Stepsister

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Watching. Listening.

  Eating spiders.

  Isabelle stared up at the ceiling beams of the hayloft.

  Maman and Tavi were asleep, she could hear their steady breathing, but she couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard she tried. Even though she was only wearing a thin chemise, she was sweating. It was hot. The air was still. She’d tossed and turned for the last several hours, unable to get comfortable.

  Sighing, she got up, crossed the room, and sat down on the floor by the hayloft’s open doors, hoping a breeze might blow in to provide some relief.

  The moon was nearly full. Its rays fell over the farm, illuminating the fields and orchards. The pond and pastures. The chicken coop. The dairy house. The woodpile.

  And, to Isabelle’s surprise, a fox. She was sitting on the chopping block, next to the ax, her tail wrapped neatly around her feet.

  “Your Grace,” Isabelle said, nodding to her.

  With a sinking feeling, she realized why Tanaquill had come.

  “You’ve heard, haven’t you? You know I’m leaving.”

  The fox nodded. The gesture was small, quick, yet in it Isabelle read the fairy queen’s displeasure and disappointment.

  Isabelle bent her head, ashamed. “I found two of the pieces,” she said. “I found Nero. And I’ll never let anyone take him from me again. I found Felix … just in time to lose him again.” Her voice caught. The tears she held back all day came, and this time she couldn’t stop them. “He’s not coming back, Tanaquill. No matter what Tavi and Hugo say. He’s too gentle to drive a bayonet through another human being.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ella is the third piece, isn’t she? I tried to see her, tried to tell her that I’m sorry. But I didn’t. And now I’ll never get the chance.”

  She raised her head; her eyes found the fox’s again.

  “I failed, I’m afraid. I didn’t get all the pieces. Is that why my heart hurts so?” She pressed her palm to her heart, anguished. “Something inside it gnaws and gnaws, and sometimes I think it will never stop, that it will torment me until I’m in my grave. What is it, this pain? Do you know?”

  The fox made no reply.

  “Ah, well,” Isabelle said with a broken laugh. “I guess I was never meant to be pretty, and ugly girls don’t get happily ever afters, do they?” She went silent for a moment, then said, “Thank you for your gifts. The sword and shield saved my life. It looks like I’m not going to find out what the seedpod does, but I’d like to keep all three if I may. To remember you. And the linden tree. And home.”

  The fox nodded. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

  Isabelle knew she would never see the fairy queen again, and the knowledge was heavy inside her. She would never see the Wildwood again, or Saint-Michel. The uneasiness she felt about leaving deepened into a certainty that leaving was wrong. But she knew what Hugo and Tavi wanted. Felix, too. And the decision was made now; she would have to go through with it.

  “What else can I do?” she asked the darkness.

  That’s when a face, small and furry, appeared in the open doorway.

  Isabelle scrambled backward, frightened.

  Then she saw it was only Nelson, dressed in his customary pearls.

  “You gave me such a scare!” she scolded in a whisper, so as not to wake anyone. “What are you doing here? And how did you get those pearls back? I gave them to the diva!”

  Nelson thrust out his paw. He was clutching a small piece of paper, folded over several times.

  Isabelle took it from him and unfolded it. Swirls and curlicues of gold ink decorated the border. In the center was an invitation, written in a swooping script.

  His Excellency the Marquis de la Chance requests your presence at the Château Rigolade for the premiere of his new theatrical extravaganza, An Illustrated History of the World’s Greatest Military Commanders.

  “How strange,” she said slowly. “That’s the title of a book. One I owned a long time ago.” She looked up at the monkey, perplexed. “How can that be?”

  Nelson looked away. He fingered his pearls.

  “When is this happening? Tomorrow?”

  Nelson grabbed the piece of paper back and shook it in Isabelle’s face. She looked at it again, more closely this time. At the very bottom was one word: Now.

  Isabelle squeezed her eyes shut. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming. I must be,” she said.

  She opened her eyes. Nelson was still there. He grabbed a lock of her hair and pulled it so hard that she yelped.

  “Fine. I’m not dreaming,” she said, extricating her hair from his grasp. “But it’s the middle of the night. And the château is miles away. And it’s a château and the marquis is a marquis and he’ll have invited other people. And they’ll all be very important and beautifully attired. I have one dress, and it’s full of holes. I can’t go. I’d only be an embarrassment.”

  Nelson regarded Isabelle; then he regarded his pearls. He heaved an anxious sigh, unhooked his necklace, and handed it to her. Isabelle was deeply touched. She had a feeling those pearls meant the world to the little creature.

  “You’d let me borrow them? Really?”

  Nelson looked longingly at his treasure, now clutched in her hand. Isabelle could see he was struggling with his decision, but he nodded.

  “All right, then,” she said, hooking the pearls around her own neck. “Let’s go.”

  She was off to see a play. At a marquis’s estate, with a monkey, in the middle of the night.

  “I am still dreaming,” she said as she pulled her dress on over her head. “At least I hope I am, because if I’m not, I’ve lost my mind.”

  The moon lit the way as Nero carried Isabelle and Nelson over meadows and hills to the grounds of the Château Rigolade.

  They’d taken a shortcut and emerged through the woods at the back of the château. Isabelle was surprised to find that the building was completely dark.

  An eerie yellow light was emanating from another part of the property, though—the clearing behind the château. Isabelle remembered that that was where Felix had built the marquis’s stage. She turned Nero toward it.

  As they drew close to the structure, Isabelle saw that it was footlights that were casting the glow. They illuminated the stage, with its red velvet curtains and its garlands of fresh roses twining across the arch.

  Strangely, the stage itself, and the grounds around it, were deserted. Isabelle had expected dozens of dazzling people talking and laughing. Jewels bobbing on swells of cleavage. Hair rising like swirled meringue. The rustle of silk. Gilded chairs set out in rows.

  But only a single chair stood in front of the stage. A chill shuddered through her. It’s as if the marquis was expecting me, and only me, she thought uneasily.

  Nelson jumped down from her shoulder to Nero’s rump to the ground and scampered off. Isabelle got down, too, then walked past the chair to the foot of the stage.

  “Marquis de la Chance?” she called out.

  He didn’t answer. No one did. Isabelle realized that she was in a strange place, in the dead of night, alone.

  “I think we’d better go back,” she said to Nero.

  That’s when a man in a mask stepped out from behind the curtains.

  Isabelle backed away from the stage warily. Her hand tightened on Nero’s reins.

  The man bowed to her. Isabelle relaxed as she realized it was the marquis. Though he was masked and in costume, she recognized his long braids. He straightened, then began to speak, in a deep, resonant voice.

  Greetings to you, honored guest.

  We’re here at Chance’s own behest.

  Tarry now.

  We beg you, stay.

  Indulge us as we give our play.

  These are not the tales you’ve heard

  In spoken verse, or written word.

  Of kings and emperors,

  Warlords, knights,

  Slaughtering enemies in their sights.

  These are tales li
ttle told,

  Of generals mighty, rulers bold,

  Whose courage, cunning,

  Wit and skill,

  Were partnered with an iron will.

  Heroes all, but most unknown.

  Reduced by time to dust and bone.

  Yet on this stage,

  They live again.

  Such power has our playwright’s pen.

  Hear their stories, all but lost.

  Watch them rise and bear the cost.

  Some will lose

  and some will win.

  Sit now. Watch our play begin.

  As the last words left Chance’s lips, the footlights blazed high, startling Isabelle so badly that she stumbled backward and fell into the chair. The curtain rose. Trumpets blared. Drums pounded. Cymbals clashed. Isabelle clutched the arms of the chair, her heart thumping. She looked around for Nero. In her fright, she’d dropped his reins. She soon saw that he was only a few yards away, unperturbed by the noise, happily munching the marquis’s lawn. His calmness calmed her. She turned back to the stage.

  The curtains had opened to reveal a book. It was standing upright and was at least eight feet tall. An Illustrated History of the World’s Greatest Military Commanders was written in huge letters on the cover.

  Did the marquis know she’d owned a copy of that book, and that it had meant the world to her? Or was this all just a coincidence?

  As she watched, entranced, the cover slowly swung open. Pages turned, as if flipped by an invisible finger, then stopped. The book stood open to the chapter on ancient Rome’s most esteemed generals. And then a door, cut into the page, opened and a man dressed in a leather breastplate and short cloth skirt stepped out of it. On his head he wore a steel helmet with a red plume. In his hand was a fearsome sword.

  Isabelle recognized him. He was Scipio Africanus. She’d looked at his portrait and pored over his story, a thousand times.

  The pages turned again, and Scipio was joined by Achilles. Then Genghis Khan. Peter the Great. And Sun Tzu. All were dressed and armed for battle. Together they strode to the front of the stage, weapons raised, shields aloft.

  The Roman spoke first, delivering his words in a booming stage voice.

  I, Scipio, brave and strong,

  Waged a battle bloody and long,

  Against my foes on Carthage’s plains.

  Their defeat was proud Rome’s gain.

  Next came Achilles.

  In war’s own furnace I was forged,

  And on my enemies’ blood I’ve gorged.

  A son of Ares, made for glory,

  All quake to hear Achilles’s story.

  Then it was Genghis Khan’s turn.

  A Mongol conqueror without equal

  A warrior king, a god to his people—

  “Oh, enough!” declared a voice from offstage.

  Isabelle looked for its source. She saw the curtain at the right ripple, then heard sharp, indignant footsteps. A few seconds later, a woman emerged from the wings.

  She was slender and straight-backed, with vivid red hair styled high on her head. A stiff lace collar framed her face. She wore a white gown embroidered with pearls, emeralds, and rubies. In one jeweled hand, she carried a bucket of a paint; in the other, a brush.

  Peter the Great stepped forward. He puffed out his chest. “Who are you, madam?” he demanded.

  “Elizabeth the first. Move,” she said, waving him and the others aside with her paintbrush.

  Flabbergasted and sputtering, they did as she bade, half shuffling to the right side of the stage, half to the left.

  Elizabeth walked through the path they’d cleared and up to the towering book. She kicked the cover with a well-shod foot. It slammed shut. Then she dipped her brush into the bucket, crossed out the word History, dipped the brush again, and wrote HER STORY in its place.

  Isabelle sat forward in her chair, mesmerized.

  “This wasn’t in the book,” she whispered.

  As she watched, Elizabeth walked to the front of the stage and addressed her.

  “I am the daughter of England’s Henry the eighth,” she said. “I was a disappointment to him because I was not the son he wished for. I survived his neglect, my half sister’s hatred, attacks on my country and attempts on my life to become the best monarch England has ever seen.” She smiled smugly, then added, “Or ever will.”

  The book receded. The footlights blazed again. The actors playing Scipio and his fellows crouched low, using their hands to cast shadows of horses and knights on the walls.

  A din rose of shouted commands, shrill whinnies, a fanfare. There was a cannon blast, a flash of light, and then the theater’s left wall fell flat to the ground with a boom, followed by its right. The back wall fell next, carrying the arch with it. And then, before Isabelle’s astonished eyes, the shadows came to life. Warhorses in chain mail stomped and snorted. Officers sat astride them. Soldiers massed next to them, carrying bows, pikes, swords, and halberds. The oak-sheltered clearing became an army camp on the banks of the river Thames.

  And Elizabeth, standing in a gown only a moment ago, now rode in on a white charger, wearing a steel breastplate. She held her reins in one hand, a sword in the other. Her red hair streamed down her back.

  “Tilbury camp, 1588!” she shouted at Isabelle. “The Spanish king sends his armada, the most powerful naval force in the world, to invade my country. His nephew the Duke of Parma joins him. They have fearsome warships, troops, and weapons.” She grinned. “But England has me!”

  She spurred her horse on and rode to her troops.

  “My loving people!” she addressed them. “I am come amongst you … being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down for God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honor, and my blood, even in the dust!”

  As Isabelle watched, spellbound, the Thames swelled into a roiling blue sea and a naval battle commenced. Swift English warships fired broadsides at the Spanish vessels. Cannons boomed. Ships burned. Smoke billowed. When it finally cleared, the armada had been routed. England was victorious.

  The scene changed. Bells pealed as Elizabeth rode through the streets of London. Roses were strewn in her path. She reached Isabelle and dismounted. A groom led her horse away; the cheers died down. “The victory was England’s greatest, and mine,” Elizabeth said. “But there are more battles. More wars. More victories. Not told in any book.”

  She waved her hand. Trumpets blared. And then a woman walked out of the trees toward her. And then another. And another. Until there were dozens. Scores. Hundreds. When they had all assembled, Elizabeth introduced them one by one.

  “Yennenga, a Dagomba princess,” she announced, and a young Ghanaian woman, wearing a tunic and pants of woven red, black, and white cloth, stepped forward. She was carrying a javelin. London gave way to lush plains. Two lions walked out of the tall grass and sat at either side of her.

  “I commanded my own battalion and fought against my country’s enemies,” she said. “No one could match me on a horse.”

  She threw her javelin high. It pierced the night sky and exploded into a silvery fountain of shooting stars.

  Isabelle could hardly breathe, she was so excited. All her life, she’d been told that women rulers were only figureheads, that women did not fight or lead soldiers in war. She stood on her chair, the better to see these remarkable creatures.

  “Abbakka Chowta,” Elizabeth said as a young woman from India wearing a pink silk sari walked to the center of the stage. “A woman who shot flaming arrows from her saddle, a woman so brave she was named Abhaya Rani, the fearless queen.”

  Abhaya Rani nocked an arrow into the bow she was carrying, aimed for the sky, and released it. It burst into brilliant blue flames. She smiled at Isabelle. “I fought my country’s invaders for forty years. I was captured but died as I lived, fighting for freedom.”

  Isabelle thought her heart might burst. One by one, queens, pirates, empresses, and generals from al
l the corners of the world told their stories, bowed their heads, and left the stage.

  They were not pretty, these women. Pretty did not begin to describe them.

  They were shrewd. Powerful. Wily. Proud. Dangerous.

  They were strong.

  They were brave.

  They were beautiful.

  Finally, after what felt to Isabelle like only minutes, but was actually hours, only Elizabeth was left on the stage.

  “Strange, isn’t it, how stories that are never told are the ones we most need to hear,” she said, then she bowed, too, and walked off into the darkness.

  Isabelle realized the play was ending. “No,” she whispered hungrily. “Don’t go.”

  The marquis, still wearing his mask, reappeared. In one hand, he held a heavy silver candlestick with a flaming taper in it. He stepped forward and began to speak.

  Now our queens have told their stories,

  Of battles won, of conquests, glories.

  But power is a treacherous thing,

  Its bite is sweet, its kiss can sting,

  And, unless I’m much mistaken,

  It’s never given, always taken.

  Each queen was once a girl like you.

  Told who to be and what to do.

  Not pretty, not pleasing, far too rough.

  Lacking, less than, not enough.

  Till wounded subjects, anguished dead,

  Mattered more than things that others said.

  Then, like a flag, her will unfurled.

  Go now, girl. Remake the world.

  The marquis bowed. He raised his candle to his lips and blew it out.

  Most of the footlights had burned out, a few still glowed faintly. In their light, Isabelle could see that the marquis and his players were gone. The stage was empty and silent. All Isabelle could hear was the sound of her heart beating.

  The spell of the play was broken. Isabelle looked around and realized she was still standing on the chair. She stepped down, her hands clenched. The excitement and wonder and sheer joy she’d felt only moments ago ebbed away. Grief, agonizing and deep, filled the void it left.