Stepsister(37)

Tanaquill said that Ella hadn’t had to search for the pieces of her heart. Because she never lost them, Isabelle thought, as she lay in bed last night. Ella was always good, kind, and charitable. Maybe Tanaquill wants me to be those things, too.

“Izzy, I was serious when I said not to ride any more. Have you been?”

Isabelle, who was leaning forward gathering Martin’s reins, sat up and looked at her sister. “You still think this is all because I hit my head?”

“I think this is all very strange,” Tavi said, carrying her plums into the kitchen.

Isabelle watched her go. “I haven’t lost my mind. Things will get easier, you’ll see,” she said quietly. “Things are always easier for pretty girls. People hold doors for you. Children pick flowers for you. Butchers hand you a free slice of salami, just for the pleasure of watching you eat it.”

And then she snapped Martin’s reins and set off.





Forty-One


Isabelle found the orphanage, tucked down a narrow road behind the church, without any trouble.

It was run by nuns and housed in their convent. An iron fence enclosed the building and its grounds, but the gate wasn’t locked. Isabelle pushed it open and walked inside, carrying her egg basket.

Children dressed in rough gray clothing were playing games in a grassy courtyard. A sweet-faced boy approached her. A few of his friends followed him.

“Here, little boy,” Isabelle said. “I brought some eggs for you.”

The boy took a few hesitant steps towards her. “My name’s Henri,” he said, giving her a close look. “And yours is Isabelle.”

“How did you guess?” Isabelle asked, kneeling down and smiling.

“I didn’t. Sister Bernadette pointed at you when she took us to the market. She said we mustn’t ever be like you. You’re one of the queen’s ugly stepsisters. You’re awful and mean.”

Isabelle’s smile curdled. Two of the little girls who’d trailed the boy stepped forward. They started to sing.

Stepsister, stepsister!

Ugly as an old blister!

Make her drink some turpentine!

Then hang her with a melon vine!



Before Isabelle even knew what was happening, the children had all joined hands and were dancing around her like imps, singing:

Stepsister, stepsister,

Mother says the devil kissed her!

Make her swallow five peach pits,

Then cut her up in little bits!



They let go of each other’s hands when they finished their song and backed away giggling.

Isabelle decided to leave before they were inspired to sing another verse. “Here, take them,” she said, thrusting the basket out to Henri. “They’re nice fresh eggs.”

“I don’t want them. Not from you,” said Henri.

Isabelle felt a current of anger move through her, but she clamped down on it.

“I’m going to leave the basket here,” she said. “Maybe one of you can take it inside.”

Henri gave her a sullen shrug. He looked at the basket of eggs, then turned to his friend. “Do it, Sébastien,” he said.

“You do it, Henri,” said Sébastien. Henri turned to a little girl. “émilie, you do it.”

Isabelle gave up. They could argue about who was going to carry the basket inside without her.

But that’s not what the children were arguing about.

Isabelle had only taken a few steps when she felt a pain, sudden and shocking, right between her shoulder blades. The force of the blow sent her stumbling forward. She caught herself and spun around.

The children were laughing gleefully. Isabelle reached behind over her shoulder and touched the back of her dress. Her palm came away covered in yellow slime.

“Which one of you threw the egg?” she demanded.

No one answered her, but Henri sauntered up to the basket, picked up another egg and, before Isabelle could stop him, launched it straight at her head. His aim was excellent. It hit her right between the eyes.

Isabelle gasped. “Why, you … you little troll!” she shouted as egg ran down her face.

That was all the others needed to hear. They converged on the basket, grabbed eggs, and pelted her with them as hard as they could.

Isabelle should have run straight out of the courtyard and back to her cart. But Isabelle was not one to turn tail. She lunged for the basket, grabbed an egg, and threw it at Henri. Her aim was not as good as his, for she was still blinking egg out of her eyes. The egg went wide and hit little Sébastien instead, right in the back of his head. He tripped, fell down in the grass, and started to howl.

Isabelle threw another egg and pegged Henri in the shoulder. As she grabbed a third from the basket, three more hit her—one in the face. She lobbed the one she was holding just to get rid of it, so she could wipe her eyes again. Though she couldn’t see where it landed, she heard it hit with a loud, wet splat.

“Great God in Heaven, what is going on here?” a voice shrilled.

Isabelle blinked; she opened her eyes all the way and discovered that it was not a child that her egg had hit, but an old woman who was dressed all in white and wearing a rosary around her neck.

Isabelle watched in horror as eggshell slid down the front of her spotless habit, then fell to the ground. Globs of yolk dripped onto the toes of her shoes. The old woman looked at the mess on her clothing. She looked at the children around her, at Henri, rubbing his shoulder, at émilie, staring at her stained pinafore and sobbing piteously, at little Sébastien, sitting up in the grass now, wailing, “Isabelle, the ugly stepsister … she a-a-attacked us!”