Stepsister(34)

“… in a castle in the Black Forest. There was a sumptuous dinner. I drank a good deal of champagne. After dinner, there was a card game. The stakes were high.”

“How high?” the cook asked.

Chance grimaced. “One million gold ducats.”

The cook swore. “You never learn, do you?”

“I didn’t know then who he was … what he was. I didn’t know what he was planning. I never dreamt—” His closed his eyes against the crushing pain he felt. “Once he had the money, he used it to dark advantage. He built up his army, marched on France. Everything he’s done is my fault. I created him.”

Chance lowered his head into his hands. The diva hurried to his side; she squeezed his arm.

“Volkmar created himself,” she said. “He had a choice. He could have used his fortune for good, not ill.”

Chance groaned in despair. He felt so weary. His bones ached. His heart hurt. Everything seemed pointless. All his energy seemed to have drained out of him. “The crone is right,” he said, sagging into a chair. “Mortals are fools. I should walk away. Leave them to their own devices. I mean to help, but too often I wreck things. And people.”

“But you always tell us that one person can make a difference,” the diva countered. “Isabelle might be such a person. If Volkmar can change his fate, and the fates of thousands more, why can’t this girl do the same?”

Chance gave a joyless laugh. “Isabelle can barely walk.”

The diva sat down heavily. Everyone looked leaden and defeated. No one spoke.

Until the magician strode in from the night through a pair of glass doors that opened onto the terrace. She was wearing riding boots, breeches, and a close-cut jacket, all in black. Her lips were rouged. Her color was high. She was holding a dark flower in one hand.

“It took me a while, but I found the night orchid you wanted. For Courage.”

Chance shook his head. “I won’t be needing it any more. My inks don’t work.”

The magician looked from Chance to the others. “What happened? Did somebody die? Why are you all sitting around like mushrooms?” She made a face. “It stinks in here. Like surrender. Failure. And rot.” Her eyes narrowed. “It’s the crone. She’s been here, hasn’t she? Who let her in?”

The cook sheepishly raised his hand.

“Never, ever do it again,” the magician scolded, opening the rest of the terrace doors. “She’s like sulfurous gas from a fumarole. Bad air from an old mine. She poisoned you. Made you think you have to accept things rather than fight to change them.”

She pushed the cakes off the silver tray, opened the neck of Chance’s shirt, and fanned him with it. Then she strode over to the cook and slapped his cheeks.

“Snap out of it!” she ordered. “If the inks don’t work, then we’ll find something that does.”

A breeze blew through the open doors, freshening the room. Chance blinked, then looked around as if he were waking from a deep sleep. A little spirit trickled back into him.

“There was something on the map. Something—” he started to say.

The cook snapped his fingers. “Something that bothered the crone. I caught that, too. If it’s not good for her, it’s very good for us.”

Chance was back at the table in a flash with the cook right behind him. He put his glasses back on, then trailed his finger over Isabelle’s path, searching for whatever it was that had rattled Fate.

He moved past the day Isabelle cut her toes off, past Ella leaving, to where Volkmar’s brutal line started, and beyond, to where it finished, and then he went back and retraced the line, but he didn’t see anything he hadn’t seen before. Even with the glasses, he couldn't see as clearly as the Fates.

And then he did see something.

It was faintly etched. But it was there. A detour. Newly made. “Yes!” he shouted, clapping his hands together.

“What is it? Speak, man!” the cook said.

Chance ripped his spectacles off and handed them to him. The cook put them, squinted at the map, then grinned. “Ha!” he cried. “No wonder the crone’s face looked like a bucket of sour milk! That path—”

“Isn’t Fate’s work, or Volkmar’s … it’s hers. Isabelle’s. Her actions redrew her path,” Chance finished, his eyes dancing. “I was right. She can change. She will change. We’re going to win this game. We’re going to beat the Fates.”

“Easy. It’s only a start. Let’s not get cocky,” the cook cautioned.

“It’s more than a start,” Chance insisted. “Did you see where it led?”

The cook peered at the map again. “It looks like a tree … an old linden …” He took the glasses off. “Bloody hell,” he said, turning back to Chance. “Do you know who that is?”

“Tanaquill,” Chance said.

“The fairy queen?” the magician asked, joining the two men. “Chance, she’s—”

“Very, very powerful,” Chance cut in.

“Actually, I was thinking murderous,” said the magician.

“Did Isabelle summon her?” the cook wondered aloud. “For what purpose?”

“I doubt it was to invite her to tea,” said the magician, with a shiver.