Stepsister

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Do you smell that?” she asked Felix.

  “I do,” he said, looking around for the source of the smoke.

  Nero whinnied uneasily. He pulled at his reins. Isabelle realized nothing around her looked familiar. She had been to Paris before, several times, on shopping trips for dresses with Tavi and Maman, but she did not recall the huge apple orchard on the right side of the road. Or the old, tumbledown stone barn on the left.

  “We took the right road, didn’t we?” she asked Felix, realizing that she’d barely glanced at the signpost.

  “I’m sure we did. I remember seeing the sign for Paris pointing left. That’s the way we went.”

  They walked on. A few minutes later, they spotted another signpost. A man was sitting under it, his back against the wooden post, his head down, clearly taking a rest. He was wearing the rough clothing of a farmer—battered boots, long pants, a red shirt. His straw hat was tilted over his face.

  As Isabelle and Felix drew closer, they saw that there was only a single sign on the post, and that it read Malleval.

  “That can’t be right,” Felix said. “Malleval’s in the opposite direction.”

  Isabelle decided to get an answer. She handed Nero’s reins to Felix and approached the resting man. “Excuse me, sir, will this road take us to Paris?”

  The man didn’t answer her.

  “He’s sound asleep,” Isabelle said.

  She hated to wake him, but she needed to know where they were. She didn’t have time to waste.

  “Sir? Excuse me,” she said. But the man slept on. Isabelle bent down and gave his arm a gentle shake. His hat fell off. His head lolled sickeningly to the side. His body toppled over like of sack of meal.

  That’s when Isabelle realized that he wasn’t napping, and he wasn’t wearing a red shirt. He was wearing a white shirt that had turned red. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. Blood had cascaded from the wound down the front of his body. Some was still trickling out.

  Terror broke lose inside her. “Please, somebody help! In God’s name, help!” she screamed.

  Felix was at her side in an instant. The blood drained from his face as he saw the murdered man. He grabbed Isabelle’s arm and pulled her away. Nero, hearing her screams and smelling blood, grew wild-eyed. Isabelle took him from Felix and tried to calm him. Felix shouted for help again. But nobody answered them. Nobody came.

  The breeze picked up and so did the scent of smoke. The bitter smell was like a slap; it brought Isabelle back to her senses. She realized how stupid they’d been.

  “Whoever killed this man might still be nearby,” she said to Felix. “And we’ve just let him know we’re here.”

  “If that signpost is correct, Malleval will be close,” Felix said. “We’ll be safe there. We can tell them what happened. They’ll send someone to get this poor man.”

  Casting a fearful glance around, Isabelle put her foot in the stirrup. Felix boosted her up into her saddle; then she pulled him up behind her.

  “Go,” he said, closing his arms around her waist.

  Isabelle spurred Nero on. He galloped the mile or so down the road toward the village, but as it came into view, he stopped, raised his head, and let out an earsplitting whinny.

  Isabelle’s eyes widened. One hand came up to her chest.

  “No,” she whispered. “God in Heaven … no.”

  There would be no help from the villagers of Malleval.

  Not now, not ever.

  Isabelle slid out of her saddle, then staggered through the wheat fields at the edge of Malleval like a drunk. Felix followed her.

  Nero stood in the road where they’d left him, his reins trailing in the dust.

  Lying in the dirt, amid the stubbly stalks of cut wheat, were bodies. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. They had been shot and stabbed. Many in the back. There was a man with a gaping hole in his side, still clutching his pitchfork. There lay an old woman, a bayonet wound in her chest.

  Dark gray smoke swirled over them. The village’s homes, its stables and barns, all had thatched roofs, and they were burning.

  Isabelle started to shake so hard that she couldn’t stop. Her legs gave way. She fell on her backside next to a dead mother and her dead child. A low keening sound moved up from her chest into her throat, then rose into a wild howl of pain. Thick, strangling sobs followed it. She folded in on herself, clutched at the dirt, and wept.

  Sometime later—minutes? An hour?—Isabelle heard voices. Men’s voices. She picked up her head and looked around. It wasn’t Felix; he was carrying an old woman who was bleeding badly through a field, running with her toward one of the only houses that wasn’t burning.

  And then Isabelle saw the men. They were soldiers. They’d gathered at the far edge of the field. They were talking and laughing. Some held the reins of their horses, others sacks full of plunder.

  One of them turned. His gaze fell on Isabelle and an ugly grin spread across his face. He started toward her through the swirling smoke, through the falling ash, like a demon from hell. Two others made as if to follow him, but he waved them back. She was to be his sport, his alone.

  She had never seen the man before, but she knew him. From rumors and stories. From a vision she’d had when a wagonload of wounded soldiers had passed by her on the road to Saint-Michel. He held a sword in one hand, a shield in the other. He wore no coat. His leather waistcoat and white shirt were streaked with blood. His black hair, shot through with silver, was pulled back. A scar puckered one cheek. His eyes burned with dark fire. He was Volkmar.

  Inside Isabelle, under her heart, the sleeping wolf woke.

  Isabelle was terrified. She was going to die; she knew that. But she would not run; she would face Volkmar down.

  She scrambled to her feet, praying that Felix would stay with the old woman inside the house, and searched for a weapon. There had to be something she could fight with—a pitchfork, a shovel, a hay rake. She would aim for Volkmar’s neck if she could. His thigh. His wrist. She would do her best to make him bleed.

  Volkmar closed in. He was only twenty yards away now.

  “How did I miss this little rat in the wheat field?” he said, raising his sword.

  And still, Isabelle was defenseless. Her heart kicked in her chest. Her blood surged, pounding in her ears. But over it, she heard another noise. It sounded like fabric tearing. She felt a weight, sudden and heavy, pulling at her clothing.

  She glanced down and saw that her pocket had torn open. Because the nutshell inside it was growing.

  Isabelle quickly pulled it out before it ripped her dress apart. As she did, it flattened and expanded until it was half her size. Leather straps appeared on the side facing her. She realized she was holding a shield. She snaked her arms through the straps and raised it over her head.

  In the very nick of time.

  A split second later, Volkmar’s blade crashed down upon it. Isabelle was strong now, her arms well muscled from endless farm chores, and she managed to hold the shield firm. Without it, the blow would have cleaved her in two.

  She thrust her hand into her pocket again, remembering Tanaquill’s first gift. Her fingers closed around the bone. She pulled it out, and as she did, it transformed into the same fearsome sword she’d used to fight off the chicken thief.

  “Coward!” she spat at Volkmar. “Murderer! They were innocent people!”

  The horror and grief had receded. She felt as if she were made of rage now.

  Volkmar’s grin twisted into a snarl. Her words were an offense to him. A stab through the heart would be too good for her now. He would aim for her neck instead, and send her head flying.

  He swung high, just as she’d known he would. She ducked, and his blade passed over her head. Her legs pistoned her back up. The tip of her sword caught his side and ripped a jagged gash up his rib cage. He bellowed in surprise and staggered backward.

  Isabelle’s heart was pounding like a war drum. Her blood was singing.

  Volkmar t
ouched his fingertips to his wound. They came away crimson. “The rat has sharp teeth,” he said. Then he charged again.

  Isabelle knew she had one chance left. She had to do better than a flesh wound.

  She lifted her shield, raised her sword, but before she could use them, a bugle blast was heard. Two men came galloping across the field from her left. A riderless horse trailed them.

  “The king’s cavalry is coming!” one of the men shouted. “Jump on! Hurry!”

  The horsemen swooped close. The riderless horse slowed to a canter. Volkmar threw his weapons down and caught the horse by his bridle. He ran alongside the animal for a few strides, then launched himself into the saddle. And then the three riders were gone, vanished into the smoke.

  Isabelle lowered her sword and shield. As she did, they turned back into a jawbone, a walnut shell. She put them in her pocket. Seconds later, forty soldiers on horseback galloped into the village. They surrounded Isabelle and asked her what had happened. She told them, pointing in the direction in which Volkmar had gone and urged them to hurry.

  The captain shouted commands at his men and they charged off.

  Isabelle watched them go, longing to ride with them and chase down Volkmar. Then, sickened and spent, she looked for Felix. He was ministering to a dying man now, bare-chested, pressing his bunched-up shirt to the man’s side, trying to keep the last of his life from leaking into the dirt.

  As Isabelle watched him, kneeling among the obscene harvest of the dead, his body smeared with blood, his face streaked with tears, a pain, piercing and deep, made her cry out. It was worse than any that had befallen her that day. Her hand went to her chest. She bent double, her breath rapid and shallow, willing it to pass.

  Inside her, the wolf, denied his rightful work, bared his sharp teeth and tore into her heart.

  The jagged scream tore apart the placid afternoon.

  It was followed by a loud, heavy smash, and the sound of running feet.

  Fate, peeling apples at the kitchen table, looked up, alarmed. Avara, stirring a soup at the hearth, dropped her ladle into the ashes.

  “What the devil is going on out there?” she shouted. “Hugo! Huuuugo!”

  Fate and Avara reached the door together and saw an earthenware bowl lying in pieces on the stone steps. Bright green peas were scattered around it. Two hens had rushed over and were greedily pecking at them.

  Fate soon saw that it was Maman who had screamed and Tavi who’d dropped the bowl. They were running down the drive. Two figures were walking up it. Felix was shirtless. His long brown hair, damp and lank, hung down his back. His trousers were stained with blood. His gaze was inward, as if focused on something only he could see. His arm was around Isabelle’s neck, possessively, protectively, as if he was afraid she would be snatched away from him. The skirts of Isabelle’s dress were smeared with crimson. Sweat and dirt streaked her face. Her hair, flecked with ash, had tumbled loose from its carefully pinned coil.

  “God in Heaven, what happened?” Avara shouted. She skirted the broken mess on the steps and joined the others. Hugo walked out of the stables, wiping his hands on a rag. He dropped it and broke into a run when he saw Isabelle and Felix.

  Fate remained in the doorway. “It can’t be,” she hissed. “How is she still alive?”

  Realizing that it would look callous for her to remain where she was, Fate hurried down the drive, too. Maman was in tears, pressing Isabelle’s face between her hands one minute, asking the name of the brave knight who was with her the next. Tavi was shushing her.

  Felix apologized for being bare-chested and filthy. He’d left his blood-soaked shirt in Malleval and had tried to douse himself clean under the village’s pump, he said, but the water had only washed away so much. Then he told what had happened to them. How they’d ended up in Malleval after Volkmar had slaughtered its people. How Isabelle had somehow found a sword and shield and had faced him down. How they’d abandoned their plans to go to Paris and had made the long walk home.

  It was quiet when they finished. No one spoke.

  Then Tavi, her voice quavering with anger, said, “You could’ve been killed, Isabelle. What were you thinking?”

  “That I wanted to kill Volkmar,” Isabelle said in a flat, grim voice. “That I wanted to cut into his black heart and watch him bleed to death at my feet. That’s what I was thinking.” Silent and hollow-eyed, she led Nero into the stables to untack him.

  They all watched her go, then Hugo turned to Felix and said, “Come inside. Sit down. Have something to drink.”

  Felix shook his head. “I’m going to the camp. To warn Colonel Cafard. The sooner I get there, the better.”

  Hugo insisted on driving him. He’d been just about to leave for the camp, he explained. The cook had sent for milk. Men had left for the front that morning. Every wagon in the camp had been needed to carry tents, arms, and ammunition. Not one was left to fetch food for those remaining.

  Felix thanked him and asked to borrow a shirt. Usually, Avara would have balked over such a request, badgering Felix not to stain it or wear out the elbows, but she didn’t utter one word of protest. Worry crinkled the skin around her eyes. Her gaze drifted over her fields, her orchards, her cattle, her son.

  Fate knew what she was thinking, what they were all thinking: Malleval was only ten miles away. “Volkmar won’t come here,” she soothed, the lie rolling smoothly off her tongue. “He wouldn’t dare, not with Colonel Cafard camped right outside the village.”

  Avara nodded, but the furrows remained. “You’re right, Tantine. Of course you are,” she said. Then she took a deep breath. “Octavia, you broke my bowl! Do you have any idea what bowls like that cost? Clean up the mess and get the rest of the peas shelled!” But her voice lacked its usual vinegar.

  Tavi bent over the pottery shards. She made a sling of her apron and put them in it. Maman helped her. Avara returned to her soup.

  And Fate remained outside, watching as Felix shrugged into Hugo’s shirt, then climbed up on the wagon seat next to him. As the two boys headed down the drive, her bright eyes searched the farmyard for Isabelle. They spotted her by the pond. She’d led Nero to the water; he’d waded in up to his shoulders and was drinking his fill.

  Isabelle followed him in, fully clothed except for her boots and stockings. As Fate watched, she submerged herself. When she came back up, she sat down on the bank and rubbed at the bloodstains on her dress, then scrubbed at her hands, roughly, furiously, as if whatever was on them would never come off.

  When she was finished, she lowered her head and wept. Even at a distance, Fate could see her shoulders shaking, her body shuddering.

  How on earth did Volkmar fail to kill her? she wondered. She’s just a girl. Crumpling under the bloodshed she witnessed.

  Fate meant to get an answer to her question. Pleading tiredness after all the upset, she abandoned the bowl of apples she’d been peeling, closed herself in her room, and took Isabelle’s map out of her trunk. She moved quietly. Losca was asleep in a trundle bed, her head tucked under her arm.

  Fate smoothed the map out on her table, sat down, and looked it over.

  She had tried to shorten Isabelle’s path to her death, and it hadn’t worked. Was it her inks? Maybe the ingredients hadn’t been the best quality. The light was bad in this room; perhaps her artistry had suffered as a result.

  But no, it was neither of these things. Fate’s expert eyes found the problem. She had drawn a new path for Isabelle, a shortcut through Malleval to Volkmar, and Isabelle had followed it—most of the way. Just shy of the end, however, she’d turned off the shortcut and made her way back to her old path.

  Fate sat back in her chair. She drummed her fingers on its arm. Have I underestimated her? she wondered.

  Isabelle had refused to abandon her mother in a burning house. She’d saved three horses at the expense of her own freedom. She’d taken on Volkmar. This wasn’t the same girl who’d stood by as Maman turned Ella into a servant, or who’d locked h
er stepsister in her room when the prince had come to call. Why, she was even walking taller these days, more confidently.

  At least she failed to see Ella, Fate thought with some relief. That was the day’s one bright spot.

  But the boy—the first piece—he was worrisome. He’d had an arm around Isabelle as they’d walked up the drive. They seemed to have grown closer. Fate consulted Isabelle’s map again, poring closely over the detour she’d made, then she pounded her fist on the table. The noise startled Losca awake. She sat up, bright-eyed and blinking.

  “They reconciled!” Fate fumed. He made a slipper for her. That’s why she’s walking taller. “He even asked her to go with him to Italy!” She peered at the map again. “She told him she could not … That’s good. But he promised to find a way.” She shook her head in disgust. “What if he does? What if Isabelle leaves?”

  Fate rose; she paced back and forth. “That cannot happen,” she said. She knew she had to find a way of keeping Isabelle in Saint-Michel, but her bag of tricks was rapidly emptying. Warm from her pacing, she moved across the room to open her window. It was a casement frame with metal hinges, one of which had developed an unpleasant squeak.

  “I must get after Hugo to fix that,” she muttered.

  Hugo.

  Fate whirled around. She rushed to her desk and scrawled a hasty letter on a piece of parchment.

  “Up, girl!” she barked at Losca when she’d finished.

  Losca rose. She smoothed her dress.

  “Take this to Monsieur Albert, head of the bank in Saint-Michel. He’ll be at home, eating his Sunday dinner. I need a good sum of money. More than he has in his vault. It’ll take him a day or two to get it, no doubt, and we must move quickly. Hurry now! Go!” Fate said.

  She walked Losca out of their room, through the house, past Tavi shelling peas, and down the drive, giving her directions to Monsieur Albert’s. The girl set off running, the letter clutched in her hand.

  Fate watched her until she disappeared down the road, then started back to the house. A movement caught her eye. It was Isabelle. She was in the pasture, riding Nero. She’d rigged up a scarecrow. His body was made out of branches; he had a cabbage for a head. He was propped up on a fence post she’d sunk into a soft patch of ground. She was brandishing something in her right hand. Fate squinted and saw that it was an old sword that had belonged to Monsieur LeBenêt and had hung in the stables.