Stepsister(32)

“Rose,” William corrected. “It’s hard to look at mortal life any other way. View it through clear lenses and it breaks your heart.”

Chance put the eyeglasses on, hooking the curved ends behind his ears. As he gazed at the map through them, he caught his breath. The entire parchment looked like the pages of the clever little books paper cutters made for children in which everything popped up.

No one, certainly no mortal and not even Chance himself, possessed the Fates’ sharpness of vision. They drew with such painstaking detail that most of their art was impossible to see with the naked eye. Chance had stolen many maps from the three sisters, but never before had he been able to view their work so clearly.

All along Isabelle’s path, the moments of her life stood out in vibrant three-dimensional scenes. He saw her as a child, fencing with a boy. He saw her standing in front of a mirror in a fancy dress with tears in her eyes. And he saw her at the village market, just a few days ago, arguing with the baker’s wife.

“You’re a genius,” he whispered.

The scientist smiled, pleased.

But Chance did not return the smile. His pleasure in the power of his new eyeglasses to show Isabelle’s past so clearly was tempered by the knowledge that they would also reveal the details of her future. He already knew what lay at the end of her path, for he’d seen it when he was in the Fates’ palazzo, but he didn’t know exactly when it would occur.

He might have weeks to prevent it, even months. Then again, he might have only days.

His eyes darted to the bottom of the map, seeking the answer to his question. The legend was there. It explained that an inch equaled a year and gave Isabelle’s birth date.

The Fates’ seal was there, too. The crone put one on every mortal’s map when she completed it by dripping melted red wax onto the bottom of the parchment and pressing her skull ring into it. The resulting impression was a death date, for the closer a mortal came to the end of her path, the darker the skull turned, deepening from blood red to black.

The skull on Isabelle’s map was a somber burgundy, streaked with gray.

“She has only weeks left. Weeks,” Chance said. He pressed a shaky hand to his head. “How the devil am I going to undo this?” he muttered.

He snatched his quill off the table, dipped it in Defiance, and started to draw Isabelle a new path, one that led away from her terrible fate. The ink shimmered brightly on the parchment.

“Ha! Defiance, indeed!” he crowed, encouraged.

But an instant later, the ink started to fade and then disappeared completely; the parchment had sucked it in like desert sands absorbing rain.

Chance took another tack. He dipped the quill into Defiance again and tried to cross out what lay at the end of Isabelle’s path, but no matter how much ink he scribbled, stippled, hatched, and dripped onto the parchment, Isabelle’s fate still showed through, like a corpse bobbing to the surface of a lake.

Swearing, Chance threw the quill down. He took his glasses off and put them on the table. This was a disaster. His inks weren’t strong enough to draw so much as a detour, never mind counter the violent reds and slashing blacks that had been put there not by the Fates, but by one whose power to change paths was growing stronger by the day.

The scientist looked up from his work. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Chance was about to reply when a loud, insistent pounding at the door stopped him. It echoed through the chateau, shaking the furniture and rattling the windows.

The cook, who had just walked into the dining room from the kitchens, set down the silver tray of pretty cakes he was carrying. He hurried out of the dining room, through the chateau’s grand foyer, to a window at the side of the door. “Destiny calls,” he shouted back to the others, glancing out of it.

The sword-swallower held up his hands. “Everyone stop talking!” he whisper-shouted. “Maybe she’ll go away!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She knows we’re here,” said the diva. “The whole village does. We don’t exactly blend in.”

The knock came again. Chance groaned with frustration. A visit from the crone was the last thing he needed.

“Open the door,” he finally said. “Let her in. But keep an eye on the map, all of you.”





Thirty-Seven


“My dear marquis,” said Fate as she walked into the hall, a raven on her shoulder. “What a handsome home. And what …” She paused, walked over to the table and examined the distilling apparatus. “… interesting furnishings. Making gin, perhaps? Perfume?” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Or, possibly, ink?”

Chance gave her a curt bow. “My dear madame,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Why, neighborliness, of course,” Fate replied. “We are dwelling in the same village, are we not? We must keep relations cordial.”

She slowly strolled around the enormous hall, taking it in. As she did, the members of Chance’s entourage stopped what they were doing and eyed her, intrigued.

“This is a magnificent chateau,” she said enviously. “I wish my accommodations were half as nice.”

“Are you not staying at the village inn?” Chance asked.

“I was, but now I’m staying with …” She smiled, inclining her head. “Some long-lost relatives.”