Chapter 35: Preparing for a Journey

Montréal, January 1673

The air carries the bitter bite of winter. The snow is falling in earnest, and the river has frozen in places, making river travel all but impossible. Riverboats are hauled ashore until the spring thaw in March. Inside the de la Roque house, the mood is quieter than it has been in months. Sophie sleeps more peacefully now. Marie moves through the rooms with a steadiness that has become her quiet signature. And Étienne de la Roque has finally reached a decision.

Marie stands before him with her hands folded, her posture respectful but firm. Anne stands beside her, fingers twisting the edge of her apron. Étienne looks at both of them with a heaviness that comes from weeks of tension, worry, and the slow realization that his household will never be what he once imagined.

“You wish to leave Montréal,” he says to Marie.

Marie nods. “Yes, Father.”

Anne’s breath trembles, but she does not speak. Étienne studies Marie ... really studies her ... as though seeing her for the first time. She is young, yes, only just turned fifteen, but she isn’t fragile. She has grown into herself quietly, without demanding attention. She has become capable, steady, and unexpectedly self‑possessed.

“You are still young, but you aren’t a child any more,” he says, more to reassure himself that his thoughts are valid. “And you say that you can fend for yourself.”

Marie’s voice is soft. “I can.”

He hesitates, then adds, “And Sophie ... she will not accept you. Not truly. Not ever.”

Anne lowers her gaze. Marie doesn’t flinch. Étienne’s comment wasn’t a question, but a recognition of reality.

Étienne exhales, long and slow. “Very well. You may leave as soon as the river is free of ice and safe to travel.”

Marie’s shoulders relax with relief. Anne reaches for her hand, squeezing it tightly. She is proud of her daughter’s desire to make her own future, even though she will miss Marie. Anne has a sister in France whom Marie can approach for help if the need arises.

Étienne clears his throat. “I expect you to write to your mother and me.”

“I will,” Marie promises.

He nods once, a gesture that is signifies Marie is permitted to travel.

Marie finds Sophie in her chamber, sitting near the window, wrapped in a mantle. The winter light catches her face, revealing the lingering pallor but also a new calm. Sophie’s nightmares have eased and her paranoia has faded. She is still brittle, still proud, but she’s no longer unravelling. Sophie’s small but growing social circle of friends have steadied her.

Marie steps inside quietly.

“Sophie,” she says. “I’m leaving Montréal.”

Sophie turns her head slowly. Her expression doesn’t harden immediately. Instead, something flickers across her face: surprise, then calculation, then a muted, complicated emotion she cannot quite hide.

“When?” she asks.