Stepsister

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Just before dawn, in the Wildwood, a fox stalked her meal.

  The object of her attention, a red squirrel, was on the forest floor, busily collecting fallen nuts.

  Hugging the lingering shadows, the vixen crept close. She tensed, teeth bared, but just as she was ready to spring, a huge, tufted owl landed on a branch above her, shaking the leaves noisily.

  With a frightened squeak, the squirrel dropped her nuts and ran for her nest. A second later, the vixen was gone, too. In her place stood an auburn-haired woman in a dusk-gray gown. She spun around violently. Her green eyes flashed.

  “That was my breakfast!” she shouted at the bird.

  Creatures great and small scurried to their dens at the sound of her voice. Deer hid in the brush. Songbirds spread their wings over their young.

  But the owl was not bothered. Let the fairy queen rage. He had chosen a nice high branch for his perch. He hooted at her now.

  Tanaquill narrowed her eyes. “For this you rob me of my meal?”

  The owl continued to speak.

  “What of it?” Tanaquill growled. “Fate and Chance, Fate and Chance, one moves, the other countermoves. As if living creatures were nothing more than pieces on a game board. Their doings are no concern of mine.” She turned her back on the bird and, with a swirl of her skirts, walked away. But the owl called after her, hooting harshly several times.

  Tanaquill stopped dead. “A stallion?” she said. Slowly, she turned around. “Fate did this?”

  The owl bobbed his great gray head.

  Tanaquill paced back and forth, dead leaves rustling under her feet. The owl clicked his beak.

  “No, I’m not going to tell Chance,” she retorted. “He’ll buy the horse and gift wrap him for the girl. I’ll deal with this myself.”

  Tanaquill licked her lips. Her sharp teeth glinted in the pale morning light. “Isabelle has regained the first piece of her heart, though she refuses to admit it. Courage will be needed to regain this, the second piece.” She snapped her fingers. “Come, owl. Let’s see if she still has some.”

  The village had almost forgotten about Isabelle.

  Saint-Michel was so crowded with weary, bewildered refugees frantic to buy food that the baker’s wife, the butcher, and the cheesemonger had better things to do than taunt her.

  She had found herself selling vegetables at the market with Hugo this morning because Madame, who usually went with him, was busy tending a sick cow. Tavi was more likely to conduct an experiment with the cabbages than sell them, so the task had fallen to Isabelle. Although she hadn’t relished the idea of returning to the village, she undertook the task without complaint. Somehow, Tantine had convinced Madame to let them stay, and a deeply relieved Isabelle was determined not to give her any reason to change her mind.

  She and Hugo had been swamped with customers from the moment they’d pulled into the market square. The refugees, all living in tents, or wagons in the surrounding fields, clamored for cabbages and potatoes. Isabelle had no idea where they’d all come from, so she asked them and they told her.

  Volkmar had stepped up his attacks on the villages surrounding Paris, they’d explained. They’d seen their farms pillaged, their homes burned. Many had escaped with only their lives. The king fought bravely, but his troops were being decimated. The grand duke had been seen riding throughout the countryside with a train of wagons, calling on citizens who possessed weapons of any sort—guns, swords, axes, anything—to donate them to the war effort. The queen traveled with him, searching for orphaned children and spiriting them to safety.

  Some of the refugees were thin and sickly. An elderly woman, trailing four grandchildren, begged Isabelle for any leaves that had fallen off the cabbage heads. Isabelle gave her a whole cabbage and didn’t charge her. The woman hugged her. Hugo saw the exchange. He frowned but didn’t stop her.

  Someone else saw her do it, too.

  “That doesn’t change anything, Isabelle,” said Cecile, walking up to the wagon. “You’re still ugly.”

  Isabelle felt herself flushing with shame. The village hadn’t forgotten about her. It never would, not with Cecile around to remind everyone. She tried to think of something to say, but before she could get a word out, Hugo spoke.

  “It changes things for the old woman,” he said.

  Isabelle glanced at him. She was grateful he’d come to her defense but also surprised. She knew he didn’t like her much. From the set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes, she guessed he liked Cecile even less. She didn’t have long to wonder why, because another refugee, an old man, shuffled up to the wagon and asked for a pound of potatoes.

  “Don’t buy from her!” Cecile said as he handed over a coin. “Don’t you know who she is? Isabelle de la Paumé, one of the ugly stepsisters!”

  The old man laughed mirthlessly. The laugh turned into a deep, racking cough. When he could speak again, he said, “There’s nothing uglier than war, mademoiselle,” then shuffled off with his purchase.

  Cecile snorted. She looked as if she’d like to say something clever and cutting, but cleverness was not her strong point, so she flounced off instead.

  An hour or so after Cecile left, Isabelle and Hugo sold the last cabbage. Isabelle gathered the loose green leaves from the bed of the wagon, handed them to a small, barefoot boy in a threadbare shirt, and told him to take them to his mother to boil for a soup. Then she took off the canvas apron Hugo had given her to wear—its single pocket full of coins—and handed it to him.

  But Hugo shook his head. “Hang on to it. Here’s mine, too,” he said, untying his own apron.

  “Why? Where are you going?” Isabelle asked, taking it from him.

  “I … uh … I need to do an errand. Head back without me. I’ll catch up.” He rubbed the toes of his boots on the back of his trouser legs as he spoke, then spat on his hands and smoothed his unruly hair.

  Isabelle thought he was being very mysterious. She carefully folded both aprons so that no coins could drop out and tucked them underneath the wagon’s seat.

  “And, Isabelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you do get home before me, don’t tell my mother about my errand. Say I went to fix a fence in the pasture or something.”

  Isabelle agreed to his request, more intrigued than ever. Then Hugo tugged on the sides of his jacket, took a deep breath, and went on his way. Isabelle climbed into the driver’s seat and snapped the reins. Martin started off. They’d finished early at the market and she was glad. It meant she could get a head start on the rest of the day’s work.

  She’d only just driven out of the square when she spotted Hugo again. He was helping Odette across the street. She’d taken his arm. Her face was turned toward his. She was wearing a pretty blue dress. Her strawberry-blond hair was pinned up in a soft bun. A pink rose was tucked into the side of it.

  She must be going to a party or a wedding, Isabelle thought. I bet she got lost and Hugo is helping her find her way.

  It was a nice thing for him to do. Odette didn’t have an easy life. Most of the villagers were good to her, but a few—like Cecile—were not.

  Who knew he had it in him? Isabelle thought, softening toward Hugo, but only a little.

  A few minutes later, she was heading out of the village toward a fork in the road. To the right was the way back to the LeBenêts’. To the left was the river and the various businesses that were not allowed to operate within the village because of the smells they made or the fire risk they posed—the tannery, the blacksmith’s, the dye works, the slaughter yard.

  Isabelle was so lost in her thoughts—wondering if Tavi managed to get the morning milking done without causing problems, and if Maman was cutting cabbages or conversing with them—that she didn’t see the animal sitting directly in the center of the fork, watching and waiting, as if it were expecting her.

  By the time she raised her head and realized a fox was blocking her way, it was too late.

  The fox ran at Martin, her head
down, her teeth bared. She dove under him and wove in and out of his legs, snarling and snapping, nipping at his hooves.

  Terrified, Martin bolted to the left, ripping the reins from Isabelle’s hands. The wagon lurched violently, throwing her across the seat. She managed to right herself but could not recover the reins.

  “Stop, Martin! Stop!” she screamed, but the horse, crazed by fear, kept going. The fox followed, running at his side, snarling. The wagon banged down the rutted road to the river, with Isabelle holding on to the seat for dear life. They sped by buildings and work yards. Men tried to wave Martin down, but no one dared get in front of him. And then the river came into view.

  He’s not going to stop! Isabelle thought. He’s going to gallop straight off the dock. We’re both going to drown!

  And then, as quickly as she’d come, the fox was gone and an exhausted Martin slowed, then halted a few yards shy of the water. Isabelle stumbled out of the wagon on legs that were rubbery, her breath coming hard and fast.

  “Shh, Martin, easy,” she soothed, stroking his neck. “Easy, old man.”

  Martin’s eyes were so round, Isabelle could see the whites. His lips were flecked with foam, his coat with lather. She bent down to check his legs. There was no blood; the fox hadn’t bitten him. She found the reins, tangled in the traces, and freed them. Then, taking hold of his bridle, she slowly turned him around. Miraculously, the wagon was intact.

  Isabelle’s breathing slowed little by little as they walked back up the road. They passed the tannery and then the dye works. Some of the workers asked if she was all right.

  “If I were you, that horse would be the next one to come through these gates,” a man called to her as they approached the slaughter yard.

  Isabelle glanced at him. He was leaning against the fence, smoking. Blood dripped off his leather apron onto his shoes. Isabelle heard a desperate cry coming from a frightened animal on the other side of the fence. She looked away; she didn’t want to see the poor hopeless creature.

  “That horse is no good,” the man said. “He could’ve killed you.”

  Isabelle ignored him, but Martin didn’t; he looked right at him. His ears pricked up. His nostrils flared. He stopped dead. A smell hit Isabelle then, a rank, low stink of blood and fear and death, moving like a wraith through the iron spikes. Martin smelled it, too. He was trembling. Isabelle was worried he would bolt again.

  “Come on, Martin, please. We have to go,” Isabelle said, pulling on his noseband.

  But Martin refused to budge. He planted all four hooves into the dirt, raised his head high, and let out a whinny so loud and piercing, so heart-rending, that Isabelle let go of his bridle.

  And that’s when she realized that Martin wasn’t looking at the man; he was looking past him, at a horse on the other side of the fence. She took a step toward the yard, slowly, as if in a trance, and then another. Martin called out again, and the horse behind the fence answered.

  “Don’t,” the man said. “It’s not something a girl should see.”

  But Isabelle did see. She saw a flash of darkness between the bars. Wild eyes. Lethal hooves. There were four burly men around the animal, but they couldn’t subdue him. Even though they had ropes and weapons and he had nothing, they were the ones who were afraid.

  Martin had a friend once. He was magnificent. Tall, strong, and fearless. If Martin had been human, he might’ve hated him for being everything that he, Martin, was not. But Martin was not human and so he loved him.

  Horses never forget a friend.

  Martin had smelled his friend. And heard him. A horse as black as night and ten times more beautiful.

  Martin knew that horse. He loved that horse.

  And so did Isabelle.

  She wrapped her hands around the iron bars and whispered his name. “Nero.”

  Isabelle ran.

  Along the fence. Past the man, who was yelling at her to stop. Through the gates. And straight into hell.

  Two sheep who’d jumped out of their pen were running through the yard, bleating, ducking their pursuers, desperate to escape. Cattle lowed piteously. Fresh carcasses were being hung to bleed out; older ones were being quartered.

  And in the center of it all, a black stallion fought for his life.

  Death’s servants, four burly men, circled him. One of them had managed to get a rope around the horse’s neck. Another had caught one of his back legs, throwing him off balance. A third man caught the other back leg. The horse went down. He made a last, valiant attempt to get up, then lay in the mud, his sides heaving, his eyes closed.

  The fourth man was leaning on a sledgehammer. He gripped its wooden handle with both hands now and lifted the heavy steel head.

  “No!” Isabelle screamed. “Stop!”

  But no one heard her, not over the bleating of the sheep and bawling of the cattle.

  Isabelle ran faster, shouting, pleading, screaming. She was only a few feet away from the horse, when her foot came down in a puddle. She slipped and went sprawling.

  Spitting filth, Isabelle picked up her head in time to see the man lift the sledgehammer off the ground and raise it high, spiraling it around his body, the muscles in his strong arms rippling.

  A ragged scream burst up from her heart and out of her throat. She launched herself, half crawling, half stumbling through the mud and blood and threw herself on the horse’s neck.

  Just as the man swung the sledgehammer.

  The hole the sledgehammer made was deep.

  Isabelle knew this because the man who’d swung the tool forced her to look at it. He grabbed the back of her dress, yanked her off the horse as if she were a rag doll, and dropped her in the mud. She landed on her hands and knees.

  “Do you see that sledgehammer? Do you see what it did?” he shouted at her.

  Isabelle nodded even though she could only see the handle. The head was buried in the ground.

  “That could’ve been your skull!”

  The man, a burly giant, was shaking like a kitten. He’d swung the sledgehammer with all his might and then, in the space of a heartbeat, a girl had thrown herself in its path. He’d wrenched his body to the left at the last possible instant, swinging through and hitting the ground instead of the girl.

  Isabelle stood up. Her dress was smeared with gore. Her face streaked with it. She didn’t care. “Don’t kill my horse,” she begged. “Please.”

  “He’s my horse. I bought him. You don’t want him. He’s too wild.”

  “I do want him.”

  “Then you can pay me for him. Four livres.”

  Isabelle thought of the money tucked under the wagon’s seat and had to fight down the urge to run and get it. But she was not a thief.

  “I don’t have any money,” she said miserably.

  “Then find some, girl, and fast. You’ve got until tomorrow morning. We open the gates at seven sharp. Be here on time, with the money, or he goes.”

  Isabelle nodded. She told the man she’d be back. She told herself that she’d think of something. She’d get the money. Somehow.

  “Let him up,” she said, looking at her horse.

  No one moved.

  “Let. Him. Up.” It was not a plea this time, but a command, and the men heard it. They removed the ropes they’d used to restrain him.

  As soon as he was free, the horse got to his feet. He blinked at Isabelle, then slowly walked to her. He sniffed her. Snorted in her face. Tossed his proud head and let out a whinny.

  Isabelle tried to laugh, but it crumbled into a sob. She leaned her cheek against his, knotted her dirty fingers in his lank, tangled mane. Nero had been sold away. She’d thought she’d never see him again. Now here he was, but he would be gone forever if she couldn’t get hold of four livres.

  “I will get you out of here. I swear it,” she whispered to him.

  “You have to leave now. We have work to do,” the man with the sledgehammer said.

  Isabelle nodded. She patted Nero’s neck, then walk
ed out of the yard.

  One of the men who’d roped the horse—a boy, really—closed the gates after her. He lingered there, watching her go. In that moment, he would’ve done anything she asked of him. Followed anywhere she led. He would have died for her.

  He could not know it then, but the image of the girl, straight-backed in her dirty dress, her face streaked with filth, would stay with him for the rest of his life. He looked down at the knife in his hand and hated it.

  Behind him, the others talked.

  “Was that one of the de la Paumé girls? I thought they were ugly.”

  “What, you think she’s pretty? Dirty as an old boot? Bold as a trumpet?”

  “No, but—”

  “I pity the man she ends up with.”

  “She has guts, I’ll give her that.”

  “Yes, she does. Imagine if every girl had such strength … and learned of it!”

  “Better hope they never do. What would our world become, eh?”

  “Ha! A living hell!”

  “No,” the boy whispered. “A paradise.”

  The door to Madame’s kitchen was open. Isabelle took a deep breath and walked inside.

  The day was bright, but Madame’s house was dark. It took a few seconds for Isabelle’s eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw that Madame was standing at her kitchen table kneading bread.

  “I’m back. I have your money,” Isabelle said, placing the aprons on the table.

  Madame wiped her hands on a dish towel, eager to count her coins, and caught sight of Isabelle. “What happened to you? You’re filthy!” she squawked.

  Isabelle began to tell her. Madame listened for a few seconds, but the lure of money was too tempting. She unrolled the aprons, dumped out the coins, and counted them. Tantine was sitting nearby in a rocking chair, knitting. Unlike Madame, she listened intently to every word.

  When Isabelle finished her account, she said, “I need to buy my horse back. Nero. I need to bring four livres to the slaughter yard tomorrow or they’ll kill him.”

  “Yes, so? What has that to do with me?” Madame asked absently. She had eight columns of coins stacked already and still had half the pile to go.