Stepsister(38)

Then the old woman looked at Isabelle. Her eyes, set deep in her wrinkled face, blazed. Her nostrils flared.

“Oh, dear,” Isabelle whispered, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh no.”

It was Sister Claire, the head of the convent, the ancient and venerable mother superior, and she was furious.





Forty-Two


The iron gate slammed shut behind Isabelle with a loud, ringing clang.

Shamefaced, she looked back through the iron bars. “I’m so sorry,” she said miserably.

“Never, ever let me see you anywhere near this orphanage again!” Sister Bernadette shrilled, wagging a finger at Isabelle from the other side of the gate. “The mother superior’s fifty-year vow of silence broken … fifty years! All because of you!”

The nun turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving Isabelle by herself. Still cringing, she hobbled to her cart and climbed up to the seat. Martin looked back at her over his shoulder.

“Don’t even ask,” Isabelle said to him.

She wanted to get home desperately, but she was so overcome with regret for what she’d done that she leaned over, put her head in her hands, and groaned. Her mind replayed every dreadful second of what had happened after she’d hit the mother superior in the chest with an egg.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” the old woman had shrieked. “Throwing eggs at children! Making poor orphans cry! Wasting desperately needed food while a war rages! Never, in all my days, have I witnessed such egregious behavior. I didn’t want to believe what I’d heard—I closed my ears to the gossip—but you, Isabelle de la Paumé, are every bit as awful as everyone says you are!”

As she had been shouting at Isabelle, two nuns that had followed her into the courtyard had been frantically gesturing at her. One had held a trembling finger to her lips. The other had shook her head, saucer-eyed. “Sister, your vow!” she’d said.

To show her piety and devotion, Sister Claire had made a solemn oath of silence five decades ago. Through superhuman effort, she had kept the vow, never uttering a word, communicating with the other nuns through writing only. When she’d realized what she’d done, the old woman had clapped a hand over her mouth and fainted on the spot.

“I-I think she’s dead!” Sister Bernadette had cried.

The minute they heard that, the children—every single one of them—had started wailing in earnest. Alarmed by their noise, a dozen nuns had come running. One had had the presence of mind to sit Sister Claire up and chafe her wrists. A moment later, the old woman had come to. That’s when Sister Bernadette had ushered Isabelle out.

“Oh, Martin,” Isabelle said, now sitting up. “I threw eggs at children. Ten-year-olds. Eight-year-olds. I think one was five.”

She thrust her hand into her skirt pocket, feeling for the bone, the nutshell, and the seedpod. They were still there but felt more like curses now than gifts. Throwing eggs at orphans was no way to earn the fairy queen’s help. She fervently hoped that Tanaquill would not find out about it.

Isabelle made her way home as quickly as she could. Luckily, she met no one else on the road. As soon as she pulled up to the stables, she untacked Martin, brushed him, and left him loose outside to graze. Then she held her head under the pump at the water trough to rinse the egg off.

A few minutes later, she strode into the kitchen, her hair sopping wet, her face red from the cold water, her clothing a filthy mess.

Tavi was stirring a bubbling pot of plum jam. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw her sister. “Looks like charitable pursuits aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” she said.

Isabelle held up a hand. “Don’t.”

“Where’s our basket? Did someone poach it?”

“Just …”

“Now I’ll have to scramble to find another one.”

“… stop!” Isabelle yelled, covering her ears. She hurried out of the kitchen and went upstairs to change her clothing.

It was a relief to step out of her dress, which was as stiff as meringue. She poured water from the pitcher on her bureau into a basin, wet a cloth, and removed the last traces of egg from her neck. A few minutes later, she was standing in the hallway, doing up the top buttons on a clean dress. As she walked towards the stairs, a voice from behind her said, “Where have you been, Isabelle?”

Isabelle’s heart sank. Not now, Maman, she thought. She still had Martin to deal with and the day’s long list of chores. She did not have time to persuade her mother that there was no ball, dinner, or garden party to ready themselves for.

Tavi had just come up the stairs carrying a tray with a cup of tea on it for their mother. “She went walking,” she said, taking Maman by the arm and leading her back to her room.

“Really, Octavia?” Maman trilled, pressing a hand to her chest. “With whom? A chevalier? A viscount?”

“No, the Duke of Egg-ceter!” Tavi said, winking at Isabelle over her shoulder.

Isabelle scowled, but she was grateful to Tavi for distracting Maman. It allowed her to slip down the stairs and out of the house without any further questions.

Martin needed to be put in the pasture. She made her way back to the stables, got his halter, and walked over to him.

“Well, Martin, I’m clean. You’re brushed. That’s something,” she said. “Perhaps the rest of the day will be peaceful and quiet.” She gave him a wry smile. “After the morning’s disaster, what else could possibly go wrong?”