Isabelle was a warrior once, though she has forgotten it.
Will she remember? It does not look good. Then again, few things do in the dead of night. The small dark hours are the undoing of many. Candlelight throws shadows on the walls of our souls, shadows that turn a mouse into a monster, a downturn into disaster.
Should you ever decide, in those small dark hours, to hang yourself, well, that is your choice.
But don’t hunt for the rope until morning.
By then you’ll find a much better use for it.
As Isabelle made her way upstairs to her bed, Fate made her way through the Wildwood.
Spotting a fallen tree, she stopped, plucked a centipede from the rotted wood, and bit off its head. “Perfect,” she said, licking droplets of black from her lips. “Bitter blood makes bitter ink.”
As she dropped the still-writhing body into the basket she was carrying, she looked up into the high branches above her and said, “I need wolfsbane. Keep an eye out for it. A sprig of belladonna would be helpful, too.”
A raven, perched on a pine bough, flew off and Fate resumed her stroll. A plump brown spider went into the basket, a mossy bat skull, white Queen of the Night flowers, speckled toadstools—all ingredients for the inks she was making.
Fate was prodding the bleached rib cage of a long-dead deer, hoping to scare some beetles out of it, when her raven flew down and landed beside her. A moment later, a girl stood where the bird had been, bright-eyed and blinking, wearing a black dress. She dropped a purple bloom into Fate’s basket.
“Ah! You found the belladonna. Well done, Losca. Its berries give a nice luster to the darker inks, like Doubt and Denial. Of course, I must get the girl’s map back before I can make changes to it. Chance thinks he can redraw it, but that may prove more difficult than he anticipates. Have you seen any sign of him yet?”
Losca shook her head.
“He’ll come. I’ve never known Chance to back out of a wager. I shall win this game, but not without a fight. He often gains the upper hand, however briefly, through sheer unpredictability. Mortals lose their heads around him. They start to put stock in their hopes and dreams, the poor fools. He actually makes them believe they can do anything.” She clucked her tongue. “And he has the cheek to call me cruel.”
Fate walked on, poking and digging, glad to be out of dour Madame LeBenêt’s uncomfortable house for a few hours. Losca followed her. Absorbed in the hunt for ingredients, they didn’t realize they’d reached the edge of the Wildwood until they heard voices.
“What’s this?” Fate muttered, peering between the branches of a bushy tree. She soon saw that a shallow, grassy hill sloped away from where she was standing and flattened into a broad pasture. Stretching across it, as far as the eye could see, were neat rows of white canvas tents. Here and there, fires flickered. A horse whinnied. Someone played a sad, sweet tune on a violin.
Fate drew the hood of her black cloak up over her head. She was curious to see Colonel Cafard’s encampment up close.
“Take this,” she said, handing Losca the basket. As she did, she noticed that the tail of a small snake was hanging from the girl’s mouth. Fate glared at her. “What have I told you about eating the ingredients?” she scolded.
Shamefaced, Losca sucked the tail into her mouth and swallowed it, like a child with a string of spaghetti.
“Stay close and don’t make any noise,” Fate cautioned. Losca nodded.
The two hugged the edge of the camp to avoid being seen. Though it was late, men were huddled around the fires, unable to sleep. They talked of Volkmar and what they would do to him once they got hold of him. Fate heard bravado in their voices but saw fear in their eyes. A grizzled sergeant sat among them, trying to raise their spirits by regaling them with tales of battlefield glories—until a scream, ragged and raw, rang out, abruptly ending his tale.
Fate heard the flapping of wings, then felt a weight descend on her shoulder. The basket Losca had been carrying lay on the ground.
“Now, now, child. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she murmured, stroking the bird’s back.
She picked up the basket, then sought out the source of the scream. Her search led her to the far side of the camp, where its hospital was located. There, men lay on cots, writhing and moaning, some mortally wounded, others delirious with pain and fever. A surgeon and his assistant moved among them, cutting and stitching, administering morphine, mopping drenched brows.
A woman moved among them, too.
Graceful and slender, she wore a gown the color of night with flowing sleeves and a high neck. Her long dark hair hung down to her waist. She was out of place among all the soldiers, impossible to miss, yet no one seemed to notice her.
A man cried out. He called for his sweetheart, then begged to die. The woman went to him. She knelt by his cot and took his hand. At her touch, his head rolled back, his eyes opened to the sky, his tortured body stilled.
The woman rose, and Fate saw what the soldier had seen—not a face, but a skull—its eyes yawning black pits, its mouth a wide, mirthless smile. She nodded at Fate, then moved off to another soldier, a boy of sixteen, crying for his mother.
“Death is busy tonight,” Fate said somberly, “and has no time for pleasantries.”
Fate had seen enough; she turned away and headed back to the enveloping darkness of the Wildwood. When she reached the trees, she cast a last glance over the camp and the sleeping village beyond it.
“Volkmar’s out there. I feel him,” she said. “Hiding in the hills and hollows. Coming closer every day. What will be unleashed upon these poor, innocent people?”
The raven shook out her feathers. She clicked her beak.
“Who is responsible? Ah, Losca, must you ask?” Fate said heavily. “This is his fault, of course. All his. Will that reckless amber-eyed fool ever learn?”
Isabelle, still bleary-eyed from sleep, her hair in a messy braid, pulled a clean dress over her head and buttoned it.
She’d slept badly, kept awake all night by images of Tanaquill. By the time the sun had risen, she’d convinced herself she’d only dreamt the fairy queen. Such creatures did not exist.
But as she picked up yesterday’s dress off the floor, meaning to put it in her clothes hamper, something fell out of one of its pockets. Isabelle bent down to retrieve it. It was roughly two inches long, black, and covered with small thorns.
It was a seedpod.
She thrust her hand into the pocket and fished out two more objects—a walnut shell and a jawbone. A shiver moved through her as she remembered how she got these things. The dark creature she’d met by the linden tree was no dream.
I wish to be pretty, she’d said to the fairy queen. And the fairy queen had told her to find the lost pieces of her heart.
Isabelle examined the three gifts one by one. Tanaquill said they would help her, but how? It was no clearer to her now than it had been last night. Maybe they’re meant to turn into something, she reasoned. Hadn’t Tanaquill said that she’d transformed a pumpkin and mice for Ella?
She turned the nutshell over in her hand. This could become a pretty hat, she thought. Running a finger over the jawbone’s tiny teeth, she imagined that it might turn into a lovely hair comb. Next she regarded the seedpod but couldn’t imagine how the knobby, spiky thing could ever turn into anything pretty.
Frustrated, Isabelle shoved the three objects into her pocket, then tossed her dirty dress into the hamper. She put her boots on and made her way downstairs. She’d had enough of the fairy queen’s mysteriousness for the moment. There were chores to do.
As she walked across the foyer to the kitchen, a rich, bitter scent wafted toward her. Tavi’s up and she made a pot of coffee, she thought. I hope she’s scrambled some eggs, too.
Gone were the days when she would come downstairs to a full breakfast set out by the servants. Whatever she and Tavi wanted now, they had to make themselves.
Finding enough to eat in the summer wasn’t difficu
lt. The hens were laying, the fruit trees were heavily laden, and good things were growing in the garden. But what would happen come winter? A few days ago, Isabelle had decided to try her hand at pickling vegetables and Tavi had promised to help. Today seemed like a good day to start. The garden was full of cucumbers and they’d bought salt during their trip to the market. If her efforts were successful, she would put the pickles in the cellar for the cold months. She pushed open the kitchen door now, eager to see what her sister had made for breakfast.
As it turned out, nothing.
Except a breathtaking mess.
Tavi was sitting at the long wooden table, peering through a magnifying glass.
The tabletop was littered with plates and bowls, all containing food, but everything was rotten. A slice of bread was furry with mold. A bowl of milk had curdled. A plum had shriveled in its skin.
“What are you doing, Tavi? This is disgusting!” Isabelle exclaimed. Her sister often conducted experiments, but they usually involved levers, ramps, and pulleys, not mold.
Tavi lowered her magnifying glass. “I’m hunting for very small, possibly single-celled, organisms,” she said excitedly. “I set all of this out on a high shelf in the pantry a few days ago. I selected a high shelf because warm air rises, of course, and speeds the organisms’ growth. Just look how they’ve progressed!”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “But why?”
Tavi grinned. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “The dominant theory of disease proposes that sickness occurs when miasma, or bad air, rises from rotting matter and is breathed in. But I think it occurs when some kind of organism, one invisible to the human eye, is passed from a sick person to a healthy one.” She gestured at the stack of books on the table. “Why, just read Thucydides on the Plague of Athens. Or Girolamo Fracastoro in De contagione et contagiosis morbis.”
“I’ll rephrase my question. Why hunt for organisms now? We’re supposed to be pickling cucumbers today. You promised to help me.”
“That’s exactly why I’m conducting my research,” Tavi replied. “When you mentioned preserving food, I began to wonder about the processes involved—mechanical, chemical, biological.”
“Of course you did,” said Isabelle, suppressing a smile. Her happiness at seeing color in Tavi’s cheeks and fire in her eyes far outweighed her irritation over the mess. Only one thing could pull Tavi away from math and that was science.
Looking at her sister, Isabelle wondered how anyone could ever call her ugly. She longed to tell Tavi that the intensity in her eyes and the passion in her voice made her catch her breath. The same way a falcon in flight did. A still lake at dawn. Or a high winter moon. But the sudden lump in her throat wouldn’t let her.
“Take jam, for example,” Tavi continued. “Heat is applied to fruit and sugar is added, correct?”
Isabelle swallowed. She nodded.
“Is that why jam doesn’t spoil? Does the heat kill organisms? Does the sugar play any role? And what about pickling? Does vinegar inhibit organisms’ growth? Depending on the type of organism you have, and what it colonizes—milk, cabbage, dough, or a human body—you could end up with cheese, sauerkraut, bread, or the Black Death!” Tavi said gleefully. “But what is that organism, Iz? That’s what I’m dying to know. Aren’t you?
“No. I’m dying to know when you plan to stop theorizing about pickles and help me make some.”
“Soon, soon!” Tavi said, picking up her magnifying glass again. “I made coffee. Help yourself,” she added.
Isabelle shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to feed Martin and let the chickens out.”
Isabelle walked to the kitchen door, but halfway there, she turned and looked back at her sister, who was still peering through her magnifying glass, and thought, Tavi is so smart. Maybe she can help me figure out what I’m supposed to be searching for.
Isabelle’s hand went to her pocket, she started to hobble back to the table, but then she stopped. Tavi was so logical, so skeptical, she probably wouldn’t believe in Tanaquill. And if she told her about the fairy queen, she’d also have to tell her what she’d wished for and she was ashamed to admit that she’d asked to be pretty. Tavi would scoff. She’d mock.
As if sensing that Isabelle was still there, Tavi looked up from her work. “All right,” she huffed impatiently. “I’ll go.”
“Go where?” Isabelle asked, puzzled.
“To the stables. The chicken coop. That’s what you’re about to ask me to do, isn’t it? Abandon my scientific investigations to do the oh-so-important work of shoveling horse manure?”
“Don’t rush,” Isabelle said, glad she’d decided against telling her about Tanaquill. Sarcasm is the weapon of the wounded, she thought, and Tavi wields it lethally.
As Tavi scribbled figures in a notebook, Isabelle took the egg basket from its hook. Then she grabbed a clasp knife from a shelf, dropped it into her pocket, and left the kitchen. A minute later, she was making her way down the hill to the coop. As she neared the bottom, a fox—green-eyed, her coat a deep russet—darted in front of her. She paused, watching the creature lope across the grass.
In the stories Ella had spun, Tanaquill had sometimes taken the form of a fox. Is that her? Isabelle wondered. Is she watching me? Waiting to see if I carry out her task?
She didn’t have long to wonder. Just as the fox disappeared into some brush, a shriek, high and bloodcurdling, ripped through the air.
There was only one creature who could make such a terrible sound.
“Bertrand the rooster,” Isabelle whispered as she set off running.
The shriek came again.
That fox is no fairy queen, Isabelle thought. It’s a chicken thief. And it sounds like another one is still in the coop.
She, Tavi, and Maman depended on their hens for eggs. Losing even one would be disastrous.
Isabelle kept running, as fast as she could, heedless of the pain her bad foot caused her.
“Hang on, Bertrand!” she cried. “I’m coming!”
The rooster was a fierce creature with sharp, curved spurs on his legs. He’d chased Isabelle up a tree many times. But he was no match for a fox.
Or a wolf, she thought. Her blood ran cold at the very idea. She’d been so frightened for Bertrand and the hens, she’d hurried to the coop without grabbing so much as a stick to defend the henhouse, or herself.
As she ran past the stables now, flushed and panting, her eyes fell on the coop. She saw that the door was open and hanging off its hinges.
She also saw that it was no fox that was stealing her chickens, no wolf.
It was a man—dirty, thin, and desperate.
The man was holding a cloth sack. It was moving and clucking. On the ground near the coop lay Bertrand, his neck broken.
Anger shoved Isabelle’s fear aside. “What have you done to my rooster?” she shouted. “Put those chickens down!”
“Ah, forgive me, mademoiselle!” the man said with an oily smile. “The house is shuttered. I had no idea anyone lived here.”
“Now you do. So leave,” Isabelle demanded, gesturing to the road.
The man chuckled. He stepped out of the coop. His eyes swept up and down Isabelle, lingering on her hips, her breasts.
The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.
This time, the words in Isabelle’s head were not Alexander the Great’s, as they had been when she faced down Cecile, but Sun Tzu’s—a Chinese general who’d lived over two thousand years ago.
She put the words to good use. While the man ogled her, she eyed him back and determined that he was unarmed. No sword hung from his waist, no dagger protruded from his boot. She also saw that she’d left a pitchfork leaning against a tree, a few yards behind him. All she had to do was get to it.
His gaze shifted from her to her house. “Why are you out here all alone? Where’s your father? Your brothers?”
Isabelle knew better than to answer that question.
“Those chickens are all my family has. If you take them, we’ll starve,” she said, trying to appeal to his better nature.
“And if I don’t, I’ll starve. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in weeks. I’m a soldier in the king’s army and I’m hungry,” the man said righteously.
“What kind of soldier leaves his barracks to steal chickens?”
“Are you calling me a liar, girl?” the man asked, taking a menacing step toward her.
“And a deserter,” said Isabelle, holding her ground.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And if I am, what of it? We are led to battle like lambs to the slaughter. Volkmar knows the king’s every move before the king himself knows it. The others can die if they wish. Not me.”
“You can take a few eggs if you’re hungry,” Isabelle said, adamant. “Put the sack down.”
The man laughed. He nodded at the pitchfork behind him. “Or what? Or you’ll come after me with that rusty tool you’ve been eyeing? Have you even held a tool before tonight?” He took another step toward her and with a leer said, “How’d you like to hold mine?”
“Go. Now. Or you’ll be sorry,” Isabelle said, ignoring his ugly joke.
“I’m taking four chickens. That’s how it will be,” he said.
Fury flared in Isabelle. Her mother and sister were not going to go hungry so this thief could gorge himself. But what could she do? He was standing directly in front of the pitchfork now, blocking her access to it.
I need a weapon, she thought, looking around desperately. A rake, a shovel, anything.
Remembering her clasp knife, she dropped the egg basket she was still holding and plunged her hand into her pocket. A pain, sharp and startling, nipped at her fingers. She gave a small cry, but the deserter, who’d gone back into the coop, didn’t hear her.
She pulled her hand out of her pocket and saw that her pointer and middle fingers were sliced across the tips and bleeding. Stretching her pocket wide, she peered inside it, thinking that the knife must have came open, but no. An object, white, slender, and smeared with her blood, jutted up at her. She realized it was the jawbone Tanaquill had given her. She pulled it out of her pocket and saw that its tiny teeth were what had cut her. With a screech, the angled portion of the jaw suddenly straightened in her hand, making her gasp. The end that had hinged to the animal’s skull fattened into a hilt. The other end lengthened into a blade, its edge serrated with the razor-like teeth.
Stepsister Page 8
