Chapter 1
Marie-Amelie Blanchet:
I was 22 years old when my world came to a consequential halt.
My life was filled with not much to begin with. My family was rather poor. My sister, mother and I made our lives as ladies of the night while my brother’s worked as carpenters.
I remember the day as if it was yesterday– even though seasons had slowly ticked by: the coming of the cold, day turning quickly into night, the scarcity of food.
The day we sold our souls. The day we became demons.
We call it the blood curse.
Even though it wasn’t much of a curse since we had done it to ourselves willingly.
But whatever our reasoning was, we thought it would be better than the lives that we had been given.
Shall we go back to that day that constantly circles in the precipice of my mind?
See my life unfold for yourself….
***
14th Century France— May 5th, 1450:
My sister Josephine was always impatient. She had been born that way, almost immediately out of the womb. Even with her work duties she was impatient. She often said that the men took too long, and her patience waned the longer she went. She’s lucky they still used her. Men liked when women fawned, or complimented, or made agreeable noises. They even liked when women danced around in town, flaunting their bodies and their beautiful corsets and dresses and their silky hair.
Josephine’s voice reached my ears, “Marie! Dépêchez-vous, il faut retourner faire bouillir les herbes!” (Marie! Hurry, we must get back to boil the herbs!) Her face twisted into an impatient scowl as her eyes narrowed upon me as she watched me dance through the town’s square.
But tomorrow I’d have more takers, more men lined up at my door and willing to pay me money to warm their beds late at night, while Josephine would have slim pickings. She didn’t understand why I paraded myself around town or why I constantly washed and cleaned my dresses or suffocated myself in corsets, or why I bathed myself so often. She didn’t understand when I batted my eyelashes or pretended to be dense. It was all for money. The men piled up their coins because of the theatrics I performed. Men liked being complimented, dotted over, and they enjoyed a woman of confidence. Even if she was only a lowly whore. It still made them feel better about themselves.
I had learned these things from my mother. She was always good with men. That’s why she had so many beautiful, attractive children.
Josephine resented my mother for her occupation and her qualities— even though she had a fraction of the same qualities and held the profession as my mother.
We could not change who we were: bastards and children of a whore. And the only profession that was suitable for us was whore since we would never be accepted as wives without a dowry, an adequate family name or with the label of bastard. On top of that, we weren’t just children of a whore from a single father, all of us were half siblings. Josephine had a different father than I did, and so did our brother’s Phillipe-Claude and Jean-Pierre. My mother did not even know who our fathers were, they could be blacksmiths or sailors or even the king’s army men. She didn’t care to know and if I’m being honest neither did I. If I knew who my father was, it would not make a slight difference in my life.
Josephine resented the hand she was dealt in life, while I embraced it.
I cared little for the men who used me, even though most of them promised they’d whisk me away from my pathetic life and whoredom.
I didn’t want them to if I’m being honest. I wanted to make a life of my own, one that no one could control, free of restrictions and gender, and well everything— I had high hopes that one day I would become who I set out to be: a free woman with money of her own.
But it was only a dream.
I skipped along, twirling in circles as the towns women gasped in disgust and the men could not seem to look away.
I embraced who I was while they were too busy living in their constructed cages full of duties, restrictions and herding. They were just sheep for the taking, while I was the wolf.
I laughed, “Les hommes feront la queue demain matin à cause de mes ‘pitreries’!” (Men will be lining up tomorrow morning because of my ‘silly antics’!)
Josephine huffed then muttered something unintelligible under her breath, most likely cursing me for my arrogance or my display of ego.
The herb filled basket swayed in my hand as I continued skipping along the gravel and dirt ridden roads to our small desolate cottage.
We lived in the forest. It was easier that way for mother to practice her skills. My mother, Sienne-Emilie was what the townsfolk referred to as sorceress, in other words a witch. She brewed potions, cured inflictions using herbs, spoke to spirits and even had a spellbook of her own.
I know you must be thinking that if she is a sorceress she can conjure up money and wealth. But sadly no, it did not work that way. She could not conjure up money or edible food or water or libations or beauty or anything of that sort. Mostly she brewed potions or spoke to entities outside of the living and human realm. She could heal us, or help us grow our hair, or fix our skin pigment, or bring pain and infliction to others. She could even make men fall temporarily in love with her with a certain potion. While she didn’t since she believed that she could do that alone without the use of any potion, it was still a helpful one to sell to gain coin along with her activities.
But like me, she too enjoyed providing services to men. There was something enthralling about captivating them without the use of magic. There was also something enthralling about the fleetingness of lust that embodied you during sex. That was magic itself, giving love and never caring to receive it back. Men were a means to an end for us, a payment for our services, a small joy that faded as soon as they came. One man’s attention was the same as another’s to us.
We arrived at the wooden door, Josephine close in my tow while that unpleasant scowl was still imprinted upon her face.
I chuckled, forcing a wide smile on my face to tease out Josephine’s. ”Tu ferais mieux de sourire! Maman verra!” (You better smile! Mother will see!)
Josephine sighed loudly, muttering something else under her breath before straightening her face into a smile. Mother always said that happy women attracted men.
