Stepsister(54)

“No, it isn’t.”

“You said you loved me, but you didn’t. It was a lie. How could you do that? How could you lie to me, Felix?”

Felix kissed her then, his lips sweet and sad and bitter, and Isabelle kissed him back, clutching handfuls of his shirt, pulling him to her. He broke the kiss, and she looked up at him, her eyes searching his, confused.

“That’s how much I didn’t love you,” he said, his voice husky. “How much I still don’t.”

And then he picked up his satchel and walked away, leaving Isabelle alone in the gathering gloom.

“You’re walking away?” she called after him. “Again?”

“What should I do? Let you break my heart a second time?”

“Me?” she sputtered. “Me?”

Isabelle paced back and forth, furious. Then she picked up a walnut that had fallen from the tree, round and green in its husk, and threw it at his back.

She missed him by a mile.





Fifty-Seven


“I would like to book a carriage,” Fate said to the girl behind the desk. “To Marseille. In a week’s time. I was told I could make the arrangements here.”

She was standing in the bustling lobby of the village inn. Travelers were coming and going. A cat in a wicker cage was yowling. The child holding the cage was crying. Her harried mother was trying to quiet them.

“Yes, madame,” said the girl. “How many passengers?”

“Just myself, my servant, and our trunk. My name is Madame Sévèrine. I’m staying with the LeBenêts.”

“Very good, madame,” the girl said with a nod. “I shall make the arrangements and send a boy to the farm to confirm them.” She folded her hands on the desktop.

Fate frowned. She did not want her request forgotten or bungled. “Is that all? Shouldn’t you write it down in a ledger?”

The girl smiled. She touched the side of her head. “This is my ledger. I cannot write. Do not worry, madame. I will see to the carriage.”

Fate had been so distracted by all the noise, she hadn’t noticed that the girl’s pale blue eyes gazed straight ahead, unseeing.

Ah, yes, the innkeeper’s daughter … Odette, she mused. She tried to recall the details of the girl’s map, and vaguely remembered an unhappy life. Denied her true love, was it? she wondered. Well, whatever fate she’d drawn for her, Volkmar had undoubtedly altered it. The girl would end up a casualty of war, like the rest of the villagers.

Fate thanked her and turned to go, eager to leave the rackety inn. How good it felt to know she’d soon say goodbye to Saint-Michel, and the unpleasant business that had brought her here. Things were about to get more unpleasant. Markedly so.

“Leaving so soon?” said a voice at her elbow. “You must be feeling very confident. I can’t imagine why.”

Fate’s good mood turned rancid. “Marquis,” she said, regarding him. “Always a pleasure.”

Chance was elegant in a black hat, butter-yellow jacket, and buff britches. He offered Fate his arm, and together they left the inn.

“Where is your coach? I’ll escort you to it,” Chance said.

Fate pointed down the street at Losca, who was sitting in the driver’s seat of a wooden cart, holding Martin’s reins. “There it is. It’s every bit as comfortable as it is stylish.”

Chance laughed, and they set off. He inclined his head towards hers as they walked. “Just because you burned down Isabelle’s house,” he said in a low voice, “doesn’t mean you win the wager. We established rules, remember? Neither of us can force the girl’s choice.”

Fate affected an innocent expression. “Surely you don’t think that I had a hand in that?”

“Two hands, actually,” said Chance. “Clever move, inviting them to the LeBenêts’ farm. But I can invite them to live with me, too. And I will.”

“You can, but they won’t come. I’ve told them that you’re a man of dubious morals.”

“I shall go to them, then,” Chance countered.

Fate smiled smugly. “No, I don’t think so. I hear there’s a lovely young baroness who lives in the next village …”

“Is there?” Chance said lightly, brushing invisible lint off his jacket.

“She’s very fond of card games. And likes to bet kisses instead of coins—a proclivity her husband strenuously frowns upon.”

“You can hardly blame me for what happened,” Chance said, aggrieved. “She never so much as mentioned a husband!”

“The baron is a good shot, I’m told.”

“Very,” Chance said ruefully. “He put a hole through my favorite hat.”

“Word got to Madame LeBenêt. And the girls’ mother. I made sure of it. They’re scandalized. I wouldn’t set foot on the farm if I were you,” Fate said. She changed the subject. “What were you doing at the inn anyway?”

“Sending a man to Paris to fetch me some decent champagne,” Chance replied. “Plus a wheel of Stilton. Good strong tea. And the broadsheets.” His warm eyes found Fate’s chilly ones. “The country is beastly. We must at least agree on that.”

“Indeed,” Fate said heavily. “I recently sent to Paris myself for a few little luxuries to brighten the dreariness of life with Madame LeBenêt.”