Stepsister(33)

As she continued her stroll, her eyes fell on Isabelle’s map.

“Don’t even think about it,” Chance said. “You won’t make it to the door.”

Fate clucked her tongue. “I hope you haven’t made a mess of my work,” she said, running her gnarled fingers over Isabelle’s path.

As her hand neared the end of the path, it stopped short, as if it had hit an obstacle. Fate’s mouth twitched. Her gaze sharpened. And then, as if remembering that eyes were upon her, she quickly rearranged her expression back to one of bemused coolness.

Did I imagine it? Chance wondered. The cook was standing on the other side of Fate. He gave Chance a quick, barely perceptible nod. He saw it, too, Chance thought. What does it mean?

“Why do you even bother?” Fate asked airily, turning to Chance. “You’ve brewed up a new batch of inks, but I doubt they’re any match for mine. What I draw cannot be changed. Not by you.”

“But they can change it,” Chance said. “With a bit of luck, mortals can do incredible things.”

Fate gave him a patronizing smile. “And some do. But one needs determination to change one’s fate. Courage. Strength. Things most mortals grievously lack. One needs to be exceptional, and the girl Isabelle, most assuredly, is not.”

“She has courage and strength. A tremendous will, too,” Chance countered. “She just needs to find them again.”

Fate’s smile turned brittle. “As usual, you are meddling where you should not. Let the girl enjoy what little time she has left. You will break her heart by encouraging her to want things she has no business wanting. Girls die of broken hearts.”

Chance snorted. “Here are the things girls die of: hunger, disease, accidents, childbirth, and violence. It takes more than heartache to kill a girl. Girls are tough as rocks.”

Fate paused, as a cat does before sinking its teeth into a mouse, then said, “But Volkmar is tougher.”

Guilt bled into Chance’s eyes. He turned away, trying to hide it, but Fate had glimpsed it and she circled him for the kill.

“Volkmar certainly changed his fate, didn’t he?” she said. “But he is an exceptional mortal. Exceptionally ruthless. Exceptionally cruel.” She nodded at the map. “It’s his work, that ugly scrawl at the end of Isabelle’s path, as you well know.”

The scientist squinted in confusion. “I don’t understand … Volkmar redrew the girl’s map?”

“Not with quills and inks as I do, but with the sheer force of his will,” Fate replied. “He is so bold, so strong, that he is able to change his fate. And by so doing, he changes the fates of thousands more.”

“So his actions have compelled your inks to redraw his map,” the scientist reasoned. “And the maps of those whose lives he touches.”

“Precisely,” said Fate. “Volkmar wishes to rule the world and begins his cruel campaign in France. One by one, villages and towns will fall to him as he tightens his noose around Paris. Saint-Michel will fall, too, and with such savagery that the young king will have no choice but to surrender. Volkmar will slaughter Isabelle in cold blood. Her sister. Her mother. Their neighbors. Every last person in this poor, forsaken place.”

A gasp rose from several people in the room. The diva uttered a cry.

Fate turned to her, affecting an innocent expression. “Did you not know? Did he not tell you?”

The diva, tears welling, shook her head.

“That is enough, crone,” Chance growled.

But Fate, her gaze still on the diva, ignored him. “Why, my dear, don’t you see?”

“I said stop.”

But Fate did not. Eyes shining with spite, she walked to the diva and took her hands. “That is why your marquis is so desperate to change Isabelle’s fate. Because he himself brought it about!”





Thirty-Eight


It was utterly silent in the grand hall.

Chance stood still, fists clenched, heart seared by shame and regret. No one else moved, either. No one spoke.

Until Fate, circling back to him, said, “I have come, however unwillingly. I accept your stakes. We will play our old game. You know the rules … neither can force the girl’s choice. Or buy it. She may take what is offered or not.”

Chance nodded stiffly. As Fate looked at him, something like sadness darkened her eyes.

“If you loved these mortals, you would leave them—”

“To your tender mercies?” he spat.

“—alone.”

“It’s because I love them that I won’t. They deserve a chance. Some of them never get one. This girl will.”

“But will she take it?” Fate asked.

“Thank you for your visit, but I must get back to work,” Chance said brusquely.

Fate laughed, shaking her head. “She won’t. Humans are what they are—dreamers, madmen, but most of all, fools.”

She let herself out of the Chateau Rigolade and disappeared into the night, but her laughter, harsh and mocking, lingered in Chance’s ears. He slammed the door shut after her and leaned his forehead against it. After a moment, he faced his friends and attempted to explain.

“There was a party …”

The cook shook his head. “There always is.”