Stepsister(59)

“Don’t buy from her!” Cecile said as he handed over a coin. “Don’t you know who she is? Isabelle de la Paumé, one of the ugly stepsisters!”

The old man laughed mirthlessly. The laugh turned into a deep, racking cough. When he could speak again, he said, “There’s nothing uglier than war, mademoiselle,” then shuffled off with his purchase.

Cecile snorted. She looked as if she’d like to say something clever and cutting, but cleverness was not her strong point, so she flounced off instead.

An hour or so after Cecile left, Isabelle and Hugo sold the last cabbage. Isabelle gathered the loose green leaves from the bed of the wagon, handed them to a small, barefoot boy in a threadbare shirt, and told him to take them to his mother to boil for a soup. Then she took off the canvas apron Hugo had given her to wear—its single pocket full of coins—and handed it to him.

But Hugo shook his head. “Hang on to it. Here’s mine, too,” he said, untying his own apron.

“Why? Where are you going?” Isabelle asked, taking it from him.

“I … uh … I need to do an errand. Head back without me. I’ll catch up.” He rubbed the toes of his boots on the back of his trouser legs as he spoke, then spat on his hands and smoothed his unruly hair.

Isabelle thought he was being very mysterious. She carefully folded both aprons so that no coins could drop out and tucked them underneath the wagon’s seat.

“And, Isabelle?”

“Yes?”

“If you do get home before me, don’t tell my mother about my errand. Say I went to fix a fence in the pasture or something.”

Isabelle agreed to his request, more intrigued than ever. Then Hugo tugged on the sides of his jacket, took a deep breath, and went on his way. Isabelle climbed into the driver’s seat and snapped the reins. Martin started off. They’d finished early at the market and she was glad. It meant she could get a head start on the rest of the day’s work.

She’d only just driven out of the square when she spotted Hugo again. He was helping Odette across the street. She’d taken his arm. Her face was turned towards his. She was wearing a pretty blue dress. Her strawberry-blond hair was pinned up in a soft bun. A pink rose was tucked into the side of it.

She must be going to a party or a wedding, Isabelle thought. I bet she got lost and Hugo is helping her find her way.

It was a nice thing for him to do. Odette didn’t have an easy life. Most of the villagers were good to her, but a few—like Cecile—were not.

Who knew he had it in him? Isabelle thought, softening towards Hugo, but only a little.

A few minutes later, she was heading out of the village towards a fork in the road. To the right was the way back to the LeBenêts’. To the left was the river and the various businesses that were not allowed to operate within the village because of the smells they made or the fire risk they posed—the tannery, the blacksmith’s, the dye works, the slaughter yard.

Isabelle was so lost in her thoughts—wondering if Tavi managed to get the morning milking done without causing problems, and if Maman was cutting cabbages or conversing with them—that she didn’t see the animal sitting directly in the centre of the fork, watching and waiting, as if it were expecting her.

By the time she picked her head up and realized a fox was blocking her way, it was too late.





Sixty-Two


The fox ran at Martin, her head down, her teeth bared. She dove under him and wove in and out of his legs, snarling and snapping, nipping at his hooves.

Terrified, Martin bolted to the left, ripping the reins from Isabelle’s hands. The wagon lurched violently, throwing her across the seat. She managed to right herself but could not recover the reins.

“Stop, Martin! Stop!” she screamed, but the horse, crazed by fear, kept going. The fox followed, running at his side, snarling. The wagon banged down the rutted road to the river, with Isabelle holding on to the seat for dear life. They sped by buildings and work yards. Men tried to wave Martin down, but no one dared get in front of him. And then the river came into view.

He’s not going to stop! Isabelle thought. He’s going to gallop straight off the dock. We’re both going to drown!

And then, as quickly as she’d come, the fox was gone and an exhausted Martin slowed, then halted a few yards shy of the water. Isabelle stumbled out of the wagon on legs that were rubbery, her breath coming hard and fast.

“Shh, Martin, easy,” she soothed, stroking his neck. “Easy, old man.”

Martin’s eyes were so round, Isabelle could see the whites. His lips were flecked with foam; his coat with lather. She bent down to check his legs. There was no blood; the fox hadn’t bitten him. She found the reins, tangled in the traces, and freed them. Then, taking hold of his bridle, she slowly turned him around. Miraculously, the wagon was intact.

Isabelle’s breathing slowed little by little as they walked back up the road. They passed the tannery and then the dye works. Some of the workers asked if she was all right.

“If I were you, that horse would be the next one to come through these gates,” a man called to her as they approached the slaughter yard.

Isabelle glanced at him. He was leaning against the fence, smoking. Blood dripped off his leather apron onto his shoes. Isabelle heard a desperate cry coming from a frightened animal on the other side of the fence. She looked away; she didn’t want to see the poor hopeless creature.