Stepsister(10)

The captain, having endured many such speeches during the voyage, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, Marquis. How did the monkey come to have the eye in the first place?”

“A bet was made on a hand of cards. I wagered the bosun five ducats against his glass eye. The foolish man took the eye out and placed it atop the coins. I ask you, Captain, have you ever met a monkey who could resist a glass eyeball?”

The captain gestured at Nelson, sitting atop Chance’s shoulder. “Perhaps I should ask the monkey to pay for the damages?”

Chance reached into his satchel, lying on the deck by his feet, and pulled out a fat leather purse. “Will this cover it?” he asked, dropping it into the captain’s hand.

The captain opened the purse, counted the coins inside it, and nodded. “The gangplank will be lowered shortly,” he said. “The next time you decide to take a sea voyage, Marquis, please take it on someone else’s ship.”

But Chance wasn’t listening. He’d already turned away to check that all the members of his retinue were above decks. Each and every person was needed. He was bound for the country. There were no opera houses there. No grand theaters or concert halls. Why, there were hardly any coffee houses, and very few patisseries, bookshops, or restaurants. He would not survive five minutes without his musicians, his acrobats and actors, his diva, ballerinas, magician, fortune-teller, fire-breather, sword-swallower, scientist, and cook.

“Wait! The cook is missing!” Chance exclaimed as he completed his head count. He looked at Nelson. “Where is he?”

The monkey pressed his paws over his mouth and puffed out his cheeks.

“Not again,” Chance muttered.

A moment later, a short, bald man in a long black leather coat with a red kerchief tied around his neck staggered up from the aft deck. He was rumpled and bleary-eyed. His face was as gray as week-old porridge.

“Seasickness,” he said, as he joined Chance.

“Seasickness, eh? Is that how one says ‘I drank too much gin last night’ in French?” Chance asked, arching an eyebrow.

The cook winced. “Do you have to be so loud?” He leaned his head on the gunwale. “Why the devil are they taking so long with the gangplank? Where are we going anyway? Tell me it’s Paris.”

“I’m afraid not. Saint-Michel.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in the country.”

“I hate the country. Why are we going there?”

Chance’s hands tightened on the gunwale. He thought of the girl’s map. Isabelle, her name was. He pictured the end of her path. The splotches of red. The violent lines etched into the parchment, as if a madman had made them.

And then he remembered that a madman had.

“It can be changed, her path,” he whispered. “I can change it. I will change it.”

“What path?” the cook asked. “What are you talking about? Why are you …”

His words trailed off. Something down below them had caught his attention. Chance saw it, too.

A swift black carriage was making its way up the bustling street that ran alongside the docks. A face was framed in its window—a woman’s face, pale and wizened. She must’ve sensed that she was being watched, for she suddenly looked up. Her gray eyes found Chance’s and held them. In her merciless gaze, he saw that no quarter would be asked in this fight and none given.

The cook took a deep breath, then blew it out again. “She’s the reason we’re here, isn’t she?” he asked.

Chance nodded.

“That is not good. She’s the worst of the three, and that’s saying something. Why has she come? Why have we? Are you ever going to tell me?”

“To do battle,” Chance replied.

“For what this time? Gold? Glory? Your pride?” There was a cutting tone to his voice.

Chance watched Fate’s carriage round a corner and disappear, and then he replied, “For a soul. A girl’s soul.”

The cook nodded. “You should have said so. That’s a thing worth fighting for.”

The bleary look had left his face; a determined one had taken its place. He put his forefingers in his mouth and blew an earsplitting whistle. Then he strode off, bellowing at a hapless sailor, demanding that the man get the blasted gangplank down. The magician, the acrobats, and the rest of Chance’s entourage, all milling about on deck, gathered their things and hurried after him.

Chance picked up his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and followed his cook. If he had any hope of winning this fight, he needed to stay one step ahead of Fate, and already he was ten steps behind her.





Thirteen


Isabelle, sweaty, dirty, and bruised, leaned forward in her saddle and addressed her horse.

“Maman tried to sell you, Martin. Did you know that? To the slaughterhouse, where they’d boil your bones down for glue. I’m the one who stopped her. Maybe you should think about that.”

Old, slow, and bad-tempered, Martin was also swaybacked, splay-toed, and nippy, but he was all Isabelle had.

“Come on,” she urged him. She pressed her heels into his flanks, trying to get him to trot around the barnyard. But Martin had other ideas. He heaved himself into a sulky canter, then stopped short—sending her tumbling out of her saddle. She hit the ground hard, rolled onto her back, and lay in the dirt groaning.