She’d had the map showing the whereabouts of the rest of Volkmar’s troops. She’d attacked them one after the other, winning three more battles before she even reached the king. Once she’d arrived at the king’s camp, she’d explained who she was and why she’d come, and then she’d given the king Volkmar’s map, and his own—as proof of the grand duke’s treachery. Together they’d routed the rest of the invaders.
Tanaquill’s magic was strong. It hadn’t ended at midnight like the enchantment she’d made for Ella but had faded slowly. After each battle, when it came time for the dead to be collected and buried, none could be found. None of Isabelle’s soldiers, that is. Those whose task it was to comb the fields after the fighting found only the bodies of Volkmar’s troops, and sometimes, strangely, a small carved wooden figure tangled in the grass.
The blackbriar wall had sunk back into the river after the Battle of Devil’s Hollow. Isabelle had returned to the linden tree, knelt down, and tucked a medal that she’d been given for valor into the hollow.
“For you,” she had said, bowing her head. “Thank you.”
A footman, hovering at Isabelle’s elbow, cleared his throat now, pulling her out of her memories. “General, the king and queen are waiting in the Grand Hall,” he informed her.
Isabelle nodded and followed him. He led her down a long corridor, to a pair of gilded doors. Giving them a mighty push, he entered the palace’s Grand Hall and announced Isabelle’s name.
At the far end of the hall, seated on golden thrones, were King Charles and Queen Ella. Lining both sides of the room, three rows deep, were the noble heads of France, dozens of courtiers, ministers, officials, and friends.
As Isabelle proceeded down the center of the room toward the royal couple, she saw Hugo and his new wife, Odette. Tavi was there, in her scholar’s robes. At the queen’s urging, the king had decreed that all the universities and colleges in the land must admit female scholars. Maman stood next to her, beaming at this duke and that countess. She had apologized to Ella, they had reconciled, and she now spent her days in the palace gardens, talking to royal cabbage heads.
Felix was there, too, and Isabelle’s heart danced when she saw him, dressed up in a new jacket. The man to whom he’d sold the wooden soldiers demanded that Felix return his money, but the king had been so grateful to Felix for making the army that had saved France, that he paid the man back himself and gave Felix a scholarship to Paris’s finest art school. Felix was busy every day learning how to sculpt stone, but he made time to ride with Isabelle every evening in the king’s own forest.
Isabelle had reached the king and queen now. She stopped a few feet away from them, bowed her head, and knelt.
The king rose. A gloved servant stood nearby holding a gleaming ebony box. He opened it, revealing a heavy golden chain of office nestled in black velvet. The king lifted the chain out of the box, walked to Isabelle, and put it over her head. He settled it on her shoulders, then bade her rise and turn to face his court.
“Lords and ladies, citizens of France, we are all here today because of the courage and strength of this young woman. I can never repay her for all that she’s done. And I will never part with her. I have come to rely upon her wise counsel. Her bravery and strength inspire me with hope as we move from the destruction of war to the golden days of peace. I have made sure she will always be by my side. At meetings of my nobles and ministers, and, should it ever come to it again, on the battlefield.” The king smiled at Isabelle, then said, “Good people, I give you France’s bravest warrior … and my new grand duchess.”
The applause was deafening. Shouts and cheers echoed off the high stone walls.
Isabelle’s heart beat strongly—with joy, with gratitude, with pride—as she looked at the faces of all the ones she loved.
Ella joined Isabelle and the king, and together they walked down the steps to greet the court. Well-wishers mobbed Isabelle. Family and friends hugged and kissed her. Nobles wanted to hear her recount her battles. Ministers asked for her thoughts on the state of fortifications along the border.
The attention was dizzying. She stepped back for a moment to ask a servant for a drink. As she did, she saw another face in the crowd. And for an instant, it felt as if time had stopped and the king and queen, and everyone in their court, had been frozen in place.
The Marquis de la Chance smiled. He was tossing a gold coin in the air. He flipped it at her. She caught it. Then he doffed his hat and disappeared into the press of people.
Isabelle watched him go, clutching the coin tightly in her hand.
She never saw him again.
She never forgot the day she’d met him, or how his friends had told her to want to be more than pretty. She never forgot Elizabeth, Yennenga, Abhaya Rani. She wore his gold coin on a chain around her neck until the day she died. But the thing she treasured most was the memory of his smile, a smile that was a wink and a dare. A wild road on a windy night. A kiss in the dark.
A smile that had given her all she’d ever wanted—a chance.
A chance to be herself.
The boom of the large brass knocker, so rarely used, echoed ominously throughout the ancient palazzo.
The mother looked up from her work. Candlelight played over her face. “Are we expecting visitors?” she asked.
“Who is it?” the crone barked at a servant.
The servant scuttled to the map room’s huge double doors and opened them, then he hurried down several flights of stairs to the street doors.
A man was standing on the threshold, dressed in a brown velvet frock-coat. His long black braids hung down his back. A large satchel was slung over one shoulder. A monkey was perched on the other. The servant gave the man a dark look, but he ushered him inside and led him upstairs.
“You had to bring your blasted monkey,” the crone said, as the man walked into the map room.
“Nelson’s very well behaved,” Chance said.
“You have an odd idea of good behavior,” the crone commented. “What can I do for you?”
Chance pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Do for me? I’ve come only to enjoy the pleasure of your company, not to beg favors,” he said.
The crone gave him a skeptical look. “Our contest ended in a draw. I do not have to give you any maps.”
“And I am still allowed to visit my three favorite ladies in their beautiful palazzo,” Chance said, flashing a charming smile.
“If I allow you to stay, you must promise that you will not steal any more maps.”
Chance solemnly held up his right hand. “I promise,” he said.
The crone waved him inside and bade him sit down at the long worktable. The servant was sent to fetch refreshments. Other servants, cloaked and hooded, moved silently down the long rows of shelves that contained the Fates’ maps.
Chance put his satchel on the floor and sat. He turned to the little monkey and patted him. “Hop down, Nelson,” he said. “Stretch your legs.”
“Don’t let him go far,” the crone warned.
“He won’t. He’ll just play around my feet,” Chance assured her.
The servant reappeared with a bottle of port, four glasses, and a tray of fine cheeses. When everyone had been served, the crone asked, “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“Truth be told—”
“I doubt it will be,” said the maiden.
“—I felt bad about my last visit. It was a bit rushed. I left so abruptly.”
“Thieves usually do,” the crone said.
“I wanted to make amends, so I brought some gifts,” Chance finished.
“I believe that’s what the Trojans said to the Greeks,” the mother observed.
Chance bent down and opened his satchel. One by one, he pulled presents out of it. “Pearls from Japan,” he said, handing a small suede sack to the maiden. “Silk from India.” He gave a bolt of shimmering crimson cloth to the mother. “And for you”—he handed the crone a velvet-covered b
ox—“black opals from Brazil.”
“These are generous gifts, thank you,” said the crone. Then she gave him a knowing smile. “I still say you want something in return.”
“No. Nothing,” Chance said innocently. He smiled, waited a few beats, then said, “Well, perhaps one small thing …”
He dipped into his bag again and placed three small bottles on the table.
“Here are some inks I made especially for you,” he said. “Perhaps you could try them out. That’s all I ask. Here’s Moxie …” He pulled out a bottle containing an ink the shimmering teal blue of a peacock’s tail. “This one’s Guts.” That one was a fleshy, intestinal pink. “And my favorite, Defiance.” He held that up to the light. It flared red and orange in the bottle, like liquid fire.
The crone gave the inks a dismissive wave. The mother eyed them suspiciously. But the maiden picked up Defiance, swirled it in the bottle, and smiled.
As she did, a noise was heard from deep within the towering rows of shelves. A sound like an entire shelf of maps falling to the floor.
The crone’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s that monkey?” she demanded.
“He’s right here,” Chance said, bending down to the floor. He picked up the little capuchin, who’d been sitting by his satchel, and placed him on the table. The monkey looked at the crone. He blew her a kiss.
The crone’s scowl deepened. A servant hurried to see what had caused the noise, then reported back that some maps had, indeed, fallen to the floor. He suggested that the shelf had been overloaded and assured the Fates that the problem was being fixed. The crone nodded; her scowl relaxed back into a frown.
Chance drained his glass, thanked the Fates for their hospitality, then he said he must be going. He cinched his bag and picked it up. Nelson jumped onto his shoulder.
The crone accompanied him to the map room’s doors. As they said their good-byes, she suddenly took hold of his arm. With something almost like pity in her voice, she said, “The girl—Isabelle—she was an exception. Do not ask more of mortals than they can give.”
“You are wrong. They have so much to give. Each and every one of them. More, sometimes, than they know.”
Fate released his arm. “You are a fool, my friend.”
Chance nodded. “Perhaps, but I am happy.”
“In this world, only a fool could be.”
A servant led him out of the map room and back down the stairs to the street. Chance stepped outside, then turned to thank the servant, but he was gone. The doors were already locked behind him.
Chance tilted his face to the dark sky, happy to see the stars and the moon, happy to be out of the gloomy palazzo. Nelson, still on his shoulder, pointed to a group of colorfully dressed people who were loitering nearby, in the glow of a street lantern. Chance hurried across to them.
“Well?” said the magician, raising an eyebrow.
“She made me promise I wouldn’t steal anything,” Chance said. “I honored it.”
The magician’s face fell. So did everyone else’s.
Then Chance opened his satchel. Three monkeys jumped out, chattering gleefully. Nelson chattered back.
“She didn’t make them promise, though,” Chance said, cracking his rogue’s smile.
He opened the bag wide so his friends could see inside it. Nestled on the bottom, slightly squashed by the monkeys, were a dozen rolled maps.
Laughing, Chance took the magician’s arm; then they and their friends ran down the sidewalk into the ancient city, into the crowd, into the beautiful, sparkling, full-of-possibilities night.
Stepsister is a story I’ve wanted to tell for years. That I finally get to is because of many wonderful people and I can never thank them enough, but I’m going to try anyway.
Thank you to Mallory Kass, my awesome editor, for her intelligence, huge heart, sense of humor, and affection for ugly stepsisters, balky horses, high-strung authors, and other difficult creatures. Isabelle and I are so lucky to have our very own Tanaquill in you—minus the sharp teeth and talons!
A huge, heartfelt thank you to Dick Robinson, Ellie Berger, David Levithan, Tracy van Straaten, Lori Benton, Rachel Feld, Lizette Serrano, Lauren Donovan, Alan Smagler and his team, Melissa Schirmer, Amanda Maciel, Maeve Norton, Elizabeth Parisi, and the rest of my Scholastic family for your incredible enthusiasm for Stepsister, and for your lovely welcome to my new home. It means the world to me.
Thank you to Graham Taylor and Negeen Yazdi at Endeavor Content, Bruna Papandrea at Made Up Stories, and Lynette Howell Taylor at 51 Entertainment, for working to bring Stepsister to film. I am so proud to be partnering with all of you, and so excited for what’s to come. A huge thank you to film agent Sylvie Rabineau at WME, and Ken Kleinberg and Alex Plitt at Kleinberg Lange Cuddy & Carlo LLP, for your excellent counsel and guidance.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Steve Malk at Writers House, for believing in Stepsister, and all my stories, and me. “Wherever you go, go with all your heart,” Confucius tells us. I get to tell stories, to follow my heart every day, because I have Steve as my traveling companion on the writer’s journey. Thank you, too, to my foreign rights agent, the amazing Cecilia de la Campa, for bringing Stepsister to readers across the world.
Thank you to my lovely family—Doug, Daisy, Wilfriede, and Megan—for reading early versions of the story and giving me valuable feedback and encouragement. An extra thank you to Doug for the cool tagline. Thanks most of all for putting up with me, guys. You teach me every day what real beauty is all about.
Thank you to illustrator Retta Scott for the Big Golden Book’s Cinderella. Thank you to my grandmother Mary for reading it to me five million times. Thank you to Pablo Picasso. His saying I am always doing things I cannot do, that’s how I get to do them, inspired a similar remark from the Marquis de la Chance when he first meets Isabelle, and has always inspired me.
Thank you to the fairy godparents—the countless generations of storytellers who told the ancient tales to sleepy-eyed children gathered around the fire at night, and to the collectors like Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm who preserved them in writing. Because of these elders, the old stories endured, as vital and relevant today as they were centuries ago.
Fairy tales were so important to me as a child. They were entertaining, instructive, and inspiring, but more importantly, they were truthful.
The world conspires in a thousand ways to tell us that we’re not enough, that we’re less than, that life’s one big, long party on the beach and we’re not invited. Dark woods? What dark woods? Wolves? What wolves? Don’t worry about them. Just buy this, eat that, wear those, and you’ll be on the invite list. You’ll be cool. Hot. Liked. Loved. Happy.
Fairy tales give it to us straight. They tell us something profound and essential—that the woods are real, and dark, and full of wolves. That we will, at times, find ourselves hopelessly lost in them. But these tales also tell us that we are all we need, that we have all we need—guts, smarts, and maybe a pocketful of breadcrumbs—to find our way home.
And last, but never least, a huge thank you to you, dear reader. You are everything I wished for.
Jennifer Donnelly is the author of A Northern Light, which was awarded a Printz Honor and a Carnegie Medal; Revolution, named a Best Book by Amazon, Kirkus Reviews, School Library Journal, and the Chicago Public Library, and nominated for a Carnegie Medal; the Waterf ire Saga, and many other books for young readers, including Lost in a Book, which spent more than twenty weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. She lives in New York’s Hudson Valley. Visit her online at jenniferdonnelly.com and on Twitter and Instagram at @jenwritesbooks.
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Donnelly
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ird-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, May 2019
Cover art © 2019 by John Dismukes
Cover design by Maeve Norton
Author photo by Doug Dundas
e-ISBN 978-1-338-26848-5
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