Stepsister(52)

Tanaquill was dressed in a gown of shimmering blue butterfly wings, their edges traced in black. A wreath of black roses adorned her head; several live butterflies had lighted upon it, their gossamer wings slowly opening and closing.

“Have you found the pieces of your heart yet, Isabelle?” the fairy queen asked.

“I—I need a little more time,” Isabelle replied, hoping Tanaquill wouldn’t ask why. She did not want to tell her how badly wrong her trip to the orphanage had gone. “I think I know what they are now, at least. Goodness, kindness, and charitableness.”

Isabelle hoped Tanaquill would be delighted that she had at least figured out what the pieces were, even if she hadn’t found them yet, but the fairy queen was not.

“I instructed you to find the pieces of your heart. Not someone else’s,” she said coldly.

“I’m trying. I really am! I—”

“By throwing eggs at orphans?”

Isabelle looked at her boots, her cheeks flaming. “You heard about that,” she said.

“And your wish … is it still to be pretty?”

“Yes,” said Isabelle resolutely, looking up again.

Tanaquill turned away, growling, then she rounded back on Isabelle. “I watched you as a child. Did you know that?” she said, pointing a taloned finger at her. “I watched you duel, swing out of trees, play at being generals … Scipio, Hannibal, Alexander the Great. None of them wished to be pretty.”

Frustration sparked in Isabelle. “Alexander didn’t have to be pretty,” she retorted. “His mother didn’t make him wear ridiculous dresses or dance minuets. Alexander was an emperor with vast armies at his command and a magnificent warhorse named Bucephalus. I’m a girl who can hardly walk. And that’s my magnificent warhorse.” She nodded at Martin, who, in his greed, had pushed himself so far into a blackberry thicket, all that was visible of him was his bony rear end. “He and I won’t be invading Persia anytime soon.”

Tanaquill looked as if she would speak again, but instead she froze. She scented the air, then listened as an animal does, not only with her ears, but with her flesh, her bones.

Isabelle heard it, too. A twig snapping. Footsteps kicking through the leaves.

The fairy queen turned back to her. “Try harder, girl,” she said. “Time is not on your side.”

And then she was gone, and Isabelle was alone with whoever was coming. Few people ventured this far into the Wildwood at dusk. Isabelle remembered the deserter who’d tried to steal her chickens. He’d tried to kill her. He’d try again, she was certain.

Cursing herself for being stupid enough to ride so far from safety with no sword, no dagger, not even a clasp knife, Isabelle looked around frantically for a weapon—a tree limb, a heavy rock, anything. Then she remembered Tanaquill’s gifts. She dug in her pocket, hoping that one of them would transform into something she could use to defend herself, but they remained a bone, a shell, and a seedpod.

Isabelle knew she was in trouble. She was about to run for Martin, to try to ride out of the woods fast, when a figure emerged from the dusk, and her traitor heart lurched.

This was no chicken thief making his way towards her, but he was still a deserter.

“The very worst kind,” Isabelle whispered.





Fifty-Six


Felix didn’t see her at first.

He was too busy looking up, squinting into the dusk. At what, Isabelle couldn’t guess.

He tripped over a tree root, righted himself, then did a double take as he saw her. After the initial shock of surprise wore off, a wide grin spread across his face. His beautiful blue eyes lit up.

Don’t be happy to see me. Don’t smile. You don’t get to, Isabelle said silently.

“Isabelle, is that you?” he called out. “What are you doing here?”

“Talking to fairies,” Isabelle replied curtly. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a downed walnut tree or at least a nice, thick limb.”

“Why?”

“I need walnut to carve my commanders. For my army of wooden soldiers. Usually I can find scraps from furniture we make in the shop.” The light in his eyes dimmed a little. “Only we don’t have any orders for desks or cabinets right now. Just coffins. We use pine for those.”

He shrugged his satchel off his shoulder and put it on the moss bank. Then he sat down next to Isabelle.

“I heard about your house. I’m sorry.”

Isabelle thanked him. He asked how living at the LeBenêts’ was going. Isabelle told him it was better than starving. Their conversation might have continued in terse questions and answers had the bushes nearby not shaken violently.

Felix started at the sound

“It’s only Martin,” Isabelle said.

“Let me guess … blackberries,” he said, laughing. “Do you remember when he ate the entire bucketful we’d picked for Adélie?” He leaned back as he spoke, and his hand came down on one of the stones in the heart.

He turned around, lifted his hand. “It’s still there …” he said, looking down at it.

His eyes sought Isabelle’s, just for an instant, and what she saw in their depths made her catch her breath—pain, as deep and raw as her own.