Finally, she reached her destination—a hidden bower far within the woods. Everything was just as she remembered it—the leafy canopy, the shaggy berry bushes, even the little heart. It was still there, on a mossy bank, shaped of stones and walnut shells. Some were missing, but most remained, bleached by rain and snow.
Isabelle sat down on the soft moss and touched one of the stones. She had tried her best to not think of Felix since her visit to the marquis’s, but now everything came rushing back. She could see him, and herself, right here, just as they were the day they’d made the heart.
They’d been best friends. Soul mates. Since the day her mother had married Ella’s father and had brought her and Tavi to live at the Maison Douleur. He was the groom’s son and had loved horses every bit as much as she did. They’d ridden over hill and dale together, through streams and meadows, deep into the Wildwood.
From the start, Maman had disapproved. Two years ago, when Isabelle had turned fourteen and Felix sixteen, she’d declared that Isabelle was too old to be acting like a hoyden. It was time to give up riding and learn to sing and dance and do all the things that made one a proper lady, but Isabelle wanted no part of that. She’d escaped with Felix every chance she got. She’d adored him. Loved him. And then, one day, she’d discovered she was in love with him.
They’d ridden into the Wildwood and had stopped at the top of the Devil’s Hollow, a wooded canyon. As much as they liked to explore, they knew better than to venture into the Hollow, for it was haunted. Instead, they’d flung themselves down on the mossy bank and had eaten the cherries and chocolate cake that Isabelle had filched from the kitchen.
As they were finishing, and Felix was wiping cherry juice off Isabelle’s chin with his sleeve, they’d heard a twig snap behind them.
Slowly, they’d turned around. A red deer had ventured near to them. She was only a few yards away and with her were twin fawns, still wobbly on their spindly legs. Their blunt black noses were shiny and wet, their soft coats dappled white, their dark eyes huge and trusting. As the doe grazed and the fawns stared at the pair of strange animals sitting on the bank, Isabelle had felt as if her heart would burst with joy. Never had she seen anything so beautiful. Instinctively, she’d reached for Felix’s hand. He’d taken it and held it and hadn’t let go even after the deer had gone.
She’d looked down at their hands and then up at him questioningly, and he’d answered her. With a kiss. She’d caught her breath and laughed; then she’d kissed him back.
He’d smelled like all the things she loved—horses, leather, lavender, and hay.
He’d tasted like cherries and chocolate and boy.
He’d felt safely familiar and dangerously new.
Before they’d left, they’d made the heart together. Isabelle could still see them, side by side, placing the stones and shells …
“What a pretty picture,” said a voice at Isabelle’s side.
Isabelle jumped; she gasped. The images were swept away like rose petals in the wind.
Tanaquill laughed. “Ah, mortal happiness,” she said. “As fleeting as the dawn, as fragile as a dragonfly’s wing. You poor creatures have it, you lose it, and then you spend the rest of your lives torturing yourselves with memories until old age carries you off in some slow, bloodless death.” She wiped a crimson smudge from the corner of her mouth with her thumb and licked it. “Better a quick and bloody one, if you ask me.”
“You … you could see what I saw?” Isabelle said, her heart still jumping from her scare.
“Of course. The heart leaves echoes. They linger like ghosts.”
Tanaquill was dressed in a gown of shimmering blue butterfly wings, their edges traced in black. A wreath of black roses adorned her head; several live butterflies had lighted upon it, their gossamer wings slowly opening and closing.
“Have you found the pieces of your heart yet, Isabelle?” the fairy queen asked.
“I—I need a little more time,” Isabelle replied, hoping Tanaquill wouldn’t ask why. She did not want to tell her how badly wrong her trip to the orphanage had gone. “I think I know what they are now, at least. Goodness, kindness, and charitableness.”
Isabelle hoped Tanaquill would be delighted that she had at least figured out what the pieces were, even if she hadn’t found them yet, but the fairy queen was not.
“I instructed you to find the pieces of your heart. Not someone else’s,” she said coldly.
“I’m trying. I really am! I—”
“By throwing eggs at orphans?”
Isabelle looked at her boots, her cheeks flaming. “You heard about that,” she said.
“And your wish … is it still to be pretty?”
“Yes,” said Isabelle resolutely, looking up again.
Tanaquill turned away, growling, then she rounded back on Isabelle. “I watched you as a child. Did you know that?” she said, pointing a taloned finger at her. “I watched you duel, swing out of trees, play at being generals … Scipio, Hannibal, Alexander the Great. None of them wished to be pretty.”
Frustration sparked in Isabelle. “Alexander didn’t have to be pretty,” she retorted. “His mother didn’t make him wear ridiculous dresses or dance minuets. Alexander was an emperor with vast armies at his command and a magnificent warhorse named Bucephalus. I’m a girl who can hardly walk. And that’s my magnificent warhorse.” She nodded at Martin, who, in his greed, had pushed himself so far into a blackberry thicket, all that was visible of him was his bony rear end. “He and I won’t be invading Persia anytime soon.”
Tanaquill looked as if she would speak again, but instead she froze. She scented the air, then listened as an animal does, not only with her ears, but with her flesh, her bones.
Isabelle heard it, too. A twig snapping. Footsteps kicking through the leaves.
The fairy queen turned back to her. “Try harder, girl,” she said. “Time is not on your side.”
And then she was gone, and Isabelle was alone with whoever was coming. Few people ventured this far into the Wildwood at dusk. Isabelle remembered the deserter who’d tried to steal her chickens. He’d tried to kill her. He’d try again, she was certain.
Cursing herself for being stupid enough to ride so far from safety with no sword, no dagger, not even a clasp knife, Isabelle looked around frantically for a weapon—a tree limb, a heavy rock, anything. Then she remembered Tanaquill’s gifts. She dug in her pocket, hoping that one of them would transform into something she could use to defend herself, but they remained a bone, a shell, and a seedpod.
Isabelle knew she was in trouble. She was about to run for Martin, to try to ride out of the woods fast, when a figure emerged from the dusk, and her traitor heart lurched.
This was no chicken thief making his way toward her, but he was still a deserter.
“The very worst kind,” Isabelle whispered.
Felix didn’t see her at first.
He was too busy looking up, squinting into the dusk. At what, Isabelle couldn’t guess.
He tripped over a tree root, righted himself, then did a double take as he saw her. After the initial shock of surprise wore off, a wide grin spread across his face. His beautiful blue eyes lit up.
Don’t be happy to see me. Don’t smile. You don’t get to, Isabelle said silently.
“Isabelle, is that you?” he called out. “What are you doing here?”
“Talking to fairies,” Isabelle replied curtly. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a downed walnut tree or at least a nice, thick limb.”
“Why?”
“I need walnut to carve my commanders. For my army of wooden soldiers. Usually, I can find scraps from furniture we make in the shop.” The light in his eyes dimmed a little. “Only we don’t have any orders for desks or cabinets right now. Just coffins. We use pine for those.”
He shrugged his satchel off his shoulder and put it on the moss bank. Then he sat down next to Isabelle.
“I heard about your house. I�
�m sorry.”
Isabelle thanked him. He asked how living at the LeBenêts’ was going. Isabelle told him it was better than starving. Their conversation might have continued in terse questions and answers had the bushes nearby not shaken violently.
Felix started at the sound
“It’s only Martin,” Isabelle said.
“Let me guess … blackberries,” he said, laughing. “Do you remember when he ate the entire bucketful we’d picked for Adélie?” He leaned back as he spoke, and his hand came down on one of the stones in the heart.
He turned around, lifted his hand. “It’s still there …” he said, looking down at it.
His eyes sought Isabelle’s, just for an instant, and what she saw in their depths made her catch her breath—pain, as deep and raw as her own.
She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected him to remember the heart and wondered if he’d remembered other things that had happened here. If he did, he wasn’t sharing his memories. His eyes were elsewhere now, their depths hidden from her. He’d opened his satchel and was digging through it furiously.
“I have something for you,” he said. Quickly. As if he were trying to change a subject that no one had brought up.
He pulled out the same tools of his trade Isabelle had seen when he’d emptied his bag at the marquis’s, but he was taking out other things, too. Strange things. A human hand. Half a face. A set of teeth. Two eyeballs.
Isabelle’s own eyes widened in horror.
Felix noticed. He laughed. “They’re not real,” he said, picking up the hand and offering it to her.
Isabelle took it, half expecting it to feel warm. The painted skin was so lifelike. “Why do you have them?” she asked.
“I made them. I make a lot of body parts now, what with all the wounded men in the army camp. There’s such a demand for them that Colonel Cafard won’t let me enlist. I tried, but he said I’m more valuable to the army working for Master Jourdan than I would be working for him.”
Plus, you can’t shoot straight, Isabelle thought, remembering the time they’d been allowed to fire her stepfather’s pistols. He’d hit everything but the target.
Felix continued to dig in his satchel, then finally he pulled out an object and put it in Isabelle’s lap. “There. That one’s for you.”
Isabelle put the hand down and looked at what he’d given her. It was a leather slipper, thin and finely stitched, with a gusset and laces above the arch. She picked it up. It was heavy.
“What is it?” she asked.
Felix didn’t reply. Instead, he took the slipper from her, opened the laces, and pulled out whatever it was that had made it heavy. As he put the object into Isabelle’s hands, she saw that it was a block of wood, carved in the shape of toes. Each was well delineated, separate from its fellows, sanded to smoothness.
“Toes …” she said wonderingly.
“Your toes,” Felix said, taking them back from her.
“That is an unusual gift. Most girls get candy. Or flowers.”
“You were never most girls. Are you now?” he asked, an edge to his voice. He put the wooden toes back inside the slipper, then wadded a bit of lambs wool he had in his satchel in after them. “Try it,” he said, handing the slipper back to her.
Isabelle hitched up her skirt and took her boot off. She put the slipper on, then started to tie the laces.
“That’s not tight enough,” Felix said. “It has to fit like a glove.” He leaned over her, pulled the laces tighter, and knotted them. “Stand up,” he said when he’d finished.
Isabelle did. The slipper fit better than a glove; it fit like her own skin. She put her boot back on.
“Take a step. But be careful. Don’t forget that you reopened your scar when you fell off Martin,” Felix said, shoveling body parts back into his satchel.
Isabelle clenched her fists. He was making her want something badly. Yet again. What if the slipper didn’t work? What if it hurt? What if it only made things worse? He had a talent for making things worse.
“Come on, Isabelle. You’re braver than this. Take a step.”
His voice was challenging, goading, and Isabelle bridled at it. He saw the fear in her, and she didn’t want him to. Gingerly, she put her foot down, holding her breath. It didn’t hurt. She exhaled. Took a step. And then another. The weight of the carved toes was perfectly balanced. The tight fit kept the toes snug up against the rest of her foot. Nothing slipped or rubbed. She’d never expected to walk without a limp again, and now she was. Her gait was smooth and easy.
Happiness flooded through her. She walked briskly back and forth.
“Take it slow,” Felix cautioned.
She ran back and forth.
“Isabelle.”
She jumped up on the mossy bank and jumped down again. Balanced on her new foot. Twirled. Lunged. Laughed out loud. Giddy and excited, she forgot herself. Forgot to be awkward. Forgot to be angry.
“Thank you, Felix. Thank you!” she said, and then she impulsively threw her arms around him.
She didn’t see Felix’s eyes fill with longing as she hugged him. She didn’t know that just for an instant, he pressed his cheek against her head. She felt his arms stiffen at his sides, though. She felt him pull away from her.
Hurt, she took a step back.
“Isabelle, I can’t—” Felix started to say.
“Can’t what? Get too close?” Isabelle asked, her voice raw. “No, you shouldn’t. I’m broken. And broken things draw blood.”
“Either I back away or I wrap my arms around you. And then what?”
Isabelle couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. “Is that some kind of rotten joke, Felix?” she asked angrily. “You should leave. Go. As far as you can.”
“I already tried that,” Felix said.
And then he reached across the space between them and cupped her cheek. Isabelle grasped his wrist, meaning to push it away. Instead, her fingers curled around it. She leaned into his palm, his nearness, his warmth, melting her defenses.
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You said you loved me, but you didn’t. It was a lie. How could you do that? How could you lie to me, Felix?”
Felix kissed her then, his lips sweet and sad and bitter, and Isabelle kissed him back, clutching handfuls of his shirt, pulling him to her. He broke the kiss, and she looked up at him, her eyes searching his, confused.
“That’s how much I didn’t love you,” he said, his voice husky. “How much I still don’t.”
And then he picked up his satchel and walked away, leaving Isabelle alone in the gathering gloom.
“You’re walking away?” she called after him. “Again?”
“What should I do? Let you break my heart a second time?”
“Me?” she sputtered. “Me?”
Isabelle paced back and forth, furious. Then she picked up a walnut that had fallen from the tree, round and green in its husk, and threw it at his back.
She missed him by a mile.
“I would like to book a carriage,” Fate said to the girl behind the desk. “To Marseille. In a week’s time. I was told I could make the arrangements here.”
She was standing in the bustling lobby of the village inn. Travelers were coming and going. A cat in a wicker cage was yowling. The child holding the cage was crying. Her harried mother was trying to quiet them.
“Yes, madame,” said the girl. “How many passengers?”
“Just myself, my servant, and our trunk. My name is Madame Sévèrine. I’m staying with the LeBenêts.”
“Very good, madame,” the girl said with a nod. “I shall make the arrangements and send a boy to the farm to confirm them.” She folded her hands on the desktop.
Fate frowned. She did not want her request forgotten or bungled. “Is that all? Shouldn’t you write it down in a ledger?”
The girl smiled. She touched the side of her head. “This is my ledger. I cannot wri
te. Do not worry, madame. I will see to the carriage.”
Fate had been so distracted by all the noise, she hadn’t noticed that the girl’s pale blue eyes gazed straight ahead, unseeing.
Ah, yes, the innkeeper’s daughter … Odette, she mused. She tried to recall the details of the girl’s map and vaguely remembered an unhappy life. Denied her true love, was it? she wondered. Well, whatever fate she’d drawn for her, Volkmar had undoubtedly altered it. The girl would end up a casualty of war, like the rest of the villagers.
Fate thanked her and turned to go, eager to leave the rackety inn. How good it felt to know she’d soon say good-bye to Saint-Michel and the unpleasant business that had brought her here. Things were about to get more unpleasant. Markedly so.
“Leaving so soon?” said a voice at her elbow. “You must be feeling very confident. I can’t imagine why.”
Fate’s good mood turned rancid. “Marquis,” she said, regarding him. “Always a pleasure.”
Chance was elegant in a black hat, butter-yellow jacket, and buff britches. He offered Fate his arm, and together they left the inn.
“Where is your coach? I’ll escort you to it,” Chance said.
Fate pointed down the street at Losca, who was sitting in the driver’s seat of a wooden cart, holding Martin’s reins. “There it is. It’s every bit as comfortable as it is stylish.”
Chance laughed, and they set off. He inclined his head toward hers as they walked. “Just because you burned down Isabelle’s house,” he said in a low voice, “doesn’t mean you win the wager. We established rules, remember? Neither of us can force the girl’s choice.”
Fate affected an innocent expression. “Surely you don’t think that I had a hand in that?”
“Two hands, actually,” said Chance. “Clever move, inviting them to the LeBenêts’ farm. But I can invite them to live with me, too. And I will.”
Stepsister Page 16
