It was late July and their best wax was running low. Just that morning during Lydia's reading lesson, Father Thomas had placed a large order for wax candles. A Bishop would be visiting in August and Father Thomas wanted their finest candles to illuminate Sainte-Benigne. A week ago, Jon Paul should have come around with another batch of wax, only he had not. He still had not returned from the Hot Fair and Lydia was worried. In and out of the shop people talked about the hoards of people headed for Rome to be atoned by Pope Boniface in this year of Jubilee. Vagrants, pilgrims, nomads and theives were clogging the streets and causing trouble. Shop owners and street vendors were being robbed. Many farms were being picked clean of their unripened harvests. Every night when Lydia said her prayers, she prayed for Jon Paul and his papa. Too vividly she recalled the dangers of the road. James had almost gotten himself killed and those friars had been murdered. If anything happened to Jon Paul, she would not be able to bear it. Death claimed so much. It must not claim Jon Paul yet. In her worry she did not stop to question her growing attachment to this man.

The shop bell rang. Lydia passed from the work kitchen into the shop. A very old woman dressed in a rusty brown cloak was studying their best candles. Lydia asked, “May I help you?”

The old woman turned. Lydia was startled by her resemblance to Bab. Only it was not Bab because her smile was toothless and ingratiating. Her voice was a soft as the whisper of calm water over stones. She said, “Ah Miss Wade, I have a bit of work for you if you are able.” This woman spoke the language of Lydia’s homeland. Usually such an encounter with some one from her country made her happy. At the moment she felt the hair on her arms stand. Instinctively she knew, the woman was not after a bit of regular wax work, but something very different. She asked, “What are you needing?”

“Oh, it be nothin’ but a trifle, just a little figure. I hear tell you are very good with wax and can bend it to your will.” Her eyes fixed on Lydia. In their pupils was a depth of darkness Lydia had not witnessed before. “Do you think you have the skill?”

The old woman had just challenged Lydia’s pride. She responded, “I may have the skill and I may not. You have not given me enough information to tell me what is required.”

The old woman chuckled softly. “Oh, you be a smart one, you. Nothin’ gets by you I wager.” This was a temptation of vanity. Lydia was being manipulated and she knew it. The woman continued, “Smarter than many a man, even that vile fader of yours.”

At the mention of her father, everything inside of Lydia got very still. She asked, “Who is my fader?”

“You be knowin’ Thomas Wade of Southampton.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, he be knowin’ me. Before daft King Eddie booted us out of the country, your fader did a bit of work for me. He owed me, owed me his soul or the devil would pay.” The dark eyes became bird like. “Me cousin is Bab. You knows Bab. Many said it were her that put the curse on your fader, but it were me.”

This was quite a claim. Lydia had never believed the rumor about Bab but she sensed cursing people was a talent this old woman possessed. Something inside her warned her against asking about or verifying which curse. Instead, she asked, “Have you seen Bab lately?”

The old woman frowned. “Not since Calias when we first arrived. Now, let us stop ramblin about folks that not be here. I need me a figure. A wax man in fine clothes. Your fader made many a wax man for me and a few wax women.”

A chill ran through Lydia. Wax men? Wax women? Fader had made volts. Volts were wax image spells. Surely he would have done it for profit, not because he put any faith in such fancies. Right? There were those who said Thomas Wade bargained with the Devil. Lydia had always dismissed such talk, but now, here in this room, she could not help but wonder about all the sorts of evil her father dabbled in. Had Aunt Rachel known he used the wax from her sacred bees to create instruments of great harm? The magic would not have been imbued by Fader, but he would have made the vessel. Lydia had heard tell that the Bishop of Troyes had commissioned a volt of Jeanne of Burgundy. The Bishop had wanted her dead. In that case the volt had failed. Had Fader and this woman’s volts succeeded? A shudder ran through her entire body. She thought her father was bad, but was he trully evil. With great effort, she forced her voice not to tremble when she said, “Candles I can make, a sculpture I have never tried.”

The old woman cooed. “What is in a family gets passed from one generation to another. You be but a lone woman such as myself. How long do you think it will be before Madame marries that lurking brewer?”

It was unsettling how much this woman knew. Had she or someone else been spying on the shop? “I do not know what the future holds, Madame. But this I do know, I have neither the talent not the desire to fulfill your request.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Anger flamed in the old woman’s eyes. “Be ye risking a curse upon your head?”

With more venom than she intended, Lydia said, “Cursed I was the day Thomas Wade sired me.”

The old woman broke into a cackling laugh. “You are a rich one. Put me in the mind of your Aunt Rachel. She never tolerated me ways, but she were kind, when many were not. I give you a pass this time, but mind yourself. I will be watching.”

Isabelle entered the shop. For an instant she hesitated and then she said, “Hello, Bathsheba. It is good to see you.”

Before Lydia’s eyes the witchy little woman became as harmless and innocent as a new born babe. “It is good to see you too, my dear.”

Isabelle cocked her head ever so slightly and asked, “How can we help you today?”

“Help, I need not. An artist is what I be lookin’ for. One skilled in wax.”

Without any change of expression or appearance of having any idea what Bathsheba was requesting, Isabelle said, “Mmm. No one comes to mind.”

“Dunna it?” Bathsheba asked.

“No.”

Without rancor she said, “Ha! I dunna believe you. Good day ladies.” She curtseyed ever so slightly, and went out the door.

As soon as she was gone, Lydia asked, “Is that woman a witch?"

"I do not know. What I do know is this, she is a cunning old woman, always has her ears and eyes open. She picks up bits and sews them together. Some do say she is a witch and she may be. Still, without her, I would not have had Henri as long as I did.”

“What do you mean?”

With a reluctant eye at the shop door, Isabelle said, “No one knows what I am about to tell you except Jon Paul and Bathsheba. No one else must ever know. I will not have my Henri’s reputation ruined. He was a kind good man and a loving husband. I believe I can trust you, but you must promise that you will not repeat what I am about to say. If you can not promise, I will hold my tongue.”

Curiosity, pricked at Lydia. She wanted very much to know this secret. Would she finally learn how Henri met his demise? She said, “I promise.”

“Come into the house kitchen. I will not be telling tales about Henri in the open.”

Lydia followed her into the house kitchen. Patch saw her and came running. She picked up her kitten and held her close. Isabelle stared at the low burning fire in the hearth. Silence hung between them. Time passed ever so slowly. The shop was unattended.

Finally, Lydia said, “If you have changed your mind. You need not tell me.”

With tear glazed eyes, Isabelle looked at Lydia. “I want to tell you. It is just so hard. I am afraid of hearing this story out loud, for I have never told it.” She dropped her gaze back to the fire. In a voice that wavered, she said, “My Henri was not a well man. Spells of illness came upon him. I did not know about them until a long while after we married. My sister never mentioned them. Why would she? I did notice Henri looked strained. I asked him if he felt poorly and he said, No, I am fine. It was a lie." She shook her head. Her voice dropped lower, "Without telling me, he consulted Bathsheba. She has a gift of healing. From her, he bought tokens, healing herbs, and calming spells. He performed ridiculous rituals, which I caught him at and he confessed what he was doing. Bathsheba’s treatments and instructions did help him for a while. He was able to work and we got on. One night he heard voices. The voices stayed with him. My heart was breaking. If I told anyone they would think he was possessed and the voices were from Satan’s horde. I was so afraid, but I knew there was not any evil in him, only some sickness. A sickness in his mind.”

No one had ever told Lydia people could have a sickness in their minds. As far as she knew demons were to blame.

Isabelle continued, “Unbeknownst to me, Henri told Jon Paul about the voices because he feared he might hurt me. He asked Jon Paul to keep an eye on me, on us really. One morning when Henri was at Mass, Jon Paul stopped by to speak with me. I was furious that Henri had confided in him, but Henri was right to be concerned. Jon Paul told me he would move in with us as Henri's apprentice. The offer was so generous and I wanted to refuse, but I could not. Henri was getting worse. For a short time, Jon Paul’s presence steadied him, and then the voices grew louder. Henri could not work, and Jon Paul and I had to carry on as best as we could."

This story was heart breaking. Lydia with Patch in hand went to where Isabelle stood. She wanted to touch her but instinct told her not to. One touch might cause Isabelle to crumble.

"One night in desperation I went to Bathsheba. She gave me some tonics that soothed Henri and taught me a crooning song. With Jon Paul’s help Henri was able to go back to work for a week or so." Isabelle fell completely silent. Her hands gripped the hearth stone above her. In a voice barely above a whisper, she continued, “One morning Henri disappeared. Jon Paul went after him. He found Henri in a Campion’s Wood not far from here. He had been attacked and robbed. My poor love was nearly dead when Jon Paul brought him home. I asked Jon Paul to get Bathsheba. She came and brought Friar Judas. She, the Friar and Jon Paul kept vigil all night. For one more night I held my Henri. He never woke up, never spoke to me again. But I held him, I held him tight and prayed God would spare his life. God did not" Free flowing tears slid down her face. She clenched her fists and said, "I have been very angry about that. Every aspect of my life turned to darkness. Bathsheba gave me a few potions to help me sleep and eat. If not for her I may too have ended up in a grave. I wanted to die too, only I did not.” She looked at Lydia and said, "The day you arrived, I felt like you had come for a purpose. God had not entirely abandoned me. I called you an angel and you have been that. Lately, I have begun to accept that Henri was beyond cure. He is free of his sickness now. He is at peace. It is time I find some peace of my own.”

Selfishly, Lydia prayed this peace that Isabelle was now seeking did not include Brewer Arlette.