“Why show me this?” she shouted wretchedly to the darkness. “Why show me something I can never have? Something I can never be?”
No one was there. Isabelle was talking to herself.
She unhooked Nelson’s pearls from around her neck and placed them on the seat of the velvet chair where he would be sure to find them.
A moment later, she and Nero were galloping back over the marquis’s grounds. Just before she disappeared into the woods, Isabelle looked back. At the ruined stage. The dark château.
“Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you.”
Tavi stretched tall, then bent to unknot her skirts.
“When I leave here, I never want to see another cabbage as long as I live,” she said.
Isabelle agreed with her. The day in the field, harvesting under the hot sun, had been long and exhausting. Isabelle’s dress was soaked with sweat. Her boots were filthy from treading in the black dirt. She was looking forward to dunking herself in the duck pond, and later, falling into her hayloft bed.
She’d been tired all day. Last night had been unrestful. She’d had such a strange dream. Nelson had appeared in the hayloft. Then she’d taken a midnight ride to the Château Rigolade, where the marquis and his friends had presented a play.
The dream had felt so real, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. All those women … leading armies into battle, fighting for their realms … they were merely a fantasy cooked up by her vivid imagination, that’s all. A fond childhood wish.
“You need a pistol. We didn’t think of that. You’re three women traveling alone.”
Hugo, who had been working one field over, digging potatoes, had joined Isabelle and Tavi. His words dispelled the lingering images of Isabelle’s dream.
“If there are three of us, then we’re not alone,” Tavi said.
Hugo looked at her as if she were an idiot. “You don’t have a man with you. Of course you’re alone. You can buy a secondhand pistol in the village while we’re at the market tomorrow. Use some of Felix’s money. You’ll need gunpowder and bullets, too.”
Tavi picked up her knife and the basket she used to carry cabbages to the wagon. Isabelle did the same. Hugo rested his spade on his shoulder, and together the three walked to the barn, talking about their secret plan the whole way. Isabelle and Tavi would leave in three days, and there was still a good deal to do.
As they rounded the side of the farmhouse, Isabelle’s head was bent toward Tavi; she was concentrating on what her sister was saying. Her gaze was on the ground.
Had she been paying more attention, she might’ve seen the signs of trouble up ahead.
The many hoofprints in the dirt.
The blur of blue uniforms by the stables.
The tall, imperious Colonel Cafard eyeing the horse that had been brought from the pasture on his command.
A black horse. Her horse.
Nero.
It was only when Isabelle rounded the corner of the barn that she realized something was very wrong.
Nero was in the yard in front of it, wearing his bridle. He was wild-eyed and rearing. A young soldier was struggling to hold on to his lead.
“Let go of him!” Isabelle shouted. She ran to the man and snatched the lead from his hands.
The soldier hadn’t seen her coming. He stumbled backward, startled, and fell on his rear end. There were others with him. They hooted and laughed. Tantine, Avara, and Maman were standing together nearby, worried expressions on their faces.
“Looks like the girl’s even feistier than the horse!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Maybe she needs a good crack across the backside, too!”
Isabelle whirled on him. “Too? Did you hit my horse, you jackass?”
The soldier stopped laughing. His eyes turned mean. “Maybe she needs a good crack across the mouth,” he said. “And maybe I’m just the one to give it to her.”
“Isabelle!” Tavi called out, alarmed. She’d caught up with her. Hugo was close on her heels.
But Isabelle didn’t hear her. She was focused on her adversary. Still gripping Nero’s lead, she took a step toward the man.
“Maybe you are. Get a crop. I’ll get one, too. We’ll find out.” When the soldier made no move, she cocked her head. “Scared? I’ll make it a fair fight. I’ll tie one hand behind my back.”
A ripple of laughter rose from the others.
“Hey, isn’t she one of the ugly stepsisters?” the one who’d fallen on his backside called out.
“It’s her. She’s ugly all right,” said the one Isabelle had challenged.
The familiar shame seared Isabelle, but this time she didn’t blush. She didn’t lower her head. She looked him in the eye and said, “Every bit as ugly as a man who beats a defenseless animal.”
“Isabelle, please!” Tavi hissed.
Isabelle ignored her. “Why are you here? What were you doing with my horse?” she asked her antagonist.
Another man, one wearing a bicorne hat and black boots that were so shiny, he could see his own reflection in the toes when he looked down at them—which he did quite often—stepped forward. “I’m afraid he’s my horse now, mademoiselle,” he said.
Isabelle looked him up and down. “Who the devil are you?” she asked, tightening her grip on Nero’s lead.
Tantine was immediately at her side. “This is Colonel Cafard, Isabelle, the officer in charge of the army camp near the village.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to take my horse,” Isabelle said.
“Actually, it does,” the colonel said. “The army is short of mounts. They’re the first thing the enemy shoots at. We’re commandeering any sound animal we can find.”
“By whose orders?” Isabelle asked, panic rising inside her.
“The king’s,” the colonel replied, clearly growing tired of the exchange. “Will that do?”
“Enough, Isabelle!” Tantine hissed. “Give the creature up before we’re all hauled off to jail!” She pried the lead from Isabelle’s fist and handed it to a soldier. Then she pulled her away. “We’re at war, you foolish girl!” she scolded.
Isabelle twisted free of her grasp. She ran to Cafard, ready to plead, ready to drop down on her knees and beg him not to take her horse. Let his soldiers laugh and jeer. She didn’t care. All she could see in her mind’s eye was her beloved horse falling on a battlefield, his side ripped open by a bullet.
“Please, Colonel,” she said, pressing her hands together. “Please don’t—”
And then Tantine was beside her again, sinking her fingers into Isabelle’s arm, her grip as strong as iron. “Please don’t let Volkmar win,” she said, drowning her out. “Use the horse to defeat him. We are honored to help our king.”
Cafard gave her a curt nod. Then he strode off toward his own mount, a cowed-looking chestnut mare. The horse shied slightly as he swung himself into his saddle. Isabelle’s expert eyes swept over the animal, looking for a reason. She soon found it. There was blood on the mare’s sides, behind the stirrups. She looked at Cafard; he was wearing sharp silver spurs. Isabelle’s heart lurched.
“Colonel!” she cried, running after him.
Cafard turned. His brittle smile couldn’t hide his irritation. “Yes?”
“Please don’t use spurs on him. He listens if you’re kind to him. And he’ll do anything for an apple. He loves them.”
Cafard’s smile thinned. “My men love apples, too. They rarely get them these days, yet they still do what I tell them.” He nodded at Nero. “That creature is a horse, mademoiselle, and he will be treated like one. Intractable animals must be made tractable.”
Nero whinnied loudly; he tossed his head, trying yet again to tear the lead away from the soldier holding it. When that didn’t work, he spun around and kicked at him.
An image flashed into Isabelle’s head. Of Elizabeth on her white charger. Of Abhaya Rani, shooting flaming arrows from astride her mount. Neither woman would have let anyone take her horse.
“He’s
hungry, sir,” she said. “He usually gets his supper now. If you let me feed him, he’ll be manageable for the trip to your camp.”
Cafard looked at the unruly horse and at his men stumbling over themselves as they tried to get him under control.
“You have ten minutes,” Cafard said. Then he barked at his men to hand the horse over to her.
Isabelle whispered to Nero to calm him. Head down, she led him to the stables.
Had the soldiers seen the determined set of her mouth and the fire in her eyes, they never would have let her.
Isabelle walked to the barn at a normal pace. To do anything else would raise suspicion.
The barn had two large doorways—the one she and Nero had just passed through, and one directly across from it that led out to the pasture. A large open area spanned the space between the two doors. To the right of it were horse stalls; to the left, stanchions for the cows.
Isabelle walked slowly, veering a little to the right, as if she were going to lead Nero into a stall. As she did, she cast a casual glance over her shoulder. Three of the soldiers were talking to the colonel. A few were milling about. One was watching her. She caught his gaze; he held it. She wiped her eyes, hoping to appear as if she were crying. It worked. The soldier, embarrassed, turned back to his companions.
Within seconds, she and Nero were through the far door. She tensed as they walked out of the barn, expecting to hear shouts or the sound of footsteps. But it was quiet. No one had seen them.
An old milk can stood under the eaves of the barn. Isabelle used it as a mounting block. Once on Nero’s back, she knotted the loose end of his lead into his halter. It would serve as reins. There was no time to get proper ones, or his bridle and saddle. When she was finished with the knot, she quietly urged Nero forward. He was across the hardpan that separated the barn from the pasture in a few strides.
Isabelle knew that as long as she kept the barn between herself and the soldiers, they could not see her ride off. Anger, blind and beyond reason, drove her. Nero was hers; she would not allow Cafard to take him.
She gripped his improvised reins and clucked her tongue. As if he understood her purpose, Nero jumped the wooden fence that enclosed the pasture and landed almost noiselessly in the grass.
Isabelle touched her heels to his sides, and he was off. Within seconds, he reached the far side of the pasture. He sailed over the fence again, and then they were streaking across a wide meadow to the forest. She looked back, just for an instant, as they reached the tree line. No one was after her. Not yet. She probably had another minute or two before Cafard told one of his men to see what was taking her so long, but it was already too late; they’d never find her. They didn’t know the Wildwood like she did.
Isabelle faced forward now. The woods were dense and navigating them commanded all her attention. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding.
She was headed to the Devil’s Hollow.
Some people are afraid of the forest; others only feel truly safe under its sheltering canopy.
Isabelle was among the latter. The sights and scents of the forest were familiar and comforting to her. She had spent the happiest days of her life in the Wildwood.
After she and Nero had escaped, they’d ridden hard through the trees for a good half hour to put distance between themselves and Colonel Cafard; then Isabelle had dismounted, unknotted the makeshift reins, and walked the horse. Dusk was falling as they reached the path that would take them into the Devil’s Hollow. Isabelle wanted to be down in the Hollow before dark. The path was treacherous when you could see it, suicide when you couldn’t.
The Wildwood covered the gently sloping south side of a small mountain and abruptly gave way to the mountain’s craggy, cliff-laden north side. The narrow path to the Hollow zigzagged down the north face, obscured in parts by thorny, scrubby shrubs. It snaked through rocks and boulders at the bottom, and ended at a river. It had once been used by travelers to Saint-Michel, but as the village had grown, and the roads leading to it had improved, the path through the Devil’s Hollow had fallen out of use.
Isabelle and Nero picked their way carefully down the path and through the rocks. When they finally reached the river, Isabelle’s stomach growled loudly. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since noon, and it had to be nearly eight by now. Nero hadn’t eaten his nightly ration of oats. Nor would he, for she hadn’t packed any. She had no food and no money with which to buy some. Felix’s money was back in the hayloft. So were all the provisions she and Tavi had managed to assemble. She reached into her pocket, hoping against hope that she’d stuffed a crust of bread in it. Instead, her hand found Tanaquill’s gifts. The seedpod pricked her fingers.
Something else pricked her, too—her conscience. She was walking slowly to make sure Nero could find his footing, but now she stopped, racked by an agonizing uncertainty.
“What have I done?” she said aloud.
She’d been so determined to save Nero’s life that never for a second had she considered what impact her rash actions might have on anyone else’s. She’d tricked a colonel of the French army. What if he took his wrath out on her family? Or the LeBenêts and Tantine?
Isabelle saw that she’d let her anger drive her actions, once again. Just as she had with Ella. The baker’s wife. The orphans. She’d been selfish. She didn’t want Nero to die, but there were mothers, wives, and children who didn’t want their sons, husbands, and fathers to die, either. Men were giving their lives to the fight; Felix might well give his.
Groaning, she buried her face in Nero’s neck. She wanted to be a better person. She wanted to change, yet here she was, endangering people who needed her, running away from her responsibilities.
“I have to go back,” she said, her heart heavy. It was the right thing, the only thing, to do.
It was just as those words left her lips that she heard the voices, drifting toward her across the river, from deep within the trees.
She stood perfectly still, listening. Fear plucked at her nerves. Were the old ones right? Was the Hollow haunted? Or could it be a band of outlaws or deserters?
Or maybe the voices belonged to Cafard’s men, out hunting for her? No, that wasn’t possible. There was another way to get to the Hollow, but it involved a long ride around the mountain on a narrow, rutted road. It was unlikely his soldiers could’ve gotten down it so quickly.
Isabelle waited for the voices to speak again, but Nero’s breathing was the only sound she could hear.
“Stay here, boy,” she said, looping his lead over his neck.
She ventured closer to the water and looked across it. In the dying light, she could make out the far riverbank, and the dense line of trees along it, but nothing else. Here and there leaves rustled, but that could be the breeze. Just when she’d convinced herself she’d imagined the voices, she heard them again. And then the strong smell of tobacco wafted to her.
Isabelle had never seen a ghost. She did not know much about them, but she was certain of one thing: Ghosts did not smoke cigars.
Nelson crept quietly through the partly open window.
He dropped down to the bench underneath it, then cast an anxious glance back at Chance.
“Go!” Chance mouthed at him from outside the window. “Fetch the map!”
He could see it, open on Fate’s table, from where he stood; the skull at the bottom was as black as ebony.
Fate, busy digging in her trunk, her back turned to the window, didn’t see the little creature scamper across the floor.
But Losca, roosting on top of the wardrobe, did.
With an ugly shriek, she launched herself at him. The monkey jumped from the floor to the bed. The raven wheeled about and flew at him again. Nelson rolled across the bed, dodging her, then threw himself on her back.
Fate whirled around. Her eyes went to the tangled animals.
“What on earth—” she started to say, but a high, rusty screech cut her off. It was the hinge on the casement window. Chance
had just climbed through it. He rushed to the table and the map laying rolled up upon it. But Fate got there first. She stood in front of it, blocking him, a long silver stiletto in her hand.
“Step aside. I don’t want to fight you,” Chance warned.
A vicious smile twisted Fate’s lips. She snapped her wrist and a split second later, the stiletto was flying straight at his heart.
Chance pivoted to the right. The stiletto sank with a thuk into the wall behind him. He was about to advance again, but at that instant, a fox leapt through the window. She lunged at the fighting animals. The monkey, terrified, catapulted himself into Chance’s arms. The raven flew high, circled the room, then landed back on top of the wardrobe.
Growling and snapping, the fox jumped onto Fate’s table. With a sweep of her tail, she sent Fate’s inks flying. Bottles smashed on the floor; lurid colors seeped into the cracks between the boards. She dropped to the floor again, and a few seconds later, a woman stood where the fox had been, clutching the map in her hand.
“Enough,” Tanaquill said, tucking the parchment deep within the folds of her cloak.
“That map is mine,” Fate said, starting toward her. “Give it to me.”
Tanaquill bared her teeth, snarling. “Come, crone. Take it,” she dared her.
Chance stepped forward. “Keep the map, Tanaquill. But help Isabelle. Save her.”
“The girl will make her next move herself. Neither of you will make it for her. There is only one person who can save Isabelle now … Isabelle.”
With a swirl of red, she was through the open window and gone. Fate and Chance were left standing by themselves.
Chance pulled the stiletto out of the wall. He handed it back to Fate. She put it down on the table, then looked around the room, at the havoc Tanaquill had wreaked. Losca was already down off the wardrobe, in her human form, cleaning up the broken glass.
Stepsister Page 26
