Stepsister(22)

It was as she was closing the gate that it happened.

Out of nowhere, the gentle night breeze stiffened into a vicious wind. It ripped her hair loose, slammed the gate shut, and snuffed out her lantern. And then it was gone.

Isabelle pressed a hand to her chest, startled. Luckily, the wind had also scattered the clouds. Moonlight now illuminated the white stones snaking across the grass, making it possible for her to find her way. As the path carried her past the linden tree, the tree’s leafy branches swayed in the breeze, beckoning to her.

Isabelle walked closer to the linden tree, thinking of the dove who had warned the prince of her deception. Was it roosting in those branches now? Watching her? The thought made her shiver.

She put her lantern down and stared up at the tree, remembering the days she’d spent climbing in those branches, pretending she was scaling the mast of a pirate ship or the walls of an enemy’s fortress, going higher and higher.

The ghosts she’d tried to banish earlier crowded in on her again. She saw herself as a child, fearlessly threading her way through the tree limbs. She saw Tavi with her slate and her equations, and Ella with her daisy chains. They had been so innocent then, the three of them. So happy together. Good, and good enough.

The remorse that had squeezed her heart now crushed it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered to the three little girls, aching with longing and loss. “I wish things were different. I wish I was.”

The leaves murmured and sighed. She almost felt as if the tree was speaking to her. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she went on her way.

She’d only taken a few steps when she saw it … a movement in the darkness.

Isabelle froze. Her heart stuttered with fear.

She wasn’t alone.

Someone was standing in the shadow of the linden tree.

Watching her.





Twenty-Three


The figure stepped out of the darkness.

Isabelle, her heart still battering against her ribs, saw that it was a woman—tall, lithe, pale as bone. Long auburn hair floated around her shoulders. She wore a high crown of twining blackbriar. Living forester moths, their blue-green wings shimmering, adorned it. A yellow-eyed hawk sat perched on her shoulder. Her own eyes were emerald-green; her lips black. The gown she wore was the color of moss.

The woman was clutching a struggling rabbit by the scruff of its neck. As Isabelle watched, she lifted the animal to her face, breathed its scent, and licked her lips. Her sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

Isabelle had never seen her before, yet she recognized her.

When Ella was small, she’d woven fanciful tales about a magical creature who lived in the hollow at the base of the linden tree. She was a woman sometimes, and sometimes a fox. She was a wild thing, majestic and beautiful, but sly and fierce, too. Isabelle had always thought Ella’s stories were just that—stories.

Until now.

The woman gave her a smile, the same smile she’d given the rabbit right before she snatched it from a patch of clover. Then she started towards her, step by slow step.

Everything inside Isabelle told her to run, but she couldn't; she was mesmerized. This was no gossamer-winged creature sipping dew from flower petals. Nor was she a plump, cozy old godmother, all smiles and rhymes. This was a being both dark and dangerous.

This was Tanaquill, the fairy queen.





Twenty-Four


“You summoned me,” the fairy queen said, stopping a foot away from Isabelle.

“I—I didn’t. No. I don’t think. D-did I?” Isabelle stammered, saucer-eyed.

Tanaquill’s eyes glittered darkly. Her teeth looked sharper up close. She had long black talons at the end of her fingers. “Your heart summoned me.” She laughed drily. “What’s left of it.”

She pressed a pale hand to Isabelle’s chest and cocked her head, listening. Isabelle felt the fairy queen’s talons curve into the fabric of her dress. She heard the beat of her heart amplified under Tanaquill’s palm. It grew louder and louder. For a moment, she feared that Tanaquill would rip it, red and beating, right out of her chest.

Finally, Tanaquill lowered her hand. “Cut away piece by piece by piece,” she said. “Ella’s heart was not.”

How would she know that? Isabelle wondered and then, with a jolt, it came to her: “It was you,” she whispered in amazement. “You’re the one who helped Ella get to the ball!”

She and Tavi had tried to puzzle out how their stepsister had acquired a coach, horses, footmen, a gown, and glass slippers. And how she’d escaped from her room after Isabelle had locked her in it when the prince had come to call. Now she knew.

“A pumpkin transformed into a coach, some mice into horses, a lizard or two for footmen … child’s play,” Tanaquill sniffed. She regarded her rabbit again.

Isabelle’s pulse quickened. If the fairy queen can make a coach out of a pumpkin, what else can she do? she wondered. For a moment she forgot to be scared. Hope kindled inside her.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said, “would you help me, too?”

Tanaquill tore her gaze from the rabbit. “It was easy to help Ella, but I cannot help a girl such as you. You are too full of bitterness. It fills the place where your heart used to be,” she said, turning away.