Stepsister(83)

“You’d let me borrow them? Really?”

Nelson looked longingly at his treasure, now clutched in her hand. Isabelle could see he was struggling with his decision, but he nodded.

“All right, then,” she said, hooking the pearls around her own neck. “Let’s go.”

She was off to see a play. At a marquis’s estate, with a monkey, in the middle of the night.

“I am still dreaming,” she said as she pulled her dress on over her head. “At least I hope I am, because if I’m not, I’ve lost my mind.”





Ninety-Two


The moon lit the way as Nero carried Isabelle and Nelson over meadows and hills to the grounds of the Chateau Rigolade.

They’d taken a shortcut and emerged through the woods at the back of the chateau. Isabelle was surprised to find that the building was completely dark.

An eerie yellow light was emanating from another part of the property, though—the clearing behind the chateau. Isabelle remembered that that was where Felix had built the marquis’s theater. She turned Nero towards it.

As they drew close to the structure, Isabelle saw that it was footlights casting the glow. They illuminated the stage, with its red velvet curtains and its garlands of fresh roses twining across the arch.

Strangely, the stage itself, and the grounds around it, were deserted. Isabelle had expected dozens of dazzling people talking and laughing. Jewels bobbing on swells of cleavage. Hair rising like swirled meringue. The rustle of silk. Gilded chairs set out in rows.

But only a single chair stood in front of the stage. A chill shuddered through her. It’s as if the marquis was expecting me, and only me, she thought uneasily.

Nelson jumped down from her shoulder to Nero’s rump to the ground and scampered off. Isabelle got down, too, then walked past the chair to the foot of the stage.

“Marquis de la Chance?” she called out.

He didn’t answer. No one did. Isabelle realized that she was in a strange place, in the dead of night, alone.

“I think we’d better go back,” she said to Nero.

That’s when a man in a mask stepped out from behind the curtains.





Ninety-Three


Isabelle backed away from the stage warily. Her hand tightened on Nero’s reins.

The man bowed to her. Isabelle relaxed as she realized it was the marquis. Though he was masked and in costume, she recognized his long braids. He straightened, then began to speak, in a deep, resonant voice.

Greetings to you, honored guest.

We’re here at Chance’s own behest.

Tarry now.

We beg you, stay.

Indulge us as we give our play.

These are not the tales you’ve heard

In spoken verse, or written word.

Of kings and emperors,

Warlords, knights,

Slaughtering enemies in their sights.

These are tales little told,

Of generals mighty, rulers bold,

Whose courage, cunning,

Wit and skill,

Were partnered with an iron will.

Heroes all, but most unknown.

Reduced by time to dust and bone.

Yet on this stage,

They live again.

Such power has our playwright’s pen.

Hear their stories, all but lost.

Watch them rise and bear the cost.

Some will lose

and some will win.

Sit now. Watch our play begin.



As the last words left Chance’s lips, the footlights blazed high, startling Isabelle so badly that she stumbled backward and fell into the chair. The curtain rose. Trumpets blared. Drums pounded. Cymbals clashed. Isabelle clutched the arms of the chair, her heart thumping. She looked around for Nero. In her fright, she’d dropped his reins. She soon saw that he was only a few yards away, unperturbed by the noise, happily munching the marquis’s lawn. His calmness calmed her. She turned back to the stage.

The curtains had opened to reveal a book. It was standing upright and was at least eight feet tall. An Illustrated History of the World’s Greatest Military Commanders was written in huge letters on the cover.

Did the marquis know she’d owned a copy of that book, and that it had meant the world to her? Or was this all just a coincidence?

As she watched, entranced, the cover slowly swung open. Pages turned, as if flipped by an invisible finger, then stopped. The book stood open to the chapter on ancient Rome’s most esteemed generals. And then a door, cut into the page, opened and a man dressed in a leather breastplate and short cloth skirt stepped out of it. On his head he wore a steel helmet with a red plume. In his hand was a fearsome sword.

Isabelle recognized him. He was Scipio Africanus. She’d looked at his portrait, and pored over his story, a thousand times.

The pages turned again, and Scipio was joined by Achilles. Then Genghis Khan. Peter the Great. And Sun Tzu. All were dressed and armed for battle. Together they strode to the front of the stage, weapons raised, shields aloft.

The Roman spoke first, delivering his words in a booming stage voice.

I, Scipio, brave and strong,

Waged a battle bloody and long,

Against my foes on Carthage’s plains.

Their defeat was proud Rome’s gain.



Next came Achilles.

In war’s own furnace I was forged,

And on my enemies’ blood I’ve gorged.