Stepsister(15)

“It’s been such a long time, Isabelle,” she trilled. “I heard about Ella and the prince. Tell us, what was the royal wedding like?”

There were snickers. Whispers. Pointed glances. Everyone knew that Isabelle, Octavia, and Maman had not been invited to Ella’s wedding.

“Do you have your own room in the palace?” asked one of the girls.

“Has Ella found you a duke to marry?” drawled another.

“Who’s marrying a duke? I wish I could!” said a third, smiling excitedly. She had just caught up with the group. Her name was Berthe. She was small and plump with prominent front teeth.

Cecile turned to her. “A duke? What would a duke want with you, Berthe? We’ll find you a hunter to marry. They like fat little rabbits.”

Berthe’s smile slipped. Her cheeks flushed a bright, blotchy red. The other girls burst into laughter. They had no choice. Cecile would remember any girl who didn’t laugh. She would take it as a challenge and make that girl her next victim.

Under Cecile’s pretty dress, under her silk corset and linen chemise, was a heart like a rotten log. Turn it over and the things living under it would scuttle from the light. Things like envy, fear, anger, and shame. Isabelle knew this because her own heart had become just like it, but unlike Cecile, she knew that cruelty never came from a place of strength; it came from the darkest, dankest, weakest place inside you.

Something in the street caught Cecile’s eyes. It was a small rotten cabbage. She kicked it towards Berthe.

“Do it,” Cecile commanded. “She deserves it. She’s ugly. An ugly stepsister.”

Berthe looked at the cabbage uncertainly.

Cecile’s eyes narrowed. “Are you scared? Do it.”

Her challenge emboldened the other girls. Like a pack of hyenas, they egged Berthe on. Reluctantly, Berthe picked the cabbage up and threw it. It hit the cobblestones in front of Isabelle, splattering her skirts. The jeering grew louder.

Fear ran a sharp fingernail down the back of Isabelle’s neck. She knew Cecile was only getting started. From deep inside her a voice spoke. I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep. I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.

In times of trouble, Isabelle heard generals in her head; she had ever since she was old enough to read about them. It was Alexander the Great who spoke to her now, and she realized he was right: Cecile’s lackeys, desperate for her approval, would do anything she commanded.

Isabelle knew she could fight one girl off, even with a bad foot, but not a dozen. She would have to find another way out of this.

“That’s enough, Cecile,” she said. Though she was in agony, she hobbled off, back towards the market, figuring that Cecile would tire of the game if she refused to play it.

But Cecile had no intention of letting her quit. She bent down and picked up a chunk of a broken cobblestone. “Stay where you are, Isabelle. Or I’ll throw this at your horse.”

Isabelle stopped in her tracks. She turned around. “You wouldn’t,” she said. This was a step too far, even for Cecile.

“I would.” Cecile gestured to the others. “They all would.” As if to prove her point, she handed the cobblestone to Berthe. “Throw it. I dare you.”

Berthe stared at it; her eyes grew round. “Cecile, no. It’s a rock,” she said.

“Scaredy-cat.”

“I’m not,” Berthe protested, a quaver in her voice.

“Then do it.”

Isabelle stepped in front of Martin’s head, shielding him. Berthe threw the rock, but she hit the cart.

“You missed on purpose,” Cecile accused.

“I didn’t!” Berthe cried.

Cecile picked up another chunk of cobble and dropped it into her hand. “Go closer,” she said, giving her a push.

Berthe took a few halting steps towards Isabelle, gripping the stone so hard, her knuckles turned white. As she raised her arm again, her eyes met Isabelle’s. They were brimming with tears. Isabelle felt as if she were looking into a mirror. She saw the girl’s anguish and recognized it; it was her own.

“It’s good that you still cry,” Isabelle whispered to her. “It’s when you stop crying that you’re lost.”

“Shut up. I’m not crying. I’m not,” Berthe said, cocking her arm back.

Isabelle knew that being hit by a rock would hurt. It could kill her. If that was her fate, so be it. She refused to abandon Martin. Eyes closed, fists clenched, she waited for the pain.

But it didn’t come. Seconds slowly passed. She opened her eyes. The girls were gone, scattered like sparrows. Standing where Cecile had stood only a moment ago was an elderly woman dressed entirely in black.





Seventeen


The woman was gazing down the street, watching the girls hurry away.

Her face was etched with lines. Her snow-white hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. A black ring graced one clawlike hand. She seemed to Isabelle to be the picture of frail old age, as brittle and breakable as a twig under ice.

Until she turned and bent her gaze upon her, and Isabelle felt as if she were drowning in the gray depths of those ancient eyes, pulled under by a will far stronger than her own.

“The one in the yellow dress, the ringleader, she’ll come to a bad end,” the woman said knowingly. “I guarantee it.”