Stepsister(24)

Should you ever decide, in those small dark hours, to hang yourself, well, that is your choice.

But don’t hunt for the rope until morning.

By then you’ll find a much better use for it.





Twenty-Six


As Isabelle made her way upstairs to her bed, Fate made her way through the Wildwood.

Spotting a fallen tree, she stopped, plucked a centipede from the rotted wood, and bit off its head. “Perfect,” she said, licking droplets of black from her lips. “Bitter blood makes bitter ink.”

As she dropped the still-writhing body into the basket she was carrying, she looked up into the high branches above her and said, “I need wolfsbane. Keep an eye out for it. A sprig of belladonna would be helpful, too.”

A raven, perched in a pine bough, flew off and Fate resumed her stroll. A plump brown spider went into the basket, a mossy bat skull, white queen of the night flowers, speckled toadstools—all ingredients for the inks she was making.

Fate was prodding the bleached rib cage of a long-dead deer, hoping to scare some beetles out of it, when her raven flew down and landed beside her. A moment later, a girl stood where the bird had been, bright-eyed and blinking, wearing a black dress. She dropped a purple bloom into Fate’s basket.

“Ah! You found the belladonna. Well done, Losca. Its berries give a nice luster to the darker inks, like Doubt and Denial. Of course, I must get the girl’s map back before I can make changes to it. Chance thinks he can redraw it, but that may prove more difficult than he anticipates. Have you seen any sign of him yet?”

Losca shook her head.

“He’ll come. I’ve never known Chance to back out of a wager. I shall win this game, but not without a fight. He often gains the upper hand, however briefly, through sheer unpredictability. Mortals lose their heads around him. They start to put stock in their hopes and dreams, the poor fools. He actually makes them believe they can do anything.” She clucked her tongue. “And he has the cheek to call me cruel.”

Fate walked on, poking and digging, glad to be out of dour Madame LeBenêt’s uncomfortable house for a few hours. Losca followed her. Absorbed in the hunt for ingredients, they didn’t realize they’d reached the edge of the Wildwood until they heard voices.

“What’s this?” Fate muttered, peering between the branches of a bushy tree. She soon saw that a shallow, grassy hill sloped away from where she was standing and flattened into a broad pasture. Stretching across it, as far as the eye could see, were neat rows of white canvas tents. Here and there, fires flickered. A horse whinnied. Someone played a sad, sweet tune on a violin.

Fate drew the hood of her black cloak up over her head. She was curious to see Colonel Cafard’s encampment up close.

“Take this,” she said, handing Losca the basket. As she did, she noticed that the tail of a small snake was hanging from the girl’s mouth. Fate glared at her. “What have I told you about eating the ingredients?” she scolded.

Shamefaced, Losca sucked the tail into her mouth and swallowed it, like a child with a string of spaghetti.

“Stay close and don’t make any noise,” Fate cautioned. Losca nodded.

The two hugged the edge of the camp to avoid being seen. Though it was late, men were huddled around the fires, unable to sleep. They talked of Volkmar and what they would do to him once they got hold of him. Fate heard bravado in their voices but saw fear in their eyes. A grizzled sergeant sat among them, trying to raise their spirits by regaling them with tales of battlefield glories—until a scream, ragged and raw, rang out, abruptly ending his tale.

Fate heard the flapping of wings, then felt a weight descend on her shoulder. The basket Losca had been carrying lay on the ground.

“Now, now, child. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she murmured, stroking the bird’s back.

She picked up the basket, then sought out the source of the scream. Her search led her to the far side of the camp, where its hospital was located. There, men lay on cots, writhing and moaning, some mortally wounded, others delirious with pain and fever. A surgeon and his assistant moved among them, cutting and stitching, administering morphine, mopping drenched brows.

A woman moved among them, too.

Graceful and slender, she wore a gown the color of night with flowing sleeves and a high neck. Her long dark hair hung down to her waist. She was out of place among all the soldiers, impossible to miss, yet no one seemed to notice her.

A man cried out. He called for his sweetheart, then begged to die. The woman went to him. She knelt by his cot and took his hand. At her touch, his head rolled back, his eyes opened to the sky, his tortured body stilled.

The woman rose, and Fate saw what the soldier had seen—not a face, but a skull—its eyes yawning black pits, its mouth a wide, mirthless smile. She nodded at Fate, then moved off to another soldier, a boy of sixteen, crying for his mother.

“Death is busy tonight,” Fate said somberly, “and has no time for pleasantries.”

Fate had seen enough; she turned away and headed back to the enveloping darkness of the Wildwood. When she reached the trees, she cast a last glance over the camp and the sleeping village beyond it.

“Volkmar’s out there. I feel him,” she said. “Hiding in the hills and hollows. Coming closer every day. What will be unleashed upon these poor, innocent people?”