Stepsister(26)

“Is that why jam doesn’t spoil? Does the heat kill organisms? Does the sugar play any role? And what about pickling? Does vinegar inhibit organisms’ growth? Depending on the type of organism you have, and what it colonizes—milk, cabbage, dough, or a human body—you could end up with cheese, sauerkraut, bread, or the Black Death!” Tavi said gleefully. “But what is that organism, Iz? That’s what I’m dying to know. Aren’t you?”

“No. I’m dying to know when you plan to stop theorizing about pickles and help me make some.”

“Soon, soon!” Tavi said, picking up her magnifying glass again. “I made coffee. Help yourself,” she added.

Isabelle shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to feed Martin and let the chickens out.”

Isabelle walked to the kitchen door, but halfway there, she turned and looked back at her sister, who was still peering through her magnifying glass, and thought, Tavi is so smart. Maybe she can help me figure out what I’m supposed to be searching for.

Isabelle’s hand went to her pocket, she started to hobble back to the table, but then she stopped. Tavi was so logical, so skeptical, she probably wouldn’t believe in Tanaquill. And if she told her about the fairy queen, she’d also have to tell her what she’d wished for and she was ashamed to admit that she’d asked to be pretty. Tavi would scoff. She’d mock.

As if sensing that Isabelle was still there, Tavi looked up from her work. “All right,” she huffed impatiently. “I’ll go.”

“Go where?” Isabelle asked, puzzled.

“To the stables. The chicken coop. That’s what you’re about to ask me to do, isn’t it? Abandon my scientific investigations to do the oh-so-important work of shoveling horse manure?”

“Don’t rush,” Isabelle said, glad she’d decided against telling her about Tanaquill. Sarcasm is the weapon of the wounded, she thought, and Tavi wields it lethally.

As Tavi scribbled figures in a notebook, Isabelle took the egg basket from its hook. Then she grabbed a clasp knife from a shelf, dropped it into her pocket, and left the kitchen. A minute later, she was making her way down the hill to the coop. As she neared the bottom, a fox—green-eyed, her coat a deep russet—darted in front of her. She paused, watching the creature lope across the grass.

In the stories Ella had spun, Tanaquill had sometimes taken the form of a fox. Is that her? Isabelle wondered. Is she watching me? Waiting to see if I carry out her task?

She didn’t have long to wonder. Just as the fox disappeared into some brush, a shriek, high and bloodcurdling, ripped through the air.

There was only one creature who could make such a terrible sound.

“Bertrand the rooster,” Isabelle whispered as she set off running.





Twenty-Nine


The shriek came again.

That fox is no fairy queen, Isabelle thought. It’s a chicken thief. And it sounds like another one is still in the coop.

She, Tavi, and Maman depended on their hens for eggs. Losing even one would be disastrous.

Isabelle kept running, as fast as she could, heedless of the pain her bad foot caused her.

“Hang on, Bertrand!” she cried. “I’m coming!”

The rooster was a fierce creature with sharp, curved spurs on his legs. He’d chased Isabelle up a tree many times. But he was no match for a fox.

Or a wolf, she thought. Her blood ran cold at the very idea. She’d been so frightened for Bertrand and the hens, she’d hurried to the coop without grabbing so much as a stick to defend the henhouse, or herself.

As she ran past the stables now, flushed and panting, her eyes fell on the coop. She saw that the door was open and hanging off its hinges.

She also saw that it was no fox that was stealing her chickens, no wolf.

It was a man—dirty, thin, and desperate.





Thirty


The man was holding a cloth sack. It was moving and clucking. On the ground near the coop lay Bertrand, his neck broken.

Anger shoved Isabelle’s fear aside. “What have you done to my rooster?” she shouted. “Put those chickens down!”

“Ah, forgive me, mademoiselle!” the man said with an oily smile. “The house is shuttered. I had no idea anyone lived here.”

“Now you do. So leave,” Isabelle demanded, gesturing to the road.

The man chuckled. He stepped out of the coop. His eyes swept up and down Isabelle, lingering on her hips, her breasts.

The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.

This time, the words in Isabelle’s head were not Alexander the Great’s, as they had been when she faced down Cecile, but Sun Tzu’s—a Chinese general who’d lived over two thousand years ago.

She put the words to good use. While the man ogled her, she eyed him back and determined that he was unarmed. No sword hung from his waist, no dagger protruded from his boot. She also saw that she’d left a pitchfork leaning against a tree, a few yards behind him. All she had to do was get to it.

His gaze shifted from her to her house. “Why are you out here all alone? Where’s your father? Your brothers?”

Isabelle knew better than to answer that question. “Those chickens are all my family has. If you take them, we’ll starve,” she said, trying to appeal to his better nature.