie had gone still as Sylvie added, frowning, “There are high walls — wait — are you in a kind of prison?”
Unhurriedly, Grand-mère Sylvie had moved her hand away, breaking the connection before Sylvie could add that she saw someone — a friend? — with her. “Never search my mind in future without my permission, my dear one.”
“Of course, I shall not,” said Sylvie, abashed. “I only wanted to show you. But there is more.”
“I am listening.”
“I think I can remove what I see. Grand-mère, only think! As a healer, if I can see that someone is in . . . emotional pain, about a memory? Why, I could simply take that pain away! Like — like cutting out a rotten bit of apple!” The words came out of Sylvie in an excited rush. “Is this something that you can do too — could do, I mean? Before . . .”
“Before I became old,” said Grand-mère Sylvie dryly.
“Yes. When you laid your hands on someone in the village.”
Grand-mère Sylvie shook her head. “No.”
“Oh. Then — then what . . . how shall I . . .”
Sylvie had not known how to formulate her next question. How was she to proceed with this new skill? She looked down trustfully into her grandmother’s face, however, believing she would be understood. And she was, though Grand-mère Sylvie was quiet for a time.
“I understand your excitement, my dear one,” she said at last. “Yet I counsel caution, for I believe you will need skilled guidance. I have not heard of a power like this, but I will help you sort it out, once I am a little stronger. This new gift is from God — never doubt it, or that you will use it in holiness, to heal, as the women of our family do. My own gift grew over the course of the first year or two, and as I practiced. That may be how it is with you. You are not yet fully who you will become.”
Another thoughtful pause. “But, my dear one, great care will be necessary. This idea of yours about cutting out a memory so that it does not exist . . . I am not sure. Healing is complicated. Consider that scar tissue protects a healing wound, and even after the healing, any remaining scar speaks of survival. Such scars have beauty, do they not? The reminder of what came before is often a treasure . . . but I see you do not understand. Then just remember this: to have patience, Sylvie. There are many important questions to consider before you act.” Grand-mère Sylvie paused, tired merely from speaking.
“I don’t think I do understand,” Sylvie said, disappointed.
“You will, one day. This I know, for I know you, my dear one.” Despite illness, her grandmother’s voice still held all the strength that had once been in her healer’s hands. She coughed before adding: “Also. There are those who will not believe your gift is from God. That will be a danger all your life, as it is for me — and for your mother by association. This you know.”
“But there is no danger here in Bresnois,” said Sylvie with a smile. She had heard this sort of talk before, but it seemed distant and historical.
Grand-mère Sylvie said slowly, “True, here you are much loved, like your mother. And yet caution is always warranted. And should you venture out into the world, you must be careful, especially of churchmen.”
Sylvie nodded; this, too, she had heard before, in stories from Grand-mère Sylvie about her life before Bresnois. But those stories seemed equally distant. As for venturing into the world, that was easily dismissed. She loved her home. But she said only, reassuringly: “Father Guillaume is our friend.”
Grand-mère Sylvie sighed before nodding. “True. We are fortunate in Father Guillaume, here in Bresnois.”
“And of course, I must tell my mother,” said Sylvie.
“Indeed. But only when I have recovered from this illness. I need strength enough for a long talk with you both. There will be a great deal to discuss.”
Sylvie nodded. “Of course.”
But there had been no recovery, and no long talk.
And somehow Sylvie had not really understood she might do harm with her gift. Grand-mère Sylvie had spoken of scars — who would not want a scar removed?
No, she had not understood.
As she walked away from her life, Sylvie made a vow to herself. She would find a teacher, an adviser, a healer. Someone who could help her with her gift as Grand-mère Sylvie no longer could.
Then she would return home. Once she understood her gift and had learned to use it properly, safely, she could restore Jeanne, so that Jeanne would regain the memories that Sylvie had taken right out of her head. The memory of Jeanne’s own mother.
And also — that she had ever even had a daughter.
