Stepsister(73)

And still, Isabelle was defenseless. Her heart kicked in her chest. Her blood surged, pounding in her ears. But over it, she heard another noise. It sounded like fabric tearing. She felt a weight, sudden and heavy, pulling at her clothing.

She glanced down and saw that her pocket had torn open. Because the nutshell inside it was growing.

Isabelle quickly pulled it out before it ripped her dress apart. As she did, it flattened and expanded until it was half her size. Leather straps appeared on the side facing her. She realized she was holding a shield. She snaked her arms through the straps and raised it over her head.

In the very nick of time.

A split second later, Volkmar’s blade crashed down upon it. Isabelle was strong now, her arms well-muscled from endless farm chores, and she managed to hold the shield firm. Without it, the blow would have cleaved her in two.

She thrust her hand into her pocket again, remembering Tanaquill’s first gift. Her fingers closed around the bone. She pulled it out, and as she did, it transformed into the same fearsome sword she’d used to fight off the chicken thief.

“Coward!” she spat at Volkmar. “Murderer! They were innocent people!”

The horror and grief had receded. She felt as if she were made of rage now.

Volkmar’s grin twisted into a snarl. Her words had enraged him. A stab through the heart would be too good for her now. He would aim for her neck instead, and send her head flying.

He swung high, just as she’d known he would. She ducked, and his blade passed over her head. Her legs pistoned her back up. The tip of her sword caught his side and ripped a jagged gash up his rib cage. He bellowed in surprise and staggered backward.

Isabelle’s heart was pounding like a war drum. Her blood was singing.

Volkmar touched his fingertips to his wound. They came away crimson. “The rat has sharp teeth,” he said. Then he charged again.

Isabelle knew she had one chance left. She had to do better than a flesh wound.

She lifted her shield, raised her sword, but before she could use them, a bugle blast was heard. Two men came galloping across the field from her left. A riderless horse trailed them.

“The king’s cavalry is coming!” one of the men shouted. “Jump on! Hurry!”

The horsemen swooped close. The riderless horse slowed to a canter. Volkmar threw his weapons down and caught the horse by his bridle. He ran alongside the animal for a few strides, then launched himself into the saddle. And then the three riders were gone, vanished into the smoke.

Isabelle lowered her sword and shield. As she did, they turned back into a jawbone, a walnut shell. She put them in her pocket. Seconds later, forty soldiers on horseback galloped into the village. They surrounded Isabelle and asked her what had happened. She told them, pointing in the direction in which Volkmar had gone and urged them to hurry.

The captain shouted commands at his men and they charged off.

Isabelle watched them go, longing to ride with them and chase down Volkmar. Then, sickened and spent, she looked for Felix. He was ministering to a dying man now, bare-chested, pressing his bunched-up shirt to the man’s side, trying to keep the last of his life from leaking into the dirt.

As Isabelle watched him, kneeling among the obscene harvest of the dead, his body smeared with blood, his face streaked with tears, a pain, piercing and deep, made her cry out. It was worse than any that had befallen her that day. Her hand went to her chest. She bent double, her breath rapid and shallow, willing it to pass.

Inside her, the wolf, denied his rightful work, bared his sharp teeth and tore into her heart.





Eighty-One


The jagged scream tore apart the placid afternoon.

It was followed by a loud, heavy smash, and the sound of running feet.

Fate, peeling apples at the kitchen table, looked up, alarmed. Avara, stirring a soup at the hearth, dropped her ladle into the ashes.

“What the devil is going on out there?” she shouted. “Hugo! Huuuugo!”

Fate and Avara reached the door together and saw an earthenware bowl lying in pieces on the stone steps. Bright green peas were scattered all around it. Two hens had rushed over and were greedily pecking at them.

Fate soon saw that it was Maman who had screamed and Tavi who’d dropped the bowl. They were running down the drive. Two figures were walking up it. Felix was shirtless. His long brown hair, damp and lank, hung down his back. His trousers were stained with blood. His gaze was inward, as if focused on something only he could see. His arm was around Isabelle’s neck, possessively, protectively, as if he was afraid she would be snatched away from him. The skirts of Isabelle’s dress were smeared with crimson. Sweat and dirt streaked her face. Her hair, flecked with ash, had tumbled loose from its carefully pinned coil.

“God in Heaven, what happened?” Avara shouted. She skirted the broken mess on the steps and joined the others. Hugo walked out of the stables, wiping his hands on a rag. He dropped it and broke into a run when he saw Isabelle and Felix.

Fate remained in the doorway. “It can’t be,” she hissed. “How is she still alive?”

Realizing that it would look callous for her to remain where she was, Fate hurried down the drive, too. Maman was in tears, pressing Isabelle’s face between her hands one minute, asking the name of the brave knight who was with her the next. Tavi was shushing her.

Felix apologized for being bare-chested and filthy. He’d left his blood-soaked shirt in Malleval and had tried to douse himself clean under the village’s pump, he said, but the water had only washed away so much. Then he told what had happened to them. How they’d ended up in Malleval after Volkmar had slaughtered its people. How Isabelle had somehow found a sword and shield and had faced him down. How they’d abandoned their plans to go to Paris and had made the long walk home.