Stepsister(75)

“Up, girl!” she barked at Losca when she’d finished.

Losca rose. She smoothed her dress.

“Take this to Monsieur Albert, head of the bank in Saint-Michel. He’ll be at home, eating his Sunday dinner. I need a good sum of money. More than he has in his vault. It’ll take him a day or two to get it, no doubt, and we must move quickly. Hurry now! Go!” Fate said.

She walked Losca out of their room, through the house, past Tavi shelling peas, and down the drive, giving her directions to Monsieur Albert’s. The girl set off running, the letter clutched in her hand.

Fate watched her until she disappeared down the road, then started back to the house. A movement caught her eye. It was Isabelle. She was in the pasture, riding Nero. She’d rigged up a scarecrow. His body was made out of branches; he had a cabbage for a head. He was propped up on a fencepost she’d sunk into a soft patch of ground. She was brandishing something in her right hand. Fate squinted and saw that it was an old sword that had belonged to Monsieur LeBenêt and had hung in the stables.

As she watched, Isabelle charged the scarecrow, sword raised high, and lopped his head off. She turned Nero sharply and charged again. The scarecrow lost an arm. Then his torso was hacked in two. Fate did not like what she was seeing.

Her expression darkened further as she passed by Tavi again and saw that she was using the peas she’d shelled to form equations. Her eyes lingered on the girl.

A few weeks ago, after the incident with the cheese, Hugo had come to her complaining bitterly about Tavi, asking Fate to get her married off.

Back then, Fate had thought the idea unnecessary, but perhaps it was time to act on Hugo’s suggestion now. With a few slight modifications.

A wedding would be such a joyous affair.

“For everyone,” Fate whispered darkly. “Except the bride and groom.”





Eighty-Two


“Once again from the top. With feeling, please!” Chance shouted.

He was standing in front of his stage, a glass in one hand, watching his players rehearse. They were doing a terrible job. Missing cues. Mangling lines. Torchlight playing over his face revealed new creases engraved around his eyes.

“Louder, please!” he yelled, raising his hand, palm up. “I can barely hear you!”

The fortune-teller shouted her lines. The actress and diva joined her onstage and ran through theirs. Chance clapped out a quick tempo to speed them up.

One of the footlights, lacking a glass chimney, had been placed too far upstage. The fortune-teller’s skirt brushed it. The fabric caught. The sword-swallower shouted at her, waving his hands. He hurried to stamp the flames out. Frightened by the fire, the fortune-teller ran, but not before the sword-swallower’s foot came down on her hem. There was a sound of cloth tearing, and then the fortune-teller found herself standing centre stage in her petticoat.

The fire-breather, up in the rigging, peered down to see what was going on, lost his balance and fell. His foot got tangled in a rope that was attached to a painted backdrop. The backdrop shot up and smashed in the rigging. Splintered pieces rained down, knocking off the diva’s wig and the actress’s crown. The fire-breather dangled, his head only inches from the stage floor.

Chance closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Isabelle’s map was gone. Fate was undoubtedly redrawing it to speed the girl to her doom. And what was he doing? Presiding over a disaster of a play.

Chance opened his eyes. “Someone cut him free, please,” he said, gesturing to the fire-breather, who was still hanging upside down, spinning in slow circles like a human plumb bob.

“You tell him,” hissed a voice from behind Chance.

“No, you tell him.”

“Where’s the cognac? Let’s refill his glass. Bad news always goes down better with a glass of cognac.”

“I really think you should tell him.”

Chance turned around. “Tell me what?” he asked.

The cook and the magician were standing there, solemn-faced.

“Isabelle never made it to Paris,” said the magician. “She didn’t see Ella.”

Chance swore. He turned and threw his glass against a tree. All the actors stopped what they were doing. A hush fell over the company.

Chance tilted his head back. He covered his eyes with his hands. He felt he was only one teetering step away from defeat.

“This play is it,” he said, lowering his hands. “My last move. It’s all I have left to convince Isabelle that she can make her own path. If it fails, then I’ve failed. And Isabelle is doomed.”

The actors all started talking at once. Then yelling. Pointing fingers. Shaking fists. The noise grew louder and louder.

Until the fortune-teller, still in her petticoat, took charge. “Quiet, everyone!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “Places! Start again from the top …”

“Good girl. Put your heart into it,” the magician urged her, walking to Chance’s side.

“Deliver those lines like Isabelle’s life depends on it,” said the cook, joining them.

Chance nodded gravely. “Because it does.”





Eighty-Three


“Octavia! Isabelle! Wake up!”

Isabelle sat up groggily. She’d been fast asleep. Did someone call my name? she wondered.