Stepsister(21)

Now the darkness haunted Isabelle. She saw ghosts everywhere. In mirrors and windows. In the reflection of a copper pot. She heard them in the creak of a door. Felt them fluttering in the curtains. It wasn’t the darkness that was haunted, though; it was Isabelle herself. Ghosts are not the dead, come back from the grave to torment the living; ghosts are already here. They live inside us, keening in the ashes of our sorrows, mired in the thick, clutching mud of our regrets.

As Isabelle stared into the fireplace at the dying coals, the ghosts crowded in upon her.

She saw Ella, Tavi, Maman, and herself riding in their carriage. Maman was complimenting Ella luxuriantly. “How pretty you look today!” she purred. “Did you see the admiring glance the mayor’s son gave you?”

Other images flickered to life. Maman frowning at Tavi’s needlework, telling her she should practice until she could sew as nicely as Ella. Maman wincing at Isabelle’s singing, then asking Ella for a song.

Envy, resentment, shame—Maman had rubbed these things against Isabelle’s heart, and Tavi’s, until they were raw. Maman was subtle; she was clever. She’d started early. She’d started small. She knew that even tiny wounds, left untended, can fester and swell and turn a heart black.

More ghosts came. The ghost of a black stallion. The ghost of a boy. But Isabelle couldn’t bear these, so she stood up to carry her plate to the sink.

The clock struck twelve as she did, its chimes echoing ominously throughout the house. Isabelle told herself it was time for bed, then remembered that she hadn’t locked the door to the stables or closed the chickens in their coop. With all the upset Maman had caused, she’d forgotten.

As she hobbled back to the fireplace to bank the coals, a darting movement caught her eye. A mouse had ventured onto the hearth and was digging in a crack between the stones. As she scrabbled furiously, two tiny mouselings scurried to her side. An instant later, the mouse stood up on her hind legs, squeaking in triumph. Clutched in her paw was a small green lentil. She bit it in two and handed the halves to her children, who nibbled it greedily.

Guilt’s thin, cold fingers gripped Isabelle as she remembered how that lentil got there.

Ella had overheard Maman telling Isabelle and Tavi that the prince was holding a ball and that all the maidens in the realm were invited. She’d asked if she could go, and in response, Maman had picked up a bowl of lentils and thrown them into the fireplace.

“There were a thousand lentils in that bowl. Pick them all out of the ashes and you can go,” she’d said, a cruel smile quirking her lips.

It had been an impossible task, yet Ella had managed it. Isabelle had just discovered how: the mice had helped her. When she had presented the full bowl, Maman had snatched it out of her hands, dumped it out on the kitchen table, and counted the lentils. Then she’d triumphantly announced that one was missing and that Ella could not go to the ball.

What was it like for Ella to be so alone, to have no friends except for mice? Isabelle wondered. Then, with a sharp stab of pain, she realized she didn’t have to wonder—she knew.

The mouselings finished their meal, then looked at their mother, but she had nothing more for them. She’d eaten nothing herself.

“Wait!” Isabelle said to the mice. “Wait, there!” She hurried back to the supper tray but moved so clumsily that she scared the creatures. They scampered away.

“No! Don’t go!” Isabelle cried, heartbroken. She snatched a piece of cheese off the tray, then limped back to the hearth, but the mice were nowhere to be seen.

“Come back,” she begged, looking for them. “Please.”

Kneeling by the fireplace, she placed the cheese on a hearthstone. Then she sat back down in her chair. Waiting. Hoping. But the mice did not return. They thought she meant to hurt them. Why wouldn’t they? That’s what she did.

Unbidden, voices from the market echoed in Isabelle's head. Tantine telling her that people wouldn’t forget or forgive. Cecile calling her ugly. Worst of all, the words of the baker’s wife: You were cruel to a defenseless girl.

Remorse curled around Isabelle’s heart like a snake and squeezed. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her head bowed, she did not see the shadow fill the kitchen window. Or the hand, pale as moonlight, press against it.

By the time Isabelle lifted her head again, the shadow was gone. Wiping her eyes, she stood. The barn and the chicken coop were still waiting for her. She shuffled to the door, lit the lantern that was resting on a hook next to it, and walked out into the night, sorrow hanging off her like a shroud.

Had Isabelle waited just a few more seconds, she would have seen the mother mouse creep out of the shadows and back to the hearth. She would have seen the hungry creature pick up the cheese. She would have seen her, whiskers quivering, blink up at the window where the shadow had passed.

Then shudder. And run.





Twenty-Two


Isabelle was glad of her lantern.

The moon was full tonight but had disappeared behind clouds. Once, she could navigate the grounds of the Maison Douleur in the dark, but it had been a long time since she’d ventured outside after midnight.

The outbuildings were located to the west of the mansion. Isabelle followed the path of flat white stones that led over the lawns, around the linden tree, through a gate in a wooden fence, and down a gentle hill.

Bertrand the rooster opened one suspicious eye as Isabelle shined the lantern into the chicken coop. After a quick head count, she latched the door and continued to the stables. Martin was dozing in his stall. He woke briefly as she checked on him, snorted with irritation, then settled back into sleep. Isabelle secured the stable door and started back for the mansion.