Stepsister(5)

Now, standing only a few feet away from him, she could see that his eyes were the blue of a summer sky, and that his blond hair—worn long and loose and tumbling over his shoulders—was shot through with streaks of pure gold. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His color was high.

Gazing at him, Isabelle forgot her wound, her pain, her own name. She was stunned speechless. He was that handsome.

The prince was silent, too. He was staring at Isabelle intently, his eyes taking in every plane and angle of her face.

“Ah, do you see that? He recognizes his own true love!” Maman purred.

Isabelle shrank at her mother’s lie. Everyone at the ball had worn masks that covered the tops of their faces. She knew what the prince was doing—he was searching the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw, and the tilt of her chin for traces of the girl he’d fallen in love with.

But that girl wasn’t there.





Five


Isabelle and the prince continued to stare at each other. Awkwardly. Silently. Until Maman took charge.

“Your Grace,” she said, pulling Isabelle down into a curtsy with her. “My younger daughter is the one you are seeking. The glass slipper fits her perfectly.”

“I hope you are certain of this, madame,” the grand vizier cautioned. “The prince will not look kindly on a second attempt to deceive him.”

Maman bowed her head. “Please forgive Octavia,” she said to the prince. “She is not a dishonest girl. Her only fault is that she was overwhelmed by love for you. What girl wouldn’t be?”

The prince blushed at that. The grand duke did not. “May we see the slipper?” he asked impatiently.

Isabelle and Maman rose. Dread knotted Isabelle’s stomach as she lifted the hem of her dress. All eyes went to her foot. To her immense relief, there was no blood. The stocking was as white as snow and the cotton Adélie had stuffed into it filled out the toe. The glass slipper itself sparkled with blue light.

“It fits,” said the prince dully.

The grand duke and the soldiers—every single one—bowed to Isabelle.

“Long live the princess!” a captain shouted.

“Long live the princess!” the rest of the company echoed.

Hats were tossed up into the air. Cheers rose, too. Isabelle turned in a slow circle, astonished. For once, the admiration was for her, not Ella. For once, she felt proud, powerful, wanted. Only moments ago, she hadn’t been good enough for the schoolmaster’s son; now she was going to be a princess.

“We must travel to the palace, mademoiselle,” the prince said to her, with a stiff smile. “There are many arrangements to make for the wedding.”

He bowed curtly, then headed for the door, and Isabelle saw that his strong shoulders sagged and that the light was gone from his beautiful eyes.

The prince loves someone else; he longs for her, Isabelle thought. If I go through with this, I won’t be gaining a husband, I’ll be taking a prisoner.

She felt sick, poisoned by a thing she thought she wanted. Just like the time when she was little and Adélie had made a batch of tiny cherry cakes and left them to cool and she’d eaten every single one.

She turned to her mother, ready to say, “This is wrong,” but as she did, she saw that Maman was beaming at her. For a few precious seconds, Isabelle basked in the warmth of her mother’s smile. She so rarely saw it.

“I’m proud of you, child,” Maman said. “You’ve saved us from ruin. I shall sell this gloomy house, pay off our debts, and never look back.”

Isabelle's protests died in her throat. It was a terrible thing to break the prince’s heart, but it was a worse thing to break her mother’s. She did not, for even a second, consider what her own heart wanted, for a girl’s desires were of no consequence.

Maman took Isabelle’s arm and walked her out to the stone steps that swept from the mansion’s front door down to its gravel drive. Isabelle could see a golden carriage drawn by eight white horses. The prince and the grand duke stood by it, waiting for her, deep in conversation.

Furrows marred the prince’s brow. Worry clouded his eyes. Isabelle knew, as did everyone else, that his father was gravely ill and that a foreign duke, Volkmar von Bruch, had scented the old king’s death and had brutally attacked villages along his realm’s northern border.

Maman embraced Isabelle, promising that she and Tavi would follow her to the palace as soon as they could. And then, in a daze, Isabelle started for the carriage, but stepping down required that she put her full weight on her damaged foot. Halfway down the steps, the seared veins opened. She could feel blood, wet and warm, seeping into her stocking. By the time she reached the bottom step, it was soaked.

High above her, in the branches of the linden tree, the leaves began to rustle.





Six


The carriage was only ten steps away. Then seven. Then five.

A soldier opened the door for her. Isabelle kept her gaze trained straight ahead. The prince and the grand duke, still deep in conversation, weren’t even looking at her. She would make it. She was almost there. Just a few steps. Three more … two … one …

That’s when she heard it—the flapping of wings.

A white dove swooped down out of the linden tree and circled her. Maman, who’d been watching from the doorway, ran down and frantically tried to swat it away, but the wary bird kept itself above her reach. As it flew around Isabelle, it began to sing.