Stepsister(87)

Isabelle whispered to Nero to calm him. Head down, she led him to the stables.

Had the soldiers seen the determined set of her mouth and the fire in her eyes, they never would have let her.





Ninety-Seven


Isabelle walked to the barn at a normal pace. To do anything else would raise suspicion.

The barn had two large doorways—the one she and Nero had just passed through, and one directly across from it—which led out to the pasture. A large open area spanned the space between the two doors. To the right of it were horse stalls; to the left, stanchions for the cows.

Isabelle walked slowly, veering a little to the right, as if she were going to lead Nero into a stall. As she did, she cast a casual glance over her shoulder. Three of the soldiers were talking to the colonel. A few were milling about. One was watching her. She caught his gaze; he held it. She wiped her eyes, hoping to appear as if she were crying. It worked. The soldier, embarrassed, turned back to his companions.

Within seconds, she and Nero were through the far door. She tensed as they walked out of the barn, expecting to hear shouts or the sound of footsteps. But it was quiet. No one had seen them.

An old milk can stood under the eaves of the barn. Isabelle used it as a mounting block. Once on Nero’s back, she knotted the loose end of his lead into his halter. It would serve as reins. There was no time to get proper ones, or his bridle and saddle. When she was finished with the knot, she quietly urged Nero forward. He was across the hardpan that separated the barn from the pasture in a few strides.

Isabelle knew that as long as she kept the barn between herself and the soldiers, they could not see her ride off. Anger, blind and beyond reason, drove her. Nero was hers; she would not allow Cafard to take him.

She gripped his improvised reins and clucked her tongue. As if he understood her purpose, Nero jumped the wooden fence that enclosed the pasture and landed almost noiselessly in the grass.

Isabelle touched her heels to his sides, and he was off. Within seconds, he reached the far side of the pasture. He sailed over the fence again, and then they were streaking across a wide meadow to the forest. She looked back, just for an instant, as they reached the treeline. No one was after her. Not yet. She probably had another minute or two before Cafard told one of his men to see what was taking her so long, but it was already too late; they’d never find her. They didn’t know the Wildwood like she did.

Isabelle faced forward now. The woods were dense, and navigating them commanded all her attention. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding.

She was headed to the Devil’s Hollow.





Ninety-Eight


Some people are afraid of the forest; others only feel truly safe under its dense, sheltering canopy.

Isabelle was among the latter. The sights and scents of the forest were familiar and comforting to her. She had spent the happiest days of her life in the Wildwood.

After she and Nero had escaped, they’d ridden hard through the trees for a good half hour to put distance between themselves and Colonel Cafard; then Isabelle had dismounted, unknotted the makeshift reins, and walked the horse. Dusk was falling as they reached the path that would take them into the Devil’s Hollow, a forlorn wooded canyon. Isabelle wanted to be down in the Hollow before dark. The path was treacherous when you could see it; suicide when you couldn’t.

The Wildwood covered the gently sloping south side of a small mountain and abruptly gave way to the mountain’s craggy, cliff-laden north side. The narrow path to the Hollow zigzagged down the north face, obscured in parts by thorny, scrubby shrubs. It snaked through rocks and boulders at the bottom, and ended at a river. It had once been used by travelers to Saint-Michel, but as the village had grown, and the roads leading to it had improved, the path through the Devil’s Hollow had fallen out of use. The old wives of Saint-Michel said the place was haunted.

Isabelle and Nero picked their way carefully down the path and through the rocks. When they finally reached the river, Isabelle’s stomach growled loudly. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since noon, and it had to be nearly eight by now. Nero hadn’t eaten his nightly ration of oats. Nor would he, for she hadn’t packed any. She had no food and no money with which to buy some. Felix’s money was back in the hayloft. So were all the provisions she and Tavi had managed to assemble. She reached into her pocket, hoping against hope that she’d stuffed a crust of bread in it. Instead, her hand found Tanaquill’s gifts. The seedpod pricked her fingers.

Something else pricked her, too—her conscience. She was walking slowly to make sure Nero could find his footing, but now she stopped, racked by an agonizing uncertainty.

“What have I done?” she said aloud.

She’d been so determined to save Nero’s life that never for a second had she considered what impact her rash actions might have on anyone else’s. She’d tricked a colonel of the French army. What if he took his wrath out on her family? Or the LeBenêts and Tantine?

Isabelle saw that she’d let her anger drive her actions, once again. Just as she had with Ella. The baker’s wife. The orphans. She’d been selfish. She didn’t want Nero to die, but there were mothers, wives, and children who didn’t want their sons, husbands, and fathers to die, either. Men were giving their lives to the fight; Felix might well give his.

Groaning, she buried her face in Nero’s neck. She wanted to be a better person. She wanted to change, yet here she was, endangering people who needed her, running away from her responsibilities.