Stepsister(85)

Isabelle thought her heart might burst. One by one, queens, pirates, empresses, and generals from all the corners of the world told their stories, bowed their heads, and left the stage.

They were not pretty, these women. Pretty did not begin to describe them.

They were shrewd. Powerful. Wily. Proud. Dangerous.

They were strong.

They were brave.

They were beautiful.

Finally, after what felt to Isabelle like only minutes, but was actually hours, only Elizabeth was left on the stage.

“Strange, isn’t it, how stories that are never told are the ones we most need to hear,” she said, then she bowed, too, and walked off into the darkness.

Isabelle realized the play was ending. “No,” she whispered hungrily. “Don’t go.”

The marquis, still wearing his mask, reappeared. In one hand, he held a heavy silver candlestick with a flaming taper in it. He stepped forward and began to speak.

Now our queens have told their stories,

Of battles won, of conquests, glories.

But power is a treacherous thing,

Its bite is sweet, its kiss can sting,

And, unless I’m much mistaken,

It’s never given, always taken.

Each queen was once a girl like you.

Told who to be and what to do.

Not pretty, not pleasing, far too rough.

Lacking, less than, not enough.

Till wounded subjects, anguished dead,

Mattered more than things that others said.

Then, like a flag, her will unfurled.

Go now, girl. Remake the world.



The marquis bowed. He raised his candle to his lips and blew it out.

Most of the footlights had burned out, a few still glowed faintly. In their light, Isabelle could see that the marquis and his players were gone. The stage was empty and silent. All Isabelle could hear was the sound of her heart beating.

The spell of the play was broken. Isabelle looked around and realized she was still standing on the chair. She stepped down, her hands clenched. The excitement and wonder and sheer joy she’d felt only moments ago ebbed away. Grief, agonizing and deep, filled the void it left.

“Why show me this?” she shouted wretchedly to the darkness. “Why show me something I can never have? Something I can never be?”

No one was there. Isabelle was talking to herself.

She unhooked Nelson’s pearls from around her neck and placed them on the seat of the velvet chair where he would be sure to find them.

A moment later, she and Nero were galloping back over the marquis’s grounds. Just before she disappeared into the woods, Isabelle looked back. At the ruined stage. The dark chateau.

“Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you.”





Ninety-Five


Tavi stretched tall, then bent to unknot her skirts.

“When I leave here, I never want to see another cabbage. As long as I live,” she said.

Isabelle agreed with her. The day in the field, harvesting under the hot sun, had been long and exhausting. Isabelle’s dress was soaked with sweat. Her boots were filthy from treading in the black dirt. She was looking forward to dunking herself in the duck pond, and later, falling into her hayloft bed.

She’d been tired all day. Last night had been unrestful. She’d had such a strange dream. Nelson had appeared in the hayloft. Then she’d taken a midnight ride to the Chateau Rigolade, where the marquis and his friends had presented a play.

The dream had felt so real, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. All those women … leading armies into battle, fighting for their realms … a fantasy cooked up by her vivid imagination, that’s all. A fond childhood wish.

“You need a pistol. We didn’t think of that. You’re three women traveling alone.”

Hugo, who had been working one field over digging potatoes, had joined Isabelle and Tavi. His words dispelled the lingering images of Isabelle’s dream.

“If there are three of us, then we’re not alone,” Tavi said.

Hugo looked at her as if she were an idiot. “You don’t have a man with you. Of course you’re alone. You can buy a secondhand pistol in the village while we’re at the market tomorrow. Use some of Felix’s money. You’ll need gunpowder and bullets, too.”

Tavi picked up her knife and the basket she used to carry cabbages to the wagon. Isabelle did the same. Hugo rested his spade on his shoulder, and together the three walked to the barn, talking about their secret plan the whole way. Isabelle and Tavi would leave in three days, and there was still a good deal to do.

As they rounded the side of the farmhouse, Isabelle’s head was bent towards Tavi; she was concentrating on what her sister was saying. Her gaze was on the ground.

Had she been paying more attention, she might’ve seen the signs of trouble up ahead.

The many hoofprints in the dirt.

The blur of blue uniforms by the stables.

The tall, imperious Colonel Cafard eyeing the horse that had been brought from the pasture on his command.

A black horse. Her horse.

Nero.





Ninety-Six


It was only when Isabelle rounded the corner of the barn that she realized something was very wrong.

Nero was in the yard in front of it, wearing his bridle. He was wild-eyed and rearing. A young soldier was struggling to hold on to his lead.