Stepsister(55)

“Is it that bad?”

“The woman is so stingy, she uses the same coffee grounds ten times. I would sell my soul for a good pot of coffee.” She chuckled. “If I had one, that is. Ah, Marquis, if these mortals only knew, if they had the merest understanding of the grave, and of the eternity they will spend lying in it, they would eat chocolate for breakfast, caviar for lunch, and sing arias as they slopped the pigs. The worst day above ground is better than any day under it. Ah, well. We’ll soon be away from this place. At least I will.”

They arrived at the cart. Chance tipped his hat to Losca. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said. “My magician was in the Wildwood last night and witnessed a rather romantic interlude. That’s one piece of her heart found, two to go.”

Fate regarded him and with an acid smile said, “Finding pieces of a heart takes time. How is the skull looking? You know the one I mean, don’t you? At the bottom of young Isabelle’s map? How much time does she have left? Is it weeks? Days?”

Chance pressed his lips together. The muscles in his jaw tensed.

“Days, yes. I thought so,” Fate purred. She patted his arm. “Do enjoy your champagne.”





Fifty-Eight


Bette, chewing her cud, blinked her patient brown eyes.

“Good girl, Bette,” Isabelle said, patting the cow’s rump.

She sat down on a low wooden stool, leaned her cheek into the cow’s soft warm side, and started to milk her. Bette’s slow breathing, the rhythmic sound of the milk squirting into the wooden bucket, made a tired Isabelle feel even sleepier. She’d barely closed her eyes during the night. Images of Felix had crowded her brain. His angry words had echoed in her head.

How could he accuse her of breaking his heart, when he had broken hers?

Isabelle's memories dragged her back in time to a place she did not want to go. After their kiss in the Wildwood, when they first realized they were in love, she and Felix had decided to run away. They both knew Maman would never allow them to be together, so they'd made a plan: They would take Nero and Martin and ride to Italy. Felix would find work in Rome, as an apprentice in the studio of a sculptor. Isabelle would spend her days giving riding lessons, and in the evenings, she and Felix would visit the city’s ancient ruins, walking where the Caesars had walked, treading the same roads their armies had marched down.

And when Felix was a sculptor himself, famous and very wealthy, they would travel to Mongolia and race horses with chieftains. Watch eagles hunt in the Russian steppes. Ride camels with the Bedouin. Discover the whole wide wonderful world.

But Maman had found out about their plans. Enraged, she’d fired Felix’s father and sent his family packing. Before they’d left, though, Felix had climbed up the vine to Isabelle’s bedroom window and had sworn that he would come back for her. They would meet in the Wildwood. He needed a few days to help his family find a place to live, he said, and then he would leave a note in the hollow of the linden tree telling her when.

Isabelle had packed a bag and hidden it under her bed. Every night, after Maman had gone to sleep, she’d climbed down the vine and dashed across the yard to the linden tree, hoping to find Felix’s note. But it never came.

Summer gave way to autumn and then winter. Icy winds and deep snow prevented her from stealing out of her room at night, but by then it didn’t matter; she’d given up. Felix had meant the world to her, but she’d meant nothing to him.

How many nights had she cried herself to sleep, with Tavi rocking her? Ella had somehow found out, too. She’d been nicer than ever to Isabelle, but Isabelle, heartsore and miserable, had been nothing but mean in return.

And now Felix was back. Making a slipper for her. Making her think he still cared for her. Holding her and kissing her in the Wildwood, and then behaving as if she were to blame for what had happened. Or hadn’t.

And here she was, distraught and losing sleep over someone who, no matter what he did, or said, still didn’t care enough to tell her why he’d walked away. It was foolish; she was foolish. She had more important things to worry about. She lived in a hayloft. She owned one dress. Her mother regularly mistook a cabbage for the Duke of Burgundy.

Bette lowed impatiently. Isabelle hadn’t realized it, but she’d milked the cow dry. With effort, she pushed all thoughts of Felix out of her head and picked up the milk bucket. Bette was the last cow that needed to be milked that evening and Isabelle was glad. The day’s chores felt endless, and she was eager to finish.

She picked up the milk bucket and hurried to the dairy house. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the angry voices arguing inside until she walked through the doorway.

“You’re an idiot!”

“No, you’re an idiot!”

Hugo and Tavi were standing only a foot away from each other, shouting. Isabelle banged her pail down and got between them.

Through the barrage of rude remarks and gestures, she was able to ascertain that Tavi had added things to one of the cheeses as she set it into its mold last night. Honey from the farm’s hives. Sediment from an empty wine cask. A dash of vinegar.

“But that’s not the way it’s done!” Hugo thundered. “Did you see it? It’s ugly. It doesn’t look like the others. It has spots. And a strange smell. It’s different!”

“Is it so bad to try something new?” Tavi thundered back. “All I want to do is see if and how the substances affect the flavor. Honey, wine dregs, vinegar—they all contain different microorganisms—”