Stepsister(18)

Madame LeBenêt slapped her forehead. “Tante Sévèrine!” she exclaimed. “Of course! My husband often spoke of you! And with such fondness. You must be exhausted from your travels. Let me fix you a cup of tea.”

“She should be on the stage,” Tavi said to Isabelle.

Madame LeBenêt heard her. “What are you two waiting for?” she snapped. “Fetch her trunk!”

With great difficulty, Isabelle and Tavi managed to slide the trunk off the cart and carry it into the house. Isabelle hoped Losca might help them, but the girl was peering intently at a grasshopper on the scraggly rosebush near Madame LeBenêt’s door, completely absorbed by it. Madame directed Isabelle and Tavi to place the trunk in a small bedroom, then hurried into the house to start the tea. When the girls returned to their cart, they saw that Tantine was still standing by it.

Tavi climbed back up into the cart and sat down, but Isabelle hesitated. “Will you be all right here?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Tantine assured her. “I can handle Avara. Thank you again for the ride.”

“It was nothing. Thank you for saving me from certain death at the hands of Cecile,” Isabelle said wryly.

She turned to leave, but as she did, Tantine caught hold of her hand. Isabelle was surprised by the strength in those gnarled fingers.

They stood there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, perfectly still. Fate, a creature with no heart and no soul, who walked with the dust of Alexandria on her shoes, the ashes of Pompeii on her hem, the red clay of Xi’an on her sleeves. As old as time. Without beginning or end.

And a human girl. So poorly made. Just tender flesh and bitten nails and a battered heart beating in a fragile cage of bone.

Isabelle had no idea whose fathomless eyes she was gazing into. She had no idea that Fate meant to win the wager she’d made, no matter the cost.

“We must be going, Tantine,” she finally said. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Fate nodded. She gave Isabelle’s hand one last squeeze. “Yes, and I hope you will, too. Be careful of those fleeing Paris, child,” she warned. “Not all refugees are harmless old biddies like me. Some are scoundrels, just looking to lead young girls astray. Be wary. Close your shutters. Bolt your doors. And above all, trust nothing—nothing—to Chance.”





Nineteen


Many hours later, on a blue damask picnic cloth, in a field well south of Saint-Michel, a diva, a magician, and an actress sat under an oak tree eating fruit and sweets.

Around them, musicians played. A juggler tossed flaming torches into the air. A sword-swallower gulped down a saber. And three noisy capuchins leapt to and fro in the branches of the oak while the fourth sat on the picnic cloth, eyeing the diva’s pearls.

“Watch out. The little robber is planning his next theft,” the magician warned.

“Nelson,” the diva cautioned, wagging a finger at the monkey. “Don’t even think—”

Her words were cut off by a loud bellow. “Now?”

“No!” came the shouted reply.

The three women turned towards the source of the racket. Chance, hands on his hips, was standing by a large, painted carriage. He’d flung off his coat. His white ruffled shirt was open at the neck, his long braids gathered up and tied with someone’s shoelace. Sweat beaded on his brow.

Standing on top of the carriage, and on top of each other’s shoulders, were four acrobats. The bottommost had rooted his strong legs to the roof; the topmost held a telescope to her eye.

“Go,” Chance commanded a fifth, gesturing to the carriage. “Tell me what you see.”

A moment later, a wiry boy was climbing to the top of the human tower.

“Anything?” Chance shouted as the boy took the telescope from the acrobat under him. “You’re looking for a village called Saint-Michel. It has a church with a statue of the archangel on it …”

“I can’t see it!”

Chance swore. “You’re next!” he said, to a second wiry boy.

“Another one?” the diva said, turning away. “I can’t look.”

Chance and his friends were lost. The driver had been navigating on instinct and had taken a wrong turn. He’d had no road map to consult; Chance didn’t like them. They spoiled the fun, he said. Now evening was coming down, the village of Saint-Michel was nowhere in sight, and Chance was hoping his acrobats could spot it.

The diva helped herself to a macaron from a pretty paper box in the centre of the picnic cloth and bit into the sweet. Its brittle meringue shattered; crumbs fell into her cleavage. The monkey scampered over and fished them out.

“Nelson, you fresh thing!” she cried, swatting him. Nelson threw his furry arms around her neck, kissed her, and shot off. Had she not been so annoyed by his antics, she might’ve noticed that he was trailing something through the grass.

“The crone’s already there. I feel it,” the magician fretted, threading a silver coin in and out of her long, nimble fingers.

“If she finds the girl before Chance does, she’ll poison her with doubt and fear,” said the diva.

“But this Isabelle, she’s strong, no?” the actress asked.

“So I’ve heard,” said the magician. “But is she strong enough?”