Stepsister(42)

With that, he put his bag down again and knelt by Isabelle. Then he lifted the hem of her skirt and pulled her stocking off.

“Hey!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

Felix held her heel in his hand. “My God,” he said, his voice catching.

Isabelle was horrified. The scar was livid and raw; part of it was split open and dripping blood. She tried to pull free of his grip, but he was too strong.

“Let go!” she cried, trying to cover her foot with her skirt.

“It’s bleeding. I have bandages and medicine. I’m always cutting myself.”

“I don’t care!”

“Let me fix it.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because … because it’s mortifying!”

Felix sat back on his haunches. “I’ve seen your feet before, Isabelle,” he said gently. “We used to wade in the stream together. Remember?”

Isabelle clenched her fists. It wasn’t embarrassment over her bare feet that was bothering her. It was that Felix saw more than her feet; he saw inside of her. He’d always been able to do that. And she felt scaldingly vulnerable under his gaze.

“Just let go!”

“No. You got dirt in the wound,” Felix said, setting her heel down. “If we don’t do something, it’ll get infected. And then you’ll have to cut off your entire leg. I don’t think even you could manage that.”

Isabelle slumped down, defeated. She’d forgotten how stubborn he could be. Felix walked to a nearby tree and picked up the leather satchel and canteen of water that were lying at the base of it, then carried them back to Isabelle.

He opened the canteen and doused the wound. Then he unbuckled his satchel and dumped out its contents. Chisels came spilling out. Pencils. Carving knives. A rasp. Rulers.

And a tiny soldier, about two inches high.

Isabelle picked it up. “Did you make this?” she asked, glad to have something to talk about other than the mess she’d made of her foot. And her life.

“I carve them in my room at night,” Felix said. “I’ve made a small army complete with rifle companies, fusiliers, grenadiers, their commanders … It’s almost complete. I just have a few officers to carve.”

“What are you going to do with them all?” Isabelle asked.

“Sell them. To a nobleman for his sons to play with. A wealthy banker or merchant. Whoever can pay my price.”

Isabelle regarded the little soldier closely. “He’s incredible, Felix,” she marveled. Beautifully carved and intricately painted, he was so lifelike that she could see the buttons on his coat, the trigger on his rifle, and the determination in his eyes.

“It makes a change from building coffins,” Felix said ruefully. “I sometimes think we’ll need to cut down every tree in France to make enough to bury all the dead.”

Isabelle put the soldier down. “Is it that bad?” she asked quietly.

Felix nodded.

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“I don’t know, Isabelle.”

Some boys would have told her a happy story about how the king’s forces would win, of course they would, so as not to upset her feminine sensibilities. Not Felix. He had never sugarcoated things. She’d always loved that about him.

At least that hasn’t changed between us, she thought wistfully. Even if everything else has.

He continued to sift through his things until he finally found what he was after—a folded wad of clean linen strips and a small glass vial. He tipped a few drops of the vial’s contents onto Isabelle’s wound. It burned. She howled. He paid her no attention and carefully bandaged the wound.

“You’re welcome,” he said when he’d finished. Then he pulled the boot and stocking off her other foot.

“Felix,” Isabelle said. “You can’t just go around peeling girls’ stockings off. It’s inappropriate.”

Felix snorted. “I don’t find feet very exciting. Especially not sweaty ones. And anyway, I don’t go around peeling girls’ stockings off. Only yours.”

He pulled her legs straight and placed her feet together, side by side, heels on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Maybe something, maybe nothing,” he said, taking measurements, then jotting them down on a scrap of paper with a nub of pencil.

When he was done, he put her stockings and boots back on. Then he stood and said that the marquis was a kind employer but an impatient one, and that he’d better get back to work. Isabelle stood, too, and convinced him that she was fine to ride home. Together they walked over to Martin.

“Hello, you old bastard. Miss me?” Felix said to the horse.

Martin lifted his head. Pricked up his ears. And bit him. Felix laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, patting the horse’s neck.

Isabelle noticed that his eyes had become shiny. Old horses still make him cry. That hasn’t changed, either, she thought. Or made it any easier to hate him.

She climbed into her saddle once again and took up Martin’s reins. “Thank you, Felix. For fixing me up,” she said.

Felix, scratching Martin’s ears now, didn’t respond right away. “Loved,” he said at length.

“What?” Isabelle asked, sliding her feet into her stirrups.