Stepsister(69)

“You chased Martin past the slaughter yard so that he’d see his old friend. You gave Nero back to me. Thank you. He’s one of the pieces, I know he is.”

The fox lifted her snout and yipped.

Isabelle nodded. “I guess I’ve been wrong all along. About the pieces being goodness, kindness, and charity. You said my heart had been cut away piece by piece by piece, but things can’t be cut away if they weren’t there to begin with.”

The fox licked her paw.

“I’m on my way to Paris now. To see Ella. I think she’s a piece, too,” Isabelle ventured, waiting for the fox’s reaction. But if the fox agreed, she gave no sign.

“Nero made me a better person. He gave me courage,” Isabelle continued. “And Ella? If I was ever good, even a little bit, it is because of her.”

The fox flicked her tail.

“Tavi thinks Felix is a piece, too. But he’s not. I know he’s not. Can you tell me what it is? Give me a hint? A nudge? Anything, Your Grace?”

The fox turned her head and gazed down the road intently, as if she saw something, or heard something there. Isabelle followed her gaze, but could see nothing. She turned back to the fox, but the creature was gone.

“I’m talking to foxes now. That’s almost as bad as talking to cabbages,” she said, then she and Nero continued on their way. They’d put a good six miles of the twenty-mile trip behind them, and the whole way, Isabelle had been wondering if she was crazy.

Everyone thought that going to see Ella was a terrible idea. Tantine said the guards would never let her through. Tavi said Ella wouldn’t want to see her. Madame said she’d probably be robbed and murdered and left in a ditch before she got halfway there.

Only Maman thought the trip was a good idea. She’d told Isabelle to find a duke to marry while she was there. And, of course, the marquis wanted her to go.

Her resolve wavered for a moment, but then she pictured the marquis as he’d looked as he’d stood on top of his speeding carriage, the wind snatching at his braids and billowing his jacket out behind him.

Most would have been screaming in terror; he’d been laughing, his head back, his arms outstretched to the sky.

She remembered his sparkling amber eyes, and how, when he trained them on her, he made her feel as if luck itself was on her side, as if anything was possible.

And then she clucked her tongue and urged Nero on.

They’d been cantering for a mile or so, when they saw a man walking along the side of the road ahead of them. It was a quiet Sunday, and they’d barely seen anyone else, just a few wagons and a carriage.

Isabelle didn’t think anything of the man, until they got closer to him and she realized that she knew the slope of his shoulders and his easy, loping gait. She recognized the satchel slung over his back and the battered straw hat on his head.

It was Felix.

Isabelle’s stomach knotted. She didn’t want to see him. Whenever they were together for more than two minutes, bad things happened. They argued. Shouted. He kissed her, then walked away. He could be incredibly kind, and carelessly cruel.

Isabelle decided to gallop straight past him, pretending she didn’t realize who he was, but then he suddenly turned around, having heard a rider come up behind him, and her chance was lost.

“Isabelle,” he said flatly as he realized it was her. It appeared he wasn’t eager to see her, either.

“Hello, Felix,” she said coolly. “I’m on my way to Paris. I’m afraid I can’t stop.”

“That’s a shame.”

The baiting note in his voice irritated Isabelle. She scowled, but Felix didn’t see her reaction. He wasn’t looking at her any more; his eyes were on Nero.

The horse’s ears pricked up at the sound of Felix’s voice. He trotted up to him, sniffed him, then gave a gusty snort.

“Thanks, boy,” Felix said, laughing as he wiped horse breath off his face.

His harsh expression had melted. Isabelle knew Felix loved Nero and Nero returned the love. He lowered his head, inviting Felix to scratch his ears. Prickly Nero, who shied from anyone’s touch but Isabelle’s, who was far more likely to bite or kick than behave.

Turncoat, Isabelle said silently.

“Why are you going to Paris?” Felix asked.

“To see Ella.”

Felix glanced up at her from under the brim of his hat. “An audience with the queen. That doesn’t happen every day. When did she summon you?”

Isabelle hesitated. “She didn’t, exactly. Summon me, that is.”

“So you’re just dropping in on the queen of France?”

The skeptical tone of his voice shook Isabelle’s confidence, and it irritated her even more. It made her wonder, yet again, if the marquis’s idea wasn’t, perhaps, a little bit insane. And if she wasn’t, too.

“I’m going to try to see her,” she corrected. “I need to. There’s … there’s something I need to say to her.”

“Isabelle?”

“What?”

“Whatever you have to say to Ella … say it, don’t yell it. There are guards in the palace. Lots of them. With swords and rifles. Don’t throw things, either. Not eggs. Not walnuts.”

“Where are you going?” Isabelle asked huffily, keen to change the subject. Obviously, Felix had heard about the orphan incident, too.