Stepsister(45)

Isabelle was out instantly. As she drowsed, she dreamt of many things. Of Tanaquill. The marquis. The magician dangling from her silk noose. A monkey in pearls. Felix.

And Ella.

She was here again, in the Maison Douleur. She was standing at the hearth, wearing a threadbare dress. Her face and hands were smudged with cinders. Isabelle was so happy to see her, but Ella wasn’t happy. She was pacing back and forth fearfully.

“Wake up, Isabelle,” she said urgently. “You need to leave.”

A fire was burning in the hearth, and as she spoke, it grew. Its flames curled around the sides of the hearth and up to the mantel. Isabelle coughed. It hurt to breathe. Her eyes stung. Smoke, thick and choking, billowed through the air. Tongues of flame licked the walls and ceiling. The room began to blacken and curled at its edges, as if it were not a real room at all, only a picture.

“Isabelle, wake up!”

“I am awake, Ella!” Isabelle cried, turning in frantic circles. The flames were devouring everything in their path. An oil lamp exploded. Windowpanes shattered. The curtains ignited with a thunderous whoosh.

“Go, Isabelle! Hurry!” Ella shouted. “Save them!”

And then Isabelle watched, horrified, as the flames engulfed her stepsister, too.

“Ella, no!” she screamed, so loudly that she woke herself up. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She could still feel the heat of the fire, hear wooden tables and chairs crackling in the flames. It was hard to see; her vision was blurry from sleep. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hand, trying to clear them.

“It was so real,” she whispered.

She stood. The floor was hot beneath her bare feet. Her eyes were stinging. With a sickening jolt of fear, she realized it wasn’t sleep that had blurred her vision; it was smoke.

The fire … it wasn’t a dream. It was real. Dear God, it was real.

Terror sent her flying across the room. “Maman! Tavi!” she screamed, wrenching open her door. “Get up! Run! Run! The house is on fire!”





Forty-Nine


“Isabelle?” Tavi murmured. “What is it? What’s—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence.

“Fire!” Isabelle shouted, pulling her bodily out of her bed. “Get out! Go!”

She ran out of Tavi’s room and down the long hallway that led to her mother’s chamber.

“Maman! MAMAN!” she called, bursting through her doors.

Maman was not asleep. She was seated at her vanity table, trying on a necklace.

“Stop shouting, Isabelle. It’s unladylike,” she scolded.

“The house is burning. We have to go,” Isabelle said, grabbing her mother’s hand.

Maman wrenched it free. “I can’t go out like this. I’m not dressed properly.”

Isabelle took her mother by the wrist and half cajoled, half dragged her down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, they met Tavi. Her arms were full of books. She was gazing down the stairwell at the conflagration below, paralyzed by fear.

“It’s all right, we can make it,” Isabelle said. “Look at the door, Tavi. Not the flames.”

Tavi nodded woodenly, then followed Isabelle as she started down the steps. Windows shattered in the heat. Air ran into the house through the broken panes, feeding the fire, bellowing flames into the foyer. The three women had to cross it to get to the front door, and safety.

“We can do it. Stay close,” Isabelle said.

“I don’t want to go outside!” Maman protested. “My hair’s a fright!”

“It’ll look far worse burnt to a crisp!” Isabelle shot back, tightening her grip.

Isabelle continued down the curving staircase, pulling Maman behind her, forcing Tavi to keep up. By the time she got to the foyer, the flames were halfway across it.

“What do we do?” Tavi shouted.

“We run,” Isabelle replied. “Go, Tavi. You first.”

Head down, Tavi bolted across the floor. Isabelle heaved a sigh of relief as she watched her disappear through the front door. Now it was her turn. She tightened her grip on her mother’s wrist and took a few steps across the floor.

As she did, a gust of wind blowing through a shattered window billowed a burning drapery panel at them. Isabelle instinctively raised her hands to protect herself against it, letting go of her mother.

Maman saw her chance. With an animal cry, she shot back up the stairs.

“Maman, no!” Isabelle shouted, darting after her.

She found her back in her room, frantically brushing her hair. Isabelle tore the brush away from her. “Look at me!” she said, taking her mother’s hands in her own, forcing Maman to meet her eyes. “The fire is destroying the mansion. You must come with me.”

Maman stood. She raked her hands through her hair. “What will I wear? What, Isabelle? Tell me!” She picked up a gown off the floor, and a pair of shoes, and clutched them to her chest. Then she lifted her heavy mirror off its hook on the wall. The gown and shoes fell to the floor as she did. “No!” she cried, snatching at them. She lost her grip on the mirror. It toppled forward, pinning her to the floor.

“Stop this!” Isabelle pleaded, pushing the mirror off her.

But Maman would not. She abandoned her finery but took hold of the mirror once more and carried it out of her room. She made it to the landing before dropping it again. It fell to the floor with a loud, echoing boom. Weeping, she sat down next to it.