Stepsister(25)

The raven shook out her feathers. She clicked her beak.

“Who is responsible? Ah, Losca, must you ask?” Fate said heavily. “This is his fault, of course. All his. Will that reckless amber-eyed fool ever learn?”





Twenty-Seven


Isabelle, still bleary-eyed from sleep, her hair in a messy braid, pulled a clean dress over her head and buttoned it.

She’d slept badly, kept awake all night by images of Tanaquill. By the time the sun had risen, she’d convinced herself she’d only dreamt the fairy queen. Such creatures did not exist.

But as she picked up yesterday’s dress off the floor, meaning to put it in her clothes hamper, something fell out of one of its pockets. Isabelle bent down to pick it up. It was roughly two inches long, black, and covered with small thorns.

It was a seed-pod.

She thrust her hand into the pocket and fished out two more objects—a walnut shell and a jawbone. A shiver moved through her as she remembered how she got these things. The dark creature she’d met by the linden tree was no dream.

I wish I was pretty, she’d said to the fairy queen. And the fairy queen had told her to find the lost pieces of her heart.

Isabelle examined the three gifts one by one. Tanaquill said they would help her, but how? It was no clearer to her now than it had been last night. Maybe they’re meant to turn into something, she reasoned. Hadn’t Tanaquill said that she’d transformed a pumpkin and mice for Ella?

She turned the nutshell over in her hand. This could become a pretty hat, she thought. Running a finger over the jawbone’s tiny teeth, she imagined that it might turn into a lovely hair comb. Next she regarded the seed-pod, but couldn’t imagine how the knobby, spiky thing could ever turn into anything pretty.

Frustrated, Isabelle shoved the three objects into her pocket, then tossed her dirty dress into the hamper. She put her boots on and made her way downstairs. She’d had enough of the fairy queen’s mysteriousness for the moment. There were chores to do.

As she walked across the foyer to the kitchen, a rich, bitter scent wafted towards her. Tavi’s up and she made a pot of coffee, she thought. I hope she’s scrambled some eggs, too.

Gone were the days when she would come downstairs to a full breakfast set out by the servants. Whatever she and Tavi wanted now, they had to make themselves.

Finding enough to eat in the summer wasn’t difficult. The hens were laying, the fruit trees were heavily laden, and good things were growing in the garden. But what would happen come winter? A few days ago, Isabelle had decided to try her hand at pickling vegetables and Tavi had promised to help. Today seemed like a good day to start. The garden was full of cucumbers and they’d bought salt during their trip to the market. If her efforts were successful, she would put the pickles in the cellar for the cold months. She pushed open the kitchen door now, eager to see what her sister had made for breakfast.

As it turned out, nothing.

Except a breathtaking mess.





Twenty-Eight


Tavi was sitting at the long wooden table, peering through a magnifying glass.

The tabletop was littered with plates and bowls, all containing food, but everything was rotten. A slice of bread was furry with mold. A bowl of milk had curdled. A plum had shriveled in its skin.

“What are you doing, Tavi? This is disgusting!” Isabelle exclaimed. Her sister often conducted experiments, but they usually involved levers, ramps, and pulleys, not mold.

Tavi lowered her magnifying glass. “I'm hunting for very small, possibly single-celled, organisms,” she said excitedly. “I set all of this out on a high shelf in the pantry a few days ago. I selected a high shelf because warm air rises, of course, and speeds the organisms’ growth. Just look how they’ve progressed!”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “But why?”

Tavi grinned. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “The dominant theory of disease proposes that sickness occurs when miasma, or bad air, rises from rotting matter and is breathed in. But I think it occurs when some kind of organism, one invisible to the human eye, is passed from a sick person to a healthy one.” She gestured at the stack of books on the table. “Why, just read Thucydides on the Plague of Athens. Or Girolamo Fracastoro in De contagione et contagiosis morbis.”

“I’ll rephrase my question. Why hunt for organisms now? We’re supposed to be pickling cucumbers today. You promised to help me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m conducting my research,” Tavi replied. “When you mentioned preserving food, I began to wonder about the processes involved—mechanical, chemical, biological.”

“Of course you did,” said Isabelle, suppressing a smile. Her happiness at seeing color in Tavi’s cheeks and fire in her eyes far outweighed her irritation over the mess. Only one thing could pull Tavi away from maths and that was science.

Looking at her sister, Isabelle wondered how anyone could ever call her ugly. She longed to tell Tavi that the intensity in her eyes and the passion in her voice made her catch her breath. The same way a falcon in flight did. A still lake at dawn. Or a high winter moon. But the sudden lump in her throat wouldn’t let her.

“Take jam, for example,” Tavi continued. “Heat is applied to fruit and sugar is added, correct?”

Isabelle swallowed. She nodded.