Stepsister(2)

But the sisters were unmoved by his beauty. One by one, they spoke.

“Luck,” hissed the maiden.

“Risk,” the mother spat.

“Hazard,” snarled the crone.

“I prefer Chance. It has a nicer ring,” the man said, with a wink.

“It’s been a long time since you paid us a visit,” said the crone.

“I should drop by more often,” said Chance. “It’s always a pleasure to visit the Fates. You’re so spontaneous, so wild and unpredictable. It’s always a party, this place. A regular bacchanal. It’s so. Much. Fun.”

A handful of servants spilled out from a row between the shelves, red-faced and winded. Chance pulled his cutlass from its scabbard. The blade glinted in the candlelight. The servants stepped back.

“Whose map have you stolen this time?” the crone asked. “What empress or general has begged your favor?”

Still holding his cutlass in one hand, Chance drew a map from his coat with the other. He tugged the ribbon off with his teeth, then gave the parchment a shake. It unrolled, and he held it up. As the three women stared at it, their expressions changed from anger to confusion.

“I see a house, the Maison Douleur, in the village of Saint-Michel,” the crone said.

“It’s the home of—” said the matron.

“A girl. Isabelle de la Paumé,” the crone finished.

“Who?” asked the maiden.

“All this trouble for a mere girl?” asked the crone, regarding Chance closely. “She’s nothing, a nobody. She possesses neither beauty nor wit. She’s selfish. Mean. Why her?”

“Because I can’t resist a challenge,” Chance replied. He rerolled the map with one hand, steadying it against his chest, then tucked it back inside his coat. “And what girl wouldn’t choose what I offer?” He gestured at himself, as if even he couldn’t believe how irresistible he was. “I’ll give her the chance to change the path she is on. The chance to make her own path.”

“Fool,” said the crone. “You understand nothing of mortals. We Fates map out their lives because they wish it. Mortals do not like uncertainty. They do not like change. Change is frightening. Change is painful.”

“Change is a kiss in the dark. A rose in the snow. A wild road on a windy night,” Chance countered.

“Monsters live in the dark. Roses die in the snow. Girls get lost on wild roads,” the crone shot back.

But Chance would not be discouraged. He sheathed his cutlass and held out his hand. As if by magic, a gold coin appeared in his fingers. “I’ll make you a bet,” he said.

“You push me too far,” the crone growled, fury gathering like a storm in her eyes.

Chance flipped the coin at the crone. She snatched it from the air and slammed it down on the table. The storm broke.“Do you think a coin can pay for what you’ve set loose?” she raged. “A warlord rampages across France. Death reaps a harvest of bones. A kingdom totters. All because of you!”

Chance’s smile slipped. For a few seconds, his fiery bravado dimmed. “I’ll fix it. I swear it.”

“With that girl’s map?”

“She was brave once. She was good.”

“Your head is even emptier than your promises,” the crone said. “Open the map again. Read it this time. See what becomes of her.”

Chance did so. His eyes followed the girl’s path across the parchment. The breath went out of him as he saw its end … the blotches and hatches, the violent lines. His eyes sought the crone’s. “This ending … It’s not … It can’t be—”

“Do you still think you can fix this?” the crone mocked.

Chance took a step towards her, his chin raised. “I offer you high stakes. If I lose this wager, I will never come to the palazzo again.”

“And if I lose?”

“You allow me to keep this map. Allow the girl to direct her own steps forevermore.”

“I do not like those stakes,” the crone said. She waved her hand, and her servants, who had been slowly edging closer to Chance, charged at him. Some were bearing cutlasses of their own now. Chance was trapped. Or so it seemed.

“There’s no hope of escape. Give me back the map,” said the crone, holding out her hand.

“There’s always hope,” Chance said, tucking the map back into his coat. He took a few running steps, launched himself into a somersault, and flew over the heads of the servants. He landed on the worktable with the grace of a panther and ran down its length. When he reached the end, he jumped to the floor, then sped to the balcony.

“You are caught now, rogue!” the crone shouted after him. “We are three storeys high! What can you do? Leap across the canal? Even you are not that lucky!”

Chance wrenched open the balcony's doors and leapt up onto its railing. The rain had stopped, but the marble was still wet and slippery. His body pitched back and forth. His arms windmilled. Just as it looked as if he would surely fall, he managed to steady himself, balancing gingerly on his toes.

“The map. Now,” the crone demanded. She had walked out onto the balcony and was only a few feet away from him. Her sisters joined her.

Chance glanced back at the Fates; then he somersaulted into the air. The crone gasped. She rushed to the railing, her sisters right behind her, expecting to see him drowning in the swirling waters below.