Stepsister(17)

As the sun rose higher, and Martin continued to grudgingly pull the cart past meadows, wheat fields, and orchards, the old woman continued to talk. She was just telling the girls about her elegant town house in Paris, when a scream, ragged and high, tore through the air.

Isabelle sat up straight. Tavi jumped. They traded wide-eyed glances, then quickly looked around for its source. Losca leaned over the side of the cart, craning her neck.

“There,” Tantine said, pointing straight ahead.

A military wagon, pulled by two burly workhorses, had crested a hill and was rolling towards them. Even from a distance, Isabelle could see that the driver’s uniform was blotched with red. As the wagon drew near, and she saw what it contained, she uttered a choked cry.

In the back, unprotected from the merciless sun, were at least thirty men, all badly injured. Bandages soaked with blood were tied around heads and torsos. Limbs were missing. One man lay stretched across a wooden seat, his legs mangled. He was the one who’d screamed. A wheel hit a rut, jostling the wagon, and he cried out again.

By the time the wagon passed by, Tavi was clutching her seat and Isabelle’s hands were trembling so badly, she had to squeeze Martin’s reins hard to steady them. Tantine’s mouth was set in a grim line. No one spoke.

Isabelle remembered her book, An Illustrated History of the World’s Greatest Military Commanders. She and Felix had pored over it when they were little, looking at the hand-colored plates depicting famous battles. The pictures made them look glorious and exciting and the soldiers who’d fought them dashing and brave. But the suffering she’d just witnessed didn’t seem glorious at all. It left her stunned and sickened. She tried to picture the man responsible for it. Volkmar. He was a duke, she’d been told. Did he wear medals on his uniform? A sash across his chest? Did he ride a horse? Carry a sword?

For a moment, Isabelle’s vision narrowed. She no longer saw the road ahead of her, the stone walls that lined it, the roses that tumbled over them. In her mind’s eye, a figure, tall and powerful, strode towards her across a battlefield. White smoke swirled around him, obscuring his face, but she could see the sword he held in his hand, its blade razor-sharp. A shiver ran through her, just as it had in the marketplace.

Tavi spoke and the image faded. “Where are they going?” she asked.

“To an army camp on the other side of Saint-Michel. I heard villagers talking about it,” Isabelle replied, shaking off the strange vision and the sense of dread it left behind.

“I’ve seen many such wagons on my way from Paris,” said Tantine. “Ah, girls, I fear this war will not go well for us. Our king is young and untested, and Volkmar is ruthless and wily. His troops are fewer, yet they defeat the king’s at every turn.”

The three fell silent again. The only sounds were of Martin’s plodding hooves, the creaking of the cart, and the droning of insects. Before long, they reached the turnoff to the LeBenêt farm. A dusty drive led to an old stone farmhouse. Threadbare white curtains hung in its windows; sagging shutters framed them. Chickens scratched around the weathered blue door.

The cow barn and dairy house, also built of stone, were connected to the farmhouse. Behind them, cattle grazed in a fenced pasture and fields bearing cabbages, potatoes, turnips, and onions stretched all the way to the edge of the Wildwood.

Losca was out of the cart before it stopped. As Isabelle helped Tantine down, and Tavi opened the back of the cart to get her trunk, Madame LeBenêt, threadbare and weathered herself, came out to greet them, if one could call it a greeting.

“What do you want?” she barked, the look on her face sour enough to curdle milk.

“We’ve brought your great-aunt, Madame,” Isabelle said, nodding at Tantine. “She has come all the way from Paris with her maidservant.”

Madame LeBenêt’s eyes narrowed; her scowl deepened. “I have no great-aunt,” she said.

“I am Madame Sévèrine, your late husband’s great-aunt,” Tantine explained.

“My husband never mentioned you.”

“I’m not surprised. There was a family feud, so much bad blood—”

Madame LeBenêt rudely cut her off. “Do you take me for a fool? Every day now strangers fleeing Paris come to Saint-Michel pretending to be someone’s long-lost this-or-that to get themselves food and shelter. No, madame, I’m sorry. You cannot stay here. You and your maid will eat us out of house and home.”

Eat them out of house and home? Isabelle thought. This little old lady? Her scrawny maid? She ducked her head and fiddled with a buckle on Martin’s harness. She didn’t dare look up lest Madame caught her rolling her eyes.

The whole village knew Avara LeBenêt was a miser. Not only did she have bountiful fields, she had two dozen laying hens, ten milk cows, berry bushes, apple trees, and a large kitchen garden. She made a small fortune at the market every Saturday, yet all she ever did was complain about how poor she was.

“Ah, I am sorry to hear you have no place for me,” Tantine said, with a crestfallen sigh. “I fear I shall have to settle the inheritance on another member of the family.”

Madame LeBenêt snapped to attention like a pointer that had spotted a nice fat duck. “Inheritance? What inheritance?” she asked sharply.

“The inheritance my late husband instructed me to bestow upon your late husband. I thought to possibly give it to your son, but now …”