Stepsister(28)

She parried every thrust and jab the deserter made, and managed to land another blow herself, swiping a bloody stripe across his thigh. Cursing, he scuttled back, away from the tree, pressing on his wound. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle saw Tavi trying to get around them, to get to the pitchfork.

No, Tavi, no! she silently shouted.

But it was too late. The man saw her, too, and went after her.

“Run, Tavi!” Isabelle screamed, breaking from the cover of the tree to chase after him.

He heard her and pivoted. Now he had her out in the open. With a roar, he ran at her, swinging for her head.

“No!” Tavi screamed.

Isabelle caught his blade with her own. The crash of steel sent shock waves down her arms.

Using all her strength, she managed to turn his blade, stumble away from him, and open a few feet of distance between them. The man wiped sweat from his face, then charged her again. He feinted left, then lunged right. Isabelle jumped back, but caught her heel on a jutting rock and fell. Instinctively, she rolled to her right as she hit the ground. Sparks flew as her attacker’s sword struck the rock.

As Isabelle staggered to her feet, the man raised his sword once more. Winded, the muscles in her arms screaming with exertion, Isabelle lifted her weapon high to block him again, but he was stronger and sure-footed, and she knew that this time, the force of the blow would knock her sword right out of her hands. She would be defenseless when that happened, completely at his mercy. She braced herself for the worst.

But just as the man swung at her, a gunshot ripped through the air. Isabelle dropped into a crouch, her heart hammering. The blade whooshed over her head harmlessly; the sword fell to the ground.

Where did the shot come from? she wondered wildly.

She looked up at her assailant. He was holding his sword hand up. Blood was running down his palm. Two of his fingers were gone. He wasn’t looking at Isabelle, but at something, or someone, behind her. His eyes were huge.

“I’m leaving. I—I swear,” he stammered. “Please … let me take my things.” He raised his wounded hand in surrender and picked up his sword with his other one. Backing away step by step, he scooped up his belongings and ran.

Isabelle put her weapon down and her hands up. A sword was no match for a gun. Chest heaving, she stood, then slowly turned around, certain that another deserter had come up behind her and was pointing the pistol straight at her head.

Or maybe a burglar. A brigand. A cold-blooded highwayman.

Never, for a second, did she expect to see a monkey wearing pearls.





Thirty-Two


It took Isabelle a full minute to believe what her eyes were telling her.

A small black monkey with a ruff of white around his face was sitting a yard away from her. A rope of pearls circled his neck. He was brandishing a small silver pistol.

As she stared at him, he hammered the pistol on the ground, peered down the barrel, then scampered off around the side of the stables, still holding the firearm.

Isabelle pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart.

“Tavi!” she called out. “Be careful!” She took a hesitant step forward. “There’s a monkey … he—he has a gun …”

“I see him!” Tavi called out, rushing to Isabelle’s side. She’d got hold of the pitchfork and was clutching it for dear life.

Isabelle’s foot was throbbing, but she limped after the monkey nonetheless, worried that he might shoot himself with the pistol, or Tavi, or her.

“Monkey? Little monkey, are you there?” she called out, following the creature’s path.

The monkey ran out screeching from a water trough, bolted across the drive, and made a beeline for a birch tree. A woman, her hair swept up with jeweled combs, her bosom rising up out of her sprigged gown like brioche, was standing at the base of the tree, looking up into its branches. She turned as she heard the monkey’s screech.

“There you are, Nelson! Give me the pistol! You’ll kill someone!” she scolded. The monkey darted around her and climbed up the trunk. Three more monkeys were already in the tree. The four made a game out of tossing the pistol back and forth while the woman stood below, shaking her fist at them.

Isabelle blinked. I’m hallucinating. I must be, she told herself. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again. The woman was still there.

“Are you seeing this, too?” she asked her sister.

Tavi nodded, speechless.

Isabelle approached the woman carefully, hoping she wasn’t here to steal chickens too. She didn’t think she had another sword fight in her.

“Madame, pardon me, but what are you doing in our stableyard? With a monkey?” she asked. “How did you get here?”

“How do you think?” the woman called over her shoulder, hooking her thumb behind her. “How else does one convey oneself to a godforsaken backwater in the middle of nowhere?”

Isabelle’s eyes followed the direction of her gesture. Her mouth dropped open. There, standing a little way down the drive, but with a clear view of the chicken coop, was the most magnificent carriage she had ever seen.





Thirty-Three


In front of the enormous, painted coach, four dapple gray horses stood, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves.

Up high in the driver’s seat sat a man wearing a jade-green jacket and pink trousers. A teardrop-shaped pearl dangled from one ear. He nodded at Isabelle and Tavi.