Stepsister(61)

As soon as he was free, the horse got to his feet. He blinked at Isabelle, then slowly walked to her. He sniffed her. Snorted in her face. Tossed his proud head and let out a whinny.

Isabelle tried to laugh, but it crumbled into a sob. She leaned her cheek against his, knotted her dirty fingers in his lank, tangled mane. Nero had been sold away. She’d thought she’d never see him again. Now here he was, but he would be gone forever if she couldn’t get hold of four livres.

“I will get you out of here. I swear it,” she whispered to him.

“You have to leave now. We have work to do,” the man with the sledgehammer said.

Isabelle nodded. She patted Nero’s neck, then walked out of the yard.

One of the men who’d roped the horse—a boy, really—closed the gates after her. He lingered there, watching her go. In that moment, he would’ve done anything she asked of him. Followed anywhere she led. He would have died for her.

He could not know it then, but the image of the girl, straight-backed in her dirty dress, her face streaked with filth, would stay with him for the rest of his life. He looked down at the knife in his hand and hated it.

Behind him, the others talked.

“Was that one of the de la Paumé girls? I thought they were ugly.”

“What, you think she’s pretty? Dirty as an old boot? Bold as a trumpet?”

“No, but—”

“I pity the man she ends up with.”

“She has guts, I’ll give her that.”

“Yes, she does. Imagine if every girl had such strength … and learned of it!”

“Better hope they never do. What would our world become, eh?”

“Ha! A living hell!”

“No,” the boy whispered. “A paradise.”





Sixty-Five


The door to Madame’s kitchen was open. Isabelle took a deep breath and walked inside.

The day was bright, but Madame’s house was dark. It took a few seconds for Isabelle’s eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw that Madame was standing at her kitchen table kneading bread.

“I’m back. I have your money,” Isabelle said, placing the aprons on the table.

Madame wiped her hands on a dish towel, eager to count her coins, and caught sight of Isabelle. “What happened to you? You’re filthy!” she squawked.

Isabelle began to tell her. Madame listened for a few seconds, but the lure of money was too tempting. She unrolled the aprons, dumped out the coins, and counted them. Tantine was sitting nearby in a rocking chair, knitting. Unlike Madame, she listened intently to every word.

When Isabelle finished her account, she said, “I need to buy my horse back. Nero. I need to bring four livres to the slaughter yard tomorrow or they’ll kill him.”

“Yes, so? What has that to do with me?” Madame asked absently. She had eight columns of coins stacked already and still had half the pile to go.

“Please, Madame. It’s only four livres. I’ve worked very hard for you.”

Avara stopped counting. She looked at Isabelle aghast. “You’re not asking me for the money, are you?”

“I will pay you back.”

“Absolutely not,” Madame said. “It’s not just the four livres, you know. You’ve already put me in the poorhouse feeding that old nag of yours, Martin. Another horse will bankrupt me.”

She said more, but Isabelle had stopped listening. She crossed the room and knelt by Tantine.

“Please, Tantine. I beg you,” she said.

The old woman put her knitting down. She took Isabelle’s dirty hands in hers. “Child, you said this creature was sold to the slaughter yard because he is unmanageable, no? What if he were to throw you? I could never live with the guilt. An unruly stallion is not a suitable animal for a young lady.”

Isabelle saw that there would be no help for her here. She rose and started for the door.

Tantine arched an eyebrow. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the Chateau Rigolade. To see the marquis. I thought he might lend me—”

“No. I forbid it,” Tantine said sharply.

“But—”

Tantine held up a hand, silencing her. “If you will not consider your own reputation, Isabelle, at least consider my family’s. As long as you reside here, you are not to set foot near the Chateau Rigolade.”

“Indeed!” Madame chimed in.

Isabelle lowered her head, devastated. “Yes, Tantine,” she said.

“Instead of worrying about horses, worry about cabbages. They are not going to harvest themselves,” Madame scolded. “See that the wagon is filled up again for tomorrow.”

Isabelle left the house and drove the wagon out to the fields. All the way there, she racked her brain. There had to be a way to get the money. She refused to give up. By the time she’d unhitched Martin and had led him back to the barn, her head was high again. Her eyes were glinting. As she put him in his stall, she gave him an extra helping of oats.

“Eat up, Martin, you’ll need your strength. We have a job to do tonight,” she told him.

Martin pricked up his ears; he liked a bit of intrigue. Much more than he liked pulling cabbage wagons.

Isabelle had come up with an idea; it was desperate and risky. She would have to get her sister’s help to pull it off. Hugo’s, too, which would be more difficult. But he owed her; she’d said nothing about his errand.