Stepsister(40)

The diva gasped. “I thought it was gone forever!” she exclaimed, hugging Isabelle. “Thank you!” She fastened the pearls around her neck, then patted them. “The marquis himself gave these to me. I’m sure he’d like to thank you, too. Go to him, won’t you? I believe he’s down in the clearing with the carpenter.”

Isabelle's gaze swept over the lawn, down the hill, to the stage. It looked like a long walk and her foot was aching. “Would it be all right if I rode him across the clearing?” she asked, nodding at Martin.

“Of course!” said the diva. “And, Isabelle?”

Isabelle hoisted herself into the saddle, then turned around. “Yes?”

“You’ll come back, won’t you? To see our play when it’s done?”

“I would love to,” Isabelle said shyly.

“Splendid! We’ll send you an invitation. Goodbye!” said the diva, waving her off.

“Goodbye,” Isabelle said. She clucked her tongue at Martin and headed across the lawn.

The diva watched Isabelle go, her smile fading. She was joined by the magician and the actress. The three stood in silence, brows furrowed. Nelson lowered himself from a tree branch to the diva’s shoulder.

“Are you certain you found the right one?” the diva finally said.

The magician nodded. “I’m positive. It took me three days to track him. Over hill and dale. Through four other villages. Turned out he was right under my nose the whole time.”

“Boy hunting. Your favorite sport,” the actress said tartly.

The magician’s full lips curved into a wicked smile. “They do smell delicious.”

“Fate knows what we know,” the diva said. “Chance has to stay one move ahead of her. This better work.”

“Yes. It better,” Chance said, coming up behind them. “I just looked at her map …”

The magician turned to him, worry flashing in her eyes. “Her death date …” she said.

“The skull …” said the diva at the same time.

Chance nodded grimly. “It just turned two shades darker.”





Forty-Four


Martin plodded his way across the clearing, pausing now and again to rip up a mouthful of grass or take a bite out of a shrub.

“Can you behave?” Isabelle scolded, tugging on his reins. “Just for once?”

As they drew closer to the theater, Isabelle looked at the framing. She could see that it was going to be a small but gracefully built structure, complete with apron, wings, and an arch.

The carpenter, she noticed, was still up on his ladder, hammering away. He was slender and tall and wore his thick brown hair tied back. His white shirt was soaked with sweat; his blue trousers flecked with wood shavings. Eager to find the marquis, she glanced around the theater, at the piles of lumber in front of it, the workbench littered with saws and drills, but she didn’t see him.

He’s not here; he can’t be, she reasoned. He’s too colorful, too boisterous, to overlook.

Her gaze drifted back to the carpenter. There was something familiar about the slope of his shoulders and the easy way he stood on the ladder, lost in his work, careless of the danger. For a moment, she was certain she knew him, but then she shook her head at the very notion. Maman had never allowed her to speak to workmen.

She decided to speak to this one, though, in case he knew where the marquis was.

She had just leaned forward to call out to him when disaster struck. An enormous raven swooped down out of a tree and struck at Martin, beating its wings in his face, raking its sharp talons across his nose.

Martin shied, terrified, but the bird kept at him. He gave a shrill whinny, spun around and bucked, trying to kick the bird away. Isabelle lost her balance and pitched headfirst out of the saddle. Her boot caught in the stirrup as she fell and was pulled off, ripping her stocking and opening her wound. She landed facedown on the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Martin trotted off towards the trees, still kicking at the bird.

For a few seconds, everything went white. But then her senses came back and, with them, the pain. It was exquisite, but she was glad of it. She knew that it was only when you couldn’t feel anything, like your legs, that you were in trouble.

Groaning, she rolled over onto her back. A moment later, she opened her eyes and was startled to see a face peering down at her. Though it was blurry and distorted, it looked like a boy’s face.

Or maybe, she thought, I’m dead and it’s a saint’s face. Like the ones in the village church with their high, carved cheekbones and sad, painted eyes. Or maybe it’s an angel’s face. Yes, that’s it. An angel’s face, tragic and kind.

“Am I dead, angel?” she asked, closing her eyes again.

“No. And I’m not an angel.”

“Saint?”

“No.”

“Boy?”

“Yes.

There was a pause, and then the boy said, “People lose toes all the time, you know. Arms and legs. Eyes and ears. It’s no reason to kill yourself. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Trying to kill yourself?”

Who are you, boy? Isabelle wondered. But he didn’t give her the chance to ask.

“You’re lucky your foot came free of the stirrup,” he continued. “You could’ve been dragged. Broken a leg. Or your neck. Martin’s a horrible animal. Why aren’t you riding Nero? He would have chomped that bird in two.”