But the girl soon realizes she’s made a terrible mistake, for the wolf is a wild thing and wild things cannot be caged. He wants to get out, but the girl is all darkness inside and he cannot find his way.
So he howls in her blood. He tears at her bones.
And when that doesn’t work, he eats her heart.
The howling and gnawing—it drives the girl mad.
She tries to cut him out, slicing lines in her flesh with a razor.
She tries to burn him out, holding a candle flame to her skin.
She tries to starve him out, refusing to eat until she’s nothing but skin over bone.
Before long, the grave takes them both.
A wolf lives in Isabelle. She tries hard to keep him down, but his hunger grows. He cracks her spine and devours her heart.
Run home. Slam the door. Throw the bolt. It won’t help.
The wolves in the woods have sharp teeth and long claws, but it’s the wolf inside who will tear you apart.
Isabelle managed to finish her marketing without further incident. There was a cutting glance from the cheesemonger and a few harsh words from the butcher, but she ignored them.
Now she was walking toward the village square. She and Tavi had decided to split up in order to finish their shopping faster, then meet back at their cart. Isabelle was headed there now, but the streets were unfamiliar to her and she hoped she was going the right way. Maman rarely allowed them to go to Saint-Michel. Only common girls traipse through the village, she said.
Isabelle was eager to get home. The rutted cobbles made for difficult walking and her foot was aching. Scents of the things she’d bought—slices of salty ham, tiny pickled cucumbers, a pungent blue-veined Roquefort—wafted up from her basket. Her stomach twisted with hunger. It had been weeks since she’d enjoyed such treats.
Isabelle made sure to keep her head down as she entered the square, hoping to go unnoticed. Though she couldn’t see much looking at the ground, she could hear a great deal.
Villagers stood together outside shop fronts and taverns swapping rumors in tense voices. Volkmar von Bruch had raided another village. He was moving west. No, he was moving south. Refugees were everywhere. Good Queen Ella, God bless her, was trying to help. She had ordered noble families to open their manors and castles to children orphaned by the raids.
As Isabelle hurried on, she heard the sound of hooves on cobblestones. She turned and saw a group of soldiers approaching the square. Leading them was a tall man astride a beautiful white horse. Isabelle hobbled out of their way, joining the crowd at the fountain. No one bothered her; the people only had eyes for the soldiers. A loud cheer rose as they crossed the square.
“Bless you, Colonel Cafard!” a woman shouted.
“God save the king!” another bellowed.
The colonel sat tall and straight-backed in his saddle, eyes ahead. His dark blue coat and white britches were spotless, his boots polished to a high shine.
“At least Saint-Michel is safe,” a man said as the soldiers passed by. Others agreed. Hadn’t the king sent his finest regiments? Hadn’t the good colonel set them up right outside the village in Levesque’s pasture? Why, there were over two thousand soldiers in that camp. There was nothing to fear.
Though she was not cold, Isabelle felt a deep chill move through her. Someone’s just walked over your grave, Adélie used to say when that happened.
She had no idea that the bloodthirsty Volkmar had advanced so far into France. Neither she, Tavi, nor Maman had left their home in over a month. The last bit of news they’d heard—that the old king had died, that the prince had been crowned king and Ella queen—had come from the servants before they’d departed.
Distracted by the villagers’ talk, Isabelle did not see the pothole in front of her until she stepped down in it hard. A searing pain shot up her leg. She stifled a cry, limped to a lamppost, and leaned on it to take the weight off her throbbing foot. In agony, she glanced up the street, hoping to see her cart, but there was no sign of it.
She did, however, see Odette, the innkeeper’s daughter, walking toward her, tapping her cane over the cobblestones. Odette was blind and used the cane to navigate the village’s winding streets.
Then Isabelle saw something else.
Cecile, the mayor’s daughter, and her gaggle of friends were walking behind Odette. Cecile’s eyes were crossed; her tongue was hanging out. She was waving her parasol in front of her as if it were a cane, mocking Odette. Her friends were giggling.
Dread gripped Isabelle. She knew she should go to Odette and defend her. But her foot hurt and she had no heart for another confrontation. She told herself that Odette didn’t know what was happening. After all, she couldn’t see Cecile, but she, Isabelle, could and knew she would be the girl’s next victim. She looked around anxiously for a place to hide, but it was too late. Cecile had spotted her.
“Isabelle de la Paumé, is that you?” she drawled, forgetting about Odette.
As Cecile spoke, Isabelle’s eyes fell on the entrance to an alley. She didn’t bother to reply but rushed down the narrow passage, heedless of the pain she was in. The alley was damp and smelled like a sewer. A rat darted out in front of her and someone nearly emptied a chamber pot on her head, but she managed to avoid Cecile and emerge on the very street where she’d left her cart.
Relief flooded through her. Tavi wasn’t there yet, but Isabelle was certain she’d come soon. In the meantime, she could sit down. Her foot felt like it was on fire now. As she hobbled toward the cart, though, guilt pricked her conscience. She thought about Odette. Had Cecile left her alone? Or had she been so frustrated she couldn’t taunt Isabelle that she’d tormented the blind girl twice as hard?
History books say that kings and dukes and generals start wars. Don’t believe it. We start them, you and I. Every time we turn away, keep quiet, stay out of it, behave ourselves.
The wrong thing, the cowardly thing, the easy thing. You do it fast. You put it behind you. It’s over, you tell yourself as you hurry off. You’re finished with it.
But it may not be finished with you.
Isabelle had been in such a hurry to escape that she’d started for the cart without looking up and down the street.
“Isabelle, darling! There you are!” a voice called out.
Isabelle’s stomach tightened. Slowly, she turned around.
Standing behind her, smiling like a viper, was Cecile.
Cecile, blond and haughty, strolled up to Isabelle. She was wearing a yellow dress, carrying a matching parasol, and trailing a dozen lesser girls in her wake.
“It’s been such a long time, Isabelle,” she trilled. “I heard about Ella and the prince. Tell us, what was the royal wedding like?”
There were snickers. Whispers. Pointed glances. Everyone knew that Isabelle, Octavia, and Maman had not been invited to Ella’s wedding.
“Do you have your own room in the palace?” asked one of the girls.
“Has Ella found you a duke to marry?” drawled another.
“Who’s marrying a duke? I wish I could!” said a third, smiling excitedly. She had just caught up with the group. Her name was Berthe. She was small and plump with prominent front teeth.
Cecile turned to her. “A duke? What would a duke want with you, Berthe? We’ll find you a hunter to marry. They like fat little rabbits.”
Berthe’s smile slipped. Her cheeks flushed a bright, blotchy red. The other girls burst into laughter. They had no choice. Cecile would remember any girl who didn’t laugh. She would take it as a challenge and make that girl her next victim.
Under Cecile’s pretty dress, under her silk corset and linen chemise, was a heart like a rotten log. Turn it over and the things living under it would scuttle from the light. Things like envy, fear, anger, and shame. Isabelle knew this because her own heart had become just like it, but unlike Cecile, she knew that cruelty never came from a place of strength; it came from the darkest, dankest, weakest place inside you.
Something in the
street caught Cecile’s eyes. It was a small rotten cabbage. She kicked it toward Berthe.
“Do it,” Cecile commanded. “She deserves it. She’s ugly. An ugly stepsister.”
Berthe looked at the cabbage uncertainly.
Cecile’s eyes narrowed. “Are you scared? Do it.”
Her challenge emboldened the other girls. Like a pack of hyenas, they egged Berthe on. Reluctantly, Berthe picked the cabbage up and threw it. It hit the cobblestones in front of Isabelle, splattering her skirts. The jeering grew louder.
Fear ran a sharp fingernail down the back of Isabelle’s neck. She knew Cecile was only getting started. From deep inside her a voice spoke. I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep. I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.
In times of trouble, Isabelle heard generals in her head; she had ever since she was old enough to read about them. It was Alexander the Great who spoke to her now, and she realized he was right: Cecile’s lackeys, desperate for her approval, would do anything she commanded.
Isabelle knew she could fight one girl off, even with a bad foot, but not a dozen. She would have to find another way out of this.
“That’s enough, Cecile,” she said. Though she was in agony, she hobbled off, back toward the market, figuring that Cecile would tire of the game if she refused to play it.
But Cecile had no intention of letting her quit. She bent down and picked up a chunk of a broken cobblestone. “Stay where you are, Isabelle. Or I’ll throw this at your horse.”
Isabelle stopped in her tracks. She turned around. “You wouldn’t,” she said. This was a step too far, even for Cecile.
“I would.” Cecile gestured to the others. “They all would.” As if to prove her point, she handed the cobblestone to Berthe. “Throw it. I dare you.”
Berthe stared at it; her eyes grew round. “Cecile, no. It’s a rock,” she said.
“Fraidy-cat.”
“I’m not,” Berthe protested, a quaver in her voice.
“Then do it.”
Isabelle stepped in front of Martin’s head, shielding him. Berthe threw the rock, but she hit the cart.
“You missed on purpose,” Cecile accused.
“I didn’t!” Berthe cried.
Cecile picked up another chunk of cobble and dropped it into her hand. “Go closer,” she said, giving her a push.
Berthe took a few halting steps toward Isabelle, gripping the stone so hard, her knuckles turned white. As she raised her arm again, her eyes met Isabelle’s. They were brimming with tears. Isabelle felt as if she were looking into a mirror. She saw the girl’s anguish and recognized it; it was her own.
“It’s good that you still cry,” Isabelle whispered to her. “It’s when you stop crying that you’re lost.”
“Shut up. I’m not crying. I’m not,” Berthe said, cocking her arm back.
Isabelle knew that being hit by a rock would hurt. It could kill her. If that was her fate, so be it. She refused to abandon Martin. Eyes closed, fists clenched, she waited for the pain.
But it didn’t come. Seconds slowly passed. She opened her eyes. The girls were gone, scattered like sparrows. Standing where Cecile had stood only a moment ago was an elderly woman dressed entirely in black.
The woman was gazing down the street, watching the girls hurry away.
Her face was etched with lines. Her snow-white hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. A black ring graced one clawlike hand. She seemed to Isabelle to be the picture of frail old age, as brittle and breakable as a twig under ice.
Until she turned and bent her gaze upon Isabelle, and Isabelle felt as if she were drowning in the gray depths of those ancient eyes, pulled under by a will far stronger than her own.
“The one in the yellow dress, the ringleader, she’ll come to a bad end,” the woman said knowingly. “I guarantee it.”
Isabelle shook her head, trying to clear it. She felt buffeted and unsteady, as if she were walking out of a heavy, roiling sea. “You … you chased them away?” she asked.
The woman laughed. “Chased? Child, these old legs couldn’t chase a snail. I was coming to speak with you. The girls scurried off as soon as they saw me.” She paused, then said, “You’re one of the ugly stepsisters, no? I thought I heard them call you that.”
Isabelle winced, bracing for a torrent of abuse, but none came. The woman merely clucked her tongue and said, “You are foolish to go out in public. Hard words cannot kill you, but hard rocks can. You must stay home where it’s safe.”
“Even ugly girls have to eat,” Isabelle said, shame coloring her cheeks.
The woman shook her head dolefully. “People will not forget. Or forgive. An ugly girl is too great an offense. Trust me, I am old and have seen much. Why, I’ve seen a dishonest girl who stole a king’s ransom of jewels be forgiven because of her pretty smile. And a violent girl who robbed coaches at gunpoint walk out of jail because of her long black lashes. Why, I even knew a murderous girl who escaped the gallows because she had full lips and dimples and the judge fell head over heels for her. But an ugly girl? Ah, child, the world is made for men. An ugly girl can never be forgiven.”
The woman’s words were like a knife between Isabelle’s ribs. They pierced her so deeply, she found herself blinking back tears. “When I was small, I thought the world was made for me,” she said.
“Children always do,” the woman said sympathetically. “And lunatics. I’m sure you know better now, though. Do be careful. I doubt those girls will trouble you again but others may.”
“Thank you, madame,” Isabelle said. “I’m in your debt.”
“You may be able to repay it,” the woman said. She gestured at Isabelle’s cart. “Might I trouble you for a ride? We arrived at the village inn last night, my maidservant and I, and have been trying since early this morning to get to my relatives’ farm but can’t find anyone to take us.”
“Of course, I will take you, Madame … er, Madame …” Isabelle realized she did not know the woman’s name.
“Madame Sévèrine. I’m the great-aunt of poor Monsieur LeBenêt, who passed away a few months ago, God rest him. Tante Sévèrine, he called me when he was a boy. Tantine for short. And you must, too, dear girl. I wish to go to the LeBenêts’.”
Isabelle brightened. “Nothing could be easier, madame. The LeBenêts are our neighbors. What a coincidence!” she exclaimed, happy that she could help this woman who’d been kind enough to help her.
“Yes, what a coincidence,” said the old woman. A smile curved the corners of her mouth; it did not touch her eyes.
Isabelle explained that she had to wait for her sister, but as soon as she arrived, they would go to the inn and collect Madame’s trunk and her servant.
“Tantine,” the old woman corrected.
“Tantine,” Isabelle repeated. “Would you like to sit while we wait?” she asked.
“I would. These old bones tire easily.”
Isabelle helped her step up into the cart and settle herself on the wooden seat. She had warmed to this kindly old woman.
“Thank you, my child,” said Tantine. “I think we shall be good friends, you and I.”
“We’re lucky our paths crossed,” Isabelle said, smiling.
The old woman nodded. She patted her hand. “Some might call it luck. Myself? I’d call it fate.”
It was just before noon when Isabelle and Tavi headed out of the village with Tantine seated between them. The sun was high and the August day was scorchingly hot.
Losca, Tantine’s servant, a slight girl with a hooked nose, bright eyes, and ebony hair worn in a long braid, sat in the back of the cart on top of Tantine’s trunk. She said nothing as she rode; she just watched the scenery go by, tilting her head and blinking.
Martin plodded up the road as slowly as possible, which gave Tantine plenty of time to tell the girls why she had come to Saint-Michel.
“It’s this Volkmar business,” she said darkly. “I live in Paris, you see, and he int
ends to take it. The king has fortified the city, but people are still leaving in droves. I plan to stay here with my relatives for the foreseeable future. It’s the safest course. One must always follow the safest course.”
“The LeBenêts will be so relieved to have you safe and sound with them, Tantine,” Tavi said. “They must be worried about you.”
“The LeBenêts have no idea that I’m coming,” said Tantine. “We are not close. In fact, I’ve never met Madame LeBenêt. It was my husband who was related to Monsieur LeBenêt. My late husband, I should say. He passed away recently, too.”
Isabelle and Tavi expressed their condolences. Tantine thanked them.
“In his will, my husband left a sum of money to Monsieur LeBenêt,” she added. “Now I am wondering what to do with it. I’m told there is a son, Hugo, but I know nothing of the boy. I would like to see if he is the sort who will bring honor to the family name before I bestow the inheritance on him.”
I wish you luck with that, Isabelle thought. She’d known Hugo since they were children. He’d played pirates and musketeers with her and Felix a few times, always scowling behind his thick eyeglasses. In all the years she’d known him, he’d barely grunted three words to her. She doubted he’d grunt even one to Tantine.
As the sun rose higher, and Martin continued to grudgingly pull the cart past meadows, wheat fields, and orchards, the old woman continued to talk. She was just telling the girls about her elegant town house in Paris, when a scream, ragged and high, tore through the air.
Isabelle sat up straight. Tavi jumped. They traded wide-eyed glances, then quickly looked around for its source. Losca leaned over the side of the cart, craning her neck.
“There,” Tantine said, pointing straight ahead.
A military wagon, pulled by two burly workhorses, had crested a hill and was rolling toward them. Even from a distance, Isabelle could see that the driver’s uniform was blotched with red. As the wagon drew near, and she saw what it contained, she uttered a choked cry.
In the back, unprotected from the merciless sun, were at least thirty men, all badly injured. Bandages soaked with blood were tied around heads and torsos. Limbs were missing. One man lay stretched across a wooden seat, his legs mangled. He was the one who’d screamed. A wheel hit a rut, jostling the wagon, and he cried out again.
Stepsister Page 5
