Stepsister(58)

“You don’t understand. There’s a reason I wanted …” He swore. “Never mind.”

“What reason? What are you talking about?”

Hugo shook his head. He moved towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked.

“There’s an old wooden tea box in the barn. It’s lined with lead. Hopefully it will contain the smell. I’m going to put the dead dog in the box, put the box in the wagon, then drive until I find an old well to throw it down. Maybe I’ll throw myself down it, too, while I’m at it.”

Isabelle watched him go, a fearful expression on her face. This was terrible. She would go to Tantine. As soon as she and Hugo had this mess cleaned up. If that woman hadn't succeeded in changing Madame LeBenêt’s mind, they would be homeless. Helpless. As good as dead.





Sixty


Just before dawn, in the Wildwood, a fox stalked her meal.

The object of her attention, a red squirrel, was on the forest floor, busily collecting fallen nuts.

Hugging the lingering shadows, the vixen crept close. She tensed, teeth bared, but just as she was ready to spring, a huge, tufted owl landed on a branch above her, shaking the leaves noisily.

With a frightened squeak, the squirrel dropped her nuts and ran for her nest. A second later, the vixen was gone, too. In her place stood an auburn-haired woman in a dusk-gray gown. She spun around violently. Her green eyes flashed.

“That was my breakfast!” she shouted at the bird.

Creatures great and small scurried to their dens at the sound of her voice. Deer hid in the brush. Songbirds spread their wings over their young.

But the owl was not bothered. Let the fairy queen rage. He had chosen a nice high branch for his perch. He hooted at her now.

Tanaquill narrowed her eyes. “For this you rob me of my meal?”

The owl continued to speak.

“What of it?” Tanaquill growled. “Fate and Chance, Fate and Chance, one moves, the other countermoves. As if living creatures were nothing more than pieces on a game board. Their doings are no concern of mine.” She turned her back on the bird and, with a swirl of her skirts, walked away. But the owl called after her, hooting harshly several times.

Tanaquill stopped dead. “A stallion?” she said. Slowly, she turned around. “Fate did this?”

The owl bobbed his great gray head.

Tanaquill paced back and forth, dead leaves rustling under her feet. The owl clicked his beak.

“No, I’m not going to tell Chance,” she retorted. “He’ll buy the horse and gift wrap him for the girl. I’ll deal with this myself.”

Tanaquill licked her lips. Her sharp teeth glinted in the pale morning light. “Isabelle has regained the first piece of her heart, though she refuses to admit it. Courage will be needed to regain this, the second piece.” She snapped her fingers. “Come, owl. Let’s see if she still has some.”





Sixty-One


The village had almost forgotten about Isabelle.

Saint-Michel was so crowded with weary, bewildered refugees frantic to buy food, that the baker’s wife, the butcher, and the cheesemonger had better things to do than taunt her.

She had found herself selling vegetables at the market with Hugo this morning because Madame, who usually went with him, was busy tending a sick cow. Tavi was more likely to conduct an experiment with the cabbages than sell them, so the task had fallen to Isabelle. Although she hadn’t relished the idea of returning to the village, she undertook the task without complaint. Somehow Tantine had convinced Madame to let them stay, and a deeply relieved Isabelle was determined not to give her any reason to change her mind.

She and Hugo had been swamped with customers from the moment they’d pulled into the market square. The refugees, all living in tents, or wagons in the surrounding fields, clamored for cabbages and potatoes. Isabelle had no idea where they’d all come from, so she asked them and they told her.

Volkmar had stepped up his attacks on the villages surrounding Paris, they’d explained. They’d seen their farms pillaged, their homes burned. Many had escaped with only their lives. The king fought bravely, but his troops were being decimated. The grand duke had been seen riding throughout the countryside with a train of wagons, calling on citizens who possessed weapons of any sort—guns, swords, axes, anything—to donate them to the war effort. The queen traveled with him, searching for orphaned children and spiriting them to safety.

Some of the refugees were thin and sickly. An elderly woman, trailing four grandchildren, begged Isabelle for any leaves that had fallen off the cabbage heads. Isabelle gave her a whole cabbage and didn’t charge her. The woman hugged her. Hugo saw the exchange. He frowned but didn’t stop her.

Someone else saw her do it, too.

“That doesn’t change anything, Isabelle,” said Cecile, walking up to the wagon. “You’re still ugly.”

Isabelle felt herself flushing with shame. The village hadn’t forgotten about her. It never would, not with Cecile around to remind everyone. She tried to think of something to say, but before she could get a word out, Hugo spoke.

“It changes things for the old woman,” he said.

Isabelle glanced at him. She was grateful he’d come to her defense but also surprised. She knew he didn’t like her much. From the set of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes, she guessed he liked Cecile even less. She didn’t have long to wonder why, because another refugee, an old man, shuffled up to the wagon and asked for a pound of potatoes.